I spent much of the weekend working. Yay work! I had gotten a call to do another supertitle gig, this time for a vocal recital. The contract had me create the PowerPoint for the supertitles in addition to running them during the recital. Creating the PowerPoint and putting the slide placements in my score ended up taking much of Friday night and all day Saturday. At some point, after I was deep into typing the slides for the first half of the concert, the Husband, data organization genius, figured out a way to take the translations that I was given and put them directly into the PowerPoint. It involved moving the data set (as he called the lines of text) into an Excel file, then into a Word document merge file, and then finally into the PowerPoint. While it seemed complicated, it was loads less time consuming that typing everything out. This is probably incredibly nerdy, but the Husband and I had much discussion about whether it was better to proof your data set then merge, or to merge the given data set and then correct the final PowerPoint. It is so interesting to me that even after twelve years of marriage I’m still discovering ways in which the Husband and I think differently, especially on such a conceptual level.
Anyhow, the recital itself was magical. The first half was songs by queer American and British composers, and many of the songs were favorites of mine. The second half was songs by Spanish and Latino composers and full of fun and feeling. I had forgotten how much I love a song recital – the simplicity of a singer and a pianist and the music they want to share. No sets, no costumes… just music and text and heartfelt emotions of that moment.
One of the songs in the first half was a song written by Lee Hoiby, called “Where the Music Comes From.” I had sung it when I was in college, and judging from YouTube it is extremely popular in college song recitals. Nonetheless it is one of my favorite songs; I loved the piece for it’s elegant long lines, full of hope and yearning and joy. I get the sense that in the classical music world, songs that are so unabashedly melodic are somewhat out of style – critics tend to dismiss them as artless pastiche pieces or overly sentimental. Maudlin, even. I would definitely say that “Where the Music Comes From” is sentimental, and sentimentality is perhaps frowned upon these days. People want smart and ironic and clever.
(Also, I just noticed that I had always sung the third verse incorrectly… there is a phrase of music that is just different enough from the previous two verses that you need to pay attention or you’ll sing it wrong. I had an internal mortifying moment wondering why my voice teacher and art song coach never said anything to me about this and let me perform it in a recital incorrectly!)
There is something strange about hearing someone else sing a piece that you are so intimately familiar with that it is carved into the heart of your memory. When I heard it in the recital on Sunday, I got goosebumps because it sounded familiar and new all at the same time. But – and here is the wonder of this particular singer – I have loved this song for over twenty years now, and he made me re-think the piece. (I’ve put the text below.) I had always thought of the three verses as three different wishes, but there was something about the way this singer sang the song that made me realize, that actually, it’s the same wish – the song is a wish for a place where all these things can come together.
Where the Music Comes From
Music and Text by Lee Hoiby
I want to be where the music come from,
Where the clock stops, where it’s now.
I want to be with the friends around me,
Who have found me, who show me how.
I want to sing to the early morning,
See the sunlight melt the snow:
And, oh, I want to grow.
I want to wake to the living spirit
Here inside me where it lies.
I want to listen till I can hear it,
Let it guide me and realize
That I can go with the flow unending,
That is blending, that is real;
And oh, I want to feel.
I want to walk in the earthly garden,
Far from cities, far from fear.
I want to talk to the growing garden,
To the devas, to the deer,
And to be one with the river flowing,
Breezes blowing, sky above.
And, oh, I want to love.
There is so much about the text that speaks to me, but I think listening to this now, during a pandemic where isolation is a survival tactic, I really grasp on to the imagery of needing to surround oneself with joyful nurturing things, whether it be friends or nature or even just thoughts – and being able to recognize and merge these things into your life.
