Songs of Dissent

Introduction

I'm continually drawn to works that challenge, unsettle, and provoke reflection. My partner and I often find ourselves engrossed in art that pushes boundaries and questions norms. While we appreciate the occasional indulgence in reality TV for its entertainment value and escapism, we're particularly drawn to pieces that delve deeper, stirring discomfort and prompting a reexamination of our values and actions.

In this program 'Songs of Dissent,' I’m endeavoring to share this quest for unsettling art. It's not merely about creating disquiet for its own sake; rather, it's about engaging with music that possesses the power to provoke thought and spark dialogue. I aspire for this program to offer not only moments of entertainment but also reflection, weaving together an experience that challenges, enlightens, and ultimately enriches.

Civil Words: Jennifer Higdon

We start with Jennifer Higdon’s 'Civil Words', a title that is at odds with the disastrous violence of the American Civil War. What drew me to the work is its oblique yet poignant critique of war embedded within the music – the focus on civility during an uncivil time. This subtle approach to dissent provides an interesting contrast to the more direct expressions found in other pieces of the program.

In 'Civil Words', Higdon draws texts from a diverse array of sources. We hear from confederate and union voices, with a particular focus on President Lincoln, who is always a larger-than-life presence during explorations of this time period. Notably absent, however, are voices of enslaved and formerly enslaved people.

Musically, 'Civil Words' is a landscape of sparse textures, demanding an exceptional vocal range for the baritone voice. Higdon's piano writing incliudes extended techniques that delve into the instrument's internal mechanics. These are relatively uncommon in art song repertoire. I see a deliberate violation, almost an act of battlefield surgery happening in front of our eyes.

Charles Ives: World War I Reflections

Charles Ives brings us into World War I, and we encounter songs that, at first glance, might seem more like propaganda pieces than anthems of protest. Ives, though a supporter of the war, grappled with the inherent contradictions of war and violence. His staunch belief in American ideals of democracy and liberty influenced his acceptance of the war as a necessary evil. I hear an undercurrent of discomfort in these first two songs, a sense of unease even as they promote the war's lofty goals to the fanfare of patriotic quotation.

Learning Ives' music is a test of musicianship. His compositions demand not only technical skill but also a willingness to embrace a certain wild abandon (just listen to his own take on the song 'He is There'!) Nowhere is this concept more vividly enacted than General William Booth Enters into Heaven, an epic ode to the founder of the Salvation Army. The song was a cornerstone for me in programing this recital. I fell in love with this piece after hearing local baritone and Peabody Professor William Sharp’s interpretation.

The text’s author, Vachel Lindsey, is the first of several vagabond poets who described themselves as beggars. General Booth… was Lindsey’s breakout piece, and Ives was drawn to the evangelical exuberance that matched his own style (the poem's full text includes instructions for bass drum and banjos.)

The song's portrayal of the 'saved' and its portrayal of Booth are layered and complex. Ives lived next to Evangeline Booth, daughter of William, so he likely had a close awareness of the leadership of the Salvation Army. The song, to my ears, isn't just a straightforward hymn of praise; it's a nuanced critique. This is most apparent to me in the 'round and round' section where Booth, so focused on himself and leading his army, walks right by Jesus.

A Modest Proposal: Max Eidinoff

'A Modest Proposal' is the second piece around which I formed the concept for this recital. What makes this piece especially compelling is its ability to bridge centuries. Swift's satirical essay, though penned nearly 300 years ago, holds an unsettling mirror to our present-day society.

Composers Note: Max Eidinoff Jonathan Swift’s 1729 satirical essay “A Modest Proposal For preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick” is shockingly contemporary in its allusions to a widespread lack of empathy between people of different socioeconomic backgrounds. Swift is clearly responding to a popular sentiment by the rich that they are bothered by homeless people begging for money, as well as their tendency to generalize that all poor people are thieves. Along the way, he also touches on interconnected issues such as abortion and domestic violence. In the excerpts of text I have chosen, I have excluded any mention of Ireland or the 18th century in order to better highlight the similarities with present day America. In this musical setting, the speaker is framed as a demagogue fully embodying all the hyperbolic and rapid mood shifts existing in the text, who radiates pride at having created the perfect solution to save their “great country.”

Weill and Barber: American Art and Political Dissent

When I decided that this program would be all American song, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist programming Samuel Barber. I then proceeded to bend my rules by filling out the set with Kurt Weill. If Barber is my epitome of the American art song, Weill is my ideal of political art. However, while they shared time on earth, they approach music with very different styles. Juxtaposing them felt almost like an act of dissent itself.

The text likely sourced from a Quaker journal, ‘Ask Me to Rest’ strikes me as the most honest and direct piece in this program. Composed at 16 years old, the piece was discovered posthumously. It's earnest and slightly naive – a glimpse into the early worldview of a great composer. “Beggar’s song” has more artifice to it, but is even more charming. The text is taken from the character of The Professor in True Travellers, A Tramp’s Opera by W. H. Davies, another of our poets who self-identified as a beggar.

After becoming an American citizen in 1943, Weill composed several 'Propaganda Songs.' One such piece, ‘Schickelgruber,’ set to lyrics by Hollywood executive Howard Dietz, is a scathing mockery of Adolf Hitler. From its title, referencing Hitler's father's illegitimacy, to barbed critiques of Hitler's manhood and failed artistic career, Weill's composition combines a popular song style with disconcerting harmonic and rhythmic twists.

If pressed, I’d agree that Die Dreigroschenoper is not an American work (or is it truly British, being based on John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera?) Through Marc Blitzstein’s translation, however, I think it finds its place in the program. ‘What Keeps a Man Alive’ is an anthem against capitalistic overreach. In context, the piece is actually a duet from Macheath, the criminal antihero, and Mrs. Peachum and closes out the second act. While not as widely known as 'Mack the Knife' or 'Pirate Jenny', this song has had popular adaptations, including a version by the Pet Shop Boys.

My Dearest Ruth

To close the program, I chose a piece written for an opera-lover known for her dissents, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The piece, set to a heartfelt letter written by her husband Marty, was commissioned by the family for Justice Ginsburg’s 80th birthday.

Civil Words

1. Enlisted today - by Anonymous
I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing,
And the summer sends kisses by beautiful May —
Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing,
And think my boy Willie enlisted today.

It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming,
I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine,
While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming
Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.

It is many a year since my Harry departed,
To come back no more in the twilight or dawn:
And Robby grew weary of watching, and started
Alone on the journey his father had gone.

It is many a year — and this afternoon sitting
At Robby's old window, I heard the band play,
And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting,
To recollect Willie is twenty today.

And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning,
And the sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke,
I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning,
And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:

"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing,
They would trample the rights of the South in the dust,
The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going —"
He stopped, but his eyes said. "Oh, say if I must!"

I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking,
My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away,
And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking —
Go, act as your father would bid you, today!"

I sit in the window, and see the flags flying,
And drearily list to the roll of the drum,
And smother the pain in my heart that is lying
And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.

And if he should fall —his young life he has given
For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray
Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven
To meet the dear boy that enlisted today.

2. All quiet along the Potomac to-night - by Thaddeus Oliver
"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! A private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost! Only one of the men
Moaning out all alone, the death rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night!
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o’er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the line sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, and his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother – “may heaven defend her!”

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then -
That night when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,
As if to keep down the heart’s swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! Was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looks like a rifle: "Ah! Mary, good-bye!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

“All quiet along the Potomac to-night!”
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket's off duty forever!

3. Excerpt from President Lincoln’s 2nd Inaugural Address - by Abraham Lincoln  
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray,
that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away.
With malice toward none; with charity for all;
with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right,
let us strive on to finish the work we are in;
to bind up the nation’s wounds;
to care for him who shall have borne the battle,
and for his widow, and his orphan –
to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace,
among ourselves, and with all nations.

4. The Death of Lincoln - by Kate Putnam Osgood
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond are free:
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.

5. Driving home the cows - by Kate Putnam Osgood
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go:
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son’s again.

The summer day grew cool and late.
He went for the cows when the work was done;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one,

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,
But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For the Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb:
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.

Ives

He Is There! by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, M.D.
Fifteen years ago today
A little Yankee, little yankee boy
Marched beside his granddaddy
In the decoration day parade.
The village band would play
those old war tunes,
and the G. A. R. would shout,
“Hip Hip Hooray!” in the same old way,
As it sounded on the old camp ground.

That boy has sailed o’er the ocean,
He is there, he is there, he is there.
He’s fighting for the right,
but when it comes to might,
He is there, he is there, he is there;
As the Allies beat up all the warlords!
He’ll be there, he’ll be there,
and then the world will shout
the Battle-cry of Freedom
Tenting on a new camp ground.
For it’s rally round the Flag boys
Rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

Fifteen years ago today
A little Yankee, with a German name
Heard the tale of “forty-eight”
Why his Granddaddy joined Uncle Sam,
His fathers fought that medieval stuff
and he will fight it now;
“Hip Hip Hooray! this is the day,”
When he’ll finish up that aged job.
That boy has sailed o’er the ocean…

There’s a time in ev’ry life,
When it’s do or die, and our yankee boy
Does his bit that we may live,
In a world where all may have a “say.”
He’s conscious always of his country’s aim
which is Liberty for all,
“Hip Hip Hooray!” is all he’ll say,
As he marches to the Flanders front.
That boy has sailed o’er the ocean...

In Flanders Fields by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, M.D.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow;
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from falling hands we throw,
The torch; be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though the poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

General William Booth Enters Into Heaven by Vachel Lindsay (as set by Ives)

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
The Saints smiled gravely and they said, “He’s come.”
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

Walking lepers followed rank on rank,
Lurching bravos from the ditches dank
Drabs from the alleyways, drug fiends pale
Minds still passion ridden, soul flowers frail:
Vermin eaten saints with moldy breath,
Unwashed legions with the ways of Death
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

Ev’ry slum had sent its half a score
The round world over (Booth had groaned for more).
Ev’ry banner that the wide world flies
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes,
Big voiced lasses made their banjoes bang,
Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang;
“Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”

Hallelujah! It was queer to see
Bull necked convicts with that land make free.
Loons with trumpets blown a blare, blare, blare,
On, on, upward thro’ the golden air!
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

Jesus came from out the court house door,
Stretched his hands above the passing poor.
Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there
Round and round the mighty courthouse square.
Yet! in an instant all that blear review
Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new.

The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled,
And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

A Modest Proposal

A Modest Proposal For preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick by Jonathan Swift (as set by Max Eidinoff)

It is a melancholly Object to those, who walk through this great Country, when they see the Streets, the Roads and Cabbin-doors crowded with Beggers of the Female Sex, followed by three, four, or six Children importuning every Passenger for an Alms. These Mothers are forced to employ all their time in Stroling to beg Sustenance for their helpless Infants, who, as they grow up turn Thieves for want of Work. Whoever could find out a fair, cheap and easy method of making these Children sound and useful Members of the Common-wealth, would deserve so well of the publick, as to have his Statue set up for a Preserver of the Nation. I propose to provide for them.

There is likewise another great Advantage in my Scheme, that it will prevent those voluntary Abortions, and that horrid practice of Women murdering their Bastard Children, alas ! too frequent among us, Sacrificing the poor innocent Babes, I doubt, more to avoid the Expence than the Shame, which would move Tears and Pity in the most Savage and inhuman breast.

The question therefore is, How this number shall be reared, and provided for ? which, as I have already said, under the present Situation of Affairs, is utterly impossible by all the Methods hitherto proposed; for we can neither employ them in Handicraft or Agriculture; neither build Houses, nor cultivate Land. And I am assured by our Merchants, that a Boy or a Girl before twelve years Old, is no saleable Commodity.

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own Thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least Objection. I have been assured that a young healthy Child well Nursed is at a year Old a most delicious nourishing and wholesome Food, whether Stewed, Roasted, Baked, or Boiled. I do therefore humbly offer it to publick consideration, that a portion of the population at a year Old be offered in Sale to the Persons of Quality and Fortune, always advising the Mother to let them Suck plentifully in the last Month, so as to render them Plump, and Fat for a good Table. A child will make two Dishes at an Entertainment for Friends, and when the Family dines alone, the fore or hind Quarter will make a reasonable Dish, and seasoned with a little Pepper or Salt will be very good Boiled on the fourth Day, especially in Winter. Infant’s flesh will be in Season throughout the Year, but more plentiful in March, and a little before and after.

Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the Times require) may flay the Carcass; the Skin of which, Artificially dressed, will make admirable Gloves for Ladies, and Summer Boots for fine Gentlemen.

This would also be a great Inducement to Marriage. It would encrease the Care and Tenderness of Mothers towards their Children, when they were sure of Profit instead of Expense; we should soon see an honest Emulation among the married Women, which of them could bring the fattest Child to the Market. Men would become fond of their Wives, during the Time of their Pregnancy, nor offer to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a Practice) for fear of a Miscarriage.

Many other Advantages might be enumerated. For instance, Improvement in the Art of making good Bacon.

Barber and Weil

Beggar's Song, by William Henry Davies
Good people keep their holy day,
They rest from labour on a Sunday;
But we keep holy every day,
And rest from Monday until Monday.

And yet the noblest work on earth
Is done when beggars do their part:
They work, dear ladies, on the soft
And tender feelings in your heart.

Schickelgruber - by Howard Dietz
In a hamlet in the Tyrol an old lady is not virile,
She is languishing and heavy is her heart.
For she thinks about her baby who, had he been christened Abie,
Maybe might have never played the monster’s part.
If her son had only married, if her lust had not miscarried,
Who can say for certain what might not have been.
In her somber weeds of sorrow she is hopeful some tomorrow
Will undo the passion that produced a sin.

Schickelgruber! Schickelgruber!
You were born a child of shame.
You have always been a bastard,
Even though you changed your name.
Came the headlines, then the breadlines, As your will to power grew.
Schickelgruber, Schickelgruber!
What a pretty how-dy-do. Though a mother, I can smother Mother love at thought of you.

In his youth his one obsession was to practice a profession,
And he dabbled with the palette and the paint.
But the art he couldn’t master, so he went from paint to plaster,
And today he calls himself a plaster saint.
Is he good or evil fairy? All his pals have now grown wary,
That is, those of them who didn’t rate the purge.
And the scent will ever linger, how he gave his friends the finger
Just to gratify and culminate an urge.

Schickelgruber! Schickelgruber!
Once the dew was on the rose.
Where you’ll end up in the wind-up,
Schickelgruber, Heaven knows.
Ever ruthless, ever truthless, when the judgment day is due. Repercussions from the Russians, Schickelgruber, say you’re through.
Every village that you pillage in revenge will turn on you.

Ask Me to Rest by Edward H. S. Terry
Ask me to rest when I can show the world
That I have toiled: then will I heed thy plea;
But now — with nothing done — I must go on;
I pray, I pray thee ask it not of me!

Ask me to rest when every voice
I hear Speaks happiness: then will I heed thy plea;
But now — with Sorrow near — I could not rest,
My heart would break with pent-up agony!

Ask me to rest when Hate and Greed are stilled,
When Warfare's o'er: then will I heed thy plea;
But now — that these are here — I must assist
In setting Man, thus bound, at liberty!

What Keeps a Man Alive (Marc Blitzstein)
Now those among you full of pious teaching
Who teach us to renounce the major sins
Should know before you do your heavy preaching
Our middle's empty, there it all begins
Your vices and our virtues are so dear to you
So learn the simple truth from this our song
Wherever you aspire, whatever you may do
First feed the face, and then talk right and wrong
For even honest folk may act like sinners
Unless they've had their customary dinners

What keeps a man alive? He lives on others
He likes to taste the first, then eat them whole if he can
Forgets that they're supposed to be his brothers
That he himself was ever called a man

Remember if you wish to stay alive
For once do something bad and you'll survive!

You warn you're about to lift our dresses
To see they don't fall down for lack of pins
Now please, before your moral fervor presses
Our middle's empty, there it all begins
Oh, you who dote on our despair and your desire
May learn the simple truth from this our song
Whatever you may do, whatever you aspire
First feed the face, and then talk right and wrong
For even saintly folk may act like sinners
Unless they've had their customary dinners

What keeps a man alive...

My Dearest Ruth

Adapted from letter by Martin D. Ginsburg, June 17, 2010, Washington, DC

My Dearest Ruth,

You are the only person I have loved in my life, setting aside, a bit, parents and kids and their kids. I have admired and loved you almost from the day we first met some 56 years ago.

What a treat it has been to watch you progress to the very top of the legal world!!

I will be in the hospital until Friday. Between then and now I shall think hard on my remaining health and life, and whether on balance the time has come for me to tough it out or to take leave of life. The loss of quality now simply overwhelms. I hope you will support where I come out, but I understand you may not. I will not love you a jot less. Not a jot.

Love, Marty