From London to Rio: A Journey through Song and Rhythm

Events

From London to Rio: A Journey through Song and Rhythm

Concert on the 18th February at 7:30pm with baritone Michel de Souza at St Clement Danes, Strand , London WC2R 1DH

PROGRAMME:

RAVEL- Histoires Naturelles

VILLA-LOBOS- Prelúdio and Ária from Bachianas Brasileiras No.4

MARLOS NOBRE- Canções de Beiramar Op.21

VILLA-LOBOS- Big Ben

– 3 Miniaturas

MIGNONE-Congada

MONTSALVATGE- 5 Canciones Negras

Songs with translations:

Maurice Ravel – Histoires Naturelles

Le paon
French source: Jules Renard

Il va sûrement se marier aujourd’hui.
Ce devait être pour hier. En habit de gala, il était prêt.
Il n’attendait que sa fiancée. Elle n’est pas venue.
Elle ne peut tarder.
Glorieux, il se promène avec une allure de prince indien et porte sur lui les riches présents d’usage.
L’amour avive l’éclat de ses couleurs et son aigrette tremble comme une lyre.
La fiancée n’arrive pas.
Il monte au haut du toit et regarde du côté du soleil.
Il jette son cri diabolique:
Léon! Léon!
C’est ainsi qu’il appelle sa fiancée. Il ne voit rien venir et personne ne répond.
Les volailles habituées ne lèvent même point la tête. Elles sont lasses de l’admirer.
Il redescend dans la cour, si sûr d’être beau qu’il est incapable de rancune.
Son mariage sera pour demain.
Et, ne sachant que faire du reste de la journée, il se dirige vers le perron.
Il gravit les marches, comme des marches de temple, d’un pas officiel.
Il relève sa robe à queue toute lourde des yeux qui n’ont pu se détacher d’elle.
Il répète encore une fois la cérémonie.

The Peacock
English translation © Richard Stokes

He will surely get married today.
It was to have been yesterday. In full regalia he was ready. It was only his bride he was waiting for. She has
not come. She cannot be long.
Proudly he processes the with air of an Indian prince,
bearing about his person the customary lavish gifts.
Love burnishes the brilliance of his colours,
and his crest quivers like a lyre.
His bride does not appear.
He ascends to the top of the roof and looks towards the sun. He utters his devilish cry:
Léon! Léon!
It is thus that he summons his bride. He can see nothing drawing near, and no one replies.
The fowls are used to all this and do not even raise their heads.
They are tired of admiring him. He descends once more to the yard, so sure of his beauty that he is incapable of resentment.
His marriage will take place tomorrow.
And, not knowing what to do for the rest of the day, he heads for the flight of steps.
He ascends them, as though they were the steps of a temple, with a formal tread.
He lifts his train, heavy with eyes that have been unable to detach themselves.
Once more he repeats the ceremony.

Le grillon
French source: Jules Renard

C’est l’heure où, las d’errer, l’insecte nègre revient de promenade et répare avec soin le désordre de son domaine.
D’abord il ratisse ses étroites allées de sable.
Il fait du bran de scie qu’il écarte au seuil de sa retraite.
Il lime la racine de cette grande herbe propre à le harceler.
Il se repose. Puis, il remonte sa minuscule montre.
A-t-il fini? Est-elle cassée? Il se repose encore un peu.
Il rentre chez lui et ferme sa porte.
Longtemps il tourne sa celf dans la serrure délicate.
Et il écoute: Point d’alarme dehors.
Mais il ne se trouve pas en sûreté.
Et comme par une chaînette dont la poulie grince, il descend jusqu’au fond de la terre.
On n’entend plus rien.
Dans la campagne muette, les peupliers se dressent comme des doigts en l’air et désignent la lune.

The Cricket
English translation © Richard Stokes

It is the hour when, weary of wandering, the black insect returns from his outing and carefully restores order to his estate.
First he rakes his narrow sandy paths.
He makes sawdust which he scatters on the threshold of his retreat.
He files the root of this tall grass likely to annoy him.
He rests. Then he winds up his tiny watch.
Has he finished? Is it broken? He rests again for a while.
He goes inside and shuts the door.
For an age he turns his key in the delicate lock.
And he listens: Nothing untoward outside.
But he does not feel safe.
And as if by a tiny chain on a creaking pulley, he lowers himself into the bowels of the earth.
Nothing more is heard.
In the silent countryside the poplars rise like fingers in the air, pointing to the moon.

Le cygne
French source: Jules Renard

Il glisse sur le bassin, comme un traîneau blanc, de nuage en nuage.
Car il n’a faim que des nuages floconneux qu’il voit naître, bouger, et se perdre dans l’eau.
C’est l’un d’eux qu’il désire. Il le vise du bec, et il plonge tout à coup son col vêtu de neige.
Puis, tel un bras de femme sort d’une manche, il le retire.
Il n’a rien.
Il regarde: les nuages effarouchés ont disparu.
Il ne reste qu’un instant désabusé, car les nuages tardent peu à revenir, et, là-bas, où meurent les ondulations de l’eau, en voici un qui se reforme.
Doucement, sur son léger coussin de plumes, le cygne rame et s’approche …
Il s’épuise à pêcher de vains reflets, et peut-être qu’il mourra, victime de cette illusion, avant d’attraper un seul morceau de nuage.
Mais qu’est-ce que je dis ?
Chaque fois qu’il plonge, il fouille du bec la vase nourrissante et ramène en ver.
Il engraisse comme une oie.

The Swan
English translation © Richard Stokes

He glides on the pond like a white sledge, from cloud to cloud.
For he is hungry only for the fleecy clouds that he sees forming, moving, dissolving in the water.
It is one of these that he wants. He takes aim with his beak and suddenly immerses his snow-clad neck.
Then, like a woman’s arm emerging from a sleeve, he draws it back up.
He has caught nothing.
He looks about: the startled clouds have vanished.
Only for a second is he disappointed, for the clouds are not slow to return, and, over there, where the ripples fade, there is one reappearing.
Gently, on his soft cushion of down, the swan paddles and approaches …
He exhausts himself fishing for empty reflections and perhaps he will die, a victim of that illusion, before catching a single shred of cloud.
But what am I saying?
Each time he dives, he burrows with his beak in the nourishing mud and brings up a worm.
He’s getting as fat as a goose.

Le martin-pêcheur
French source: Jules Renard

Ça n’a pas mordu, ce soir, mais je rapporte une rare émotion.
Comme je tenais ma perche de ligne tendue, un martin-pêcheur est venu s’y poser.
Nous n’avons pas d’oiseau plus éclatant.
Il semblait une grosse fleur bleue au bout d’une longue tige.
La perche pliait sous le poids. Je ne respirais plus, tout fier d’être pris pour un arbre par un martin-pêcheur.
Et je suis sûr qu’il ne s’est pas envolé de peur, mais qu’il a cru qu’il ne faisait que passer d’une branche à une autre.

The Kingfisher
English translation © Richard Stokes

Not a bite, this evening, but I had a rare experience.
As I was holding out my fishing rod, a kingfisher came and perched on it.
We have no bird more brilliant.
He was like a great blue flower at the tip of a long stem. The rod bent beneath the weight.
I held my breath, so proud to be taken for a tree by a kingfisher.
And I’m sure he did not fly off from fear, but thought he was simply flitting from one branch to another.

La pintade
French source: Jules Renard

C’est la bossue de ma cour. Elle ne rêve que plaies à cause de sa bosse.
Les poules ne lui disent rien: brusquement, elle se précipite et les harcèle.
Puis elle baisse sa tête, penche le corps, et, de toute la vitesse de ses pattes maigres, elle court frapper, de son bec dur, juste au centre de la roue d’une dinde.
Cette poseuse l’agaçait.
Ainsi, la tête bleuie, ses barbillons à vif, cocardière, elle rage du matine au soir.
Elle se bat sans motif, peut-être parce qu’elle s’imagine toujours qu’on se moque de sa taille, de son crâne chauve et de sa queue basse.
Et elle ne cesse de jeter un cri discordant qui perce l’air comme une pointe.
Parfois elle quitte la cour et disparaît. Elle laisse aux volailles pacifiques un moment de répit.
Mais elle revient plus turbulente et plus criarde. Et, frénétique, elle se vautre par terre.
Qu’a-t-elle donc?
La sournoise fait une farce.
Elle est allée pondre son œuf à la campagne.
Je peux le chercher si ça m’amuse.
Elle se roule dans la poussière, comme une bossue.

The Guinea-fowl
English translation © Richard Stokes

She is the hunchback of my barnyard. She dreams only of wounding, because of her hump.
The hens say nothing to her: suddenly, she swoops and harries them.
Then she lowers her head, leans forward, and, with all the speed of her skinny legs, runs and strikes with her hard beak at the very centre of a turkey’s tail.
This poseuse was provoking her.
Thus, with her bluish head and raw wattles, pugnaciously she rages from morn to night.
She fights for no reason, perhaps because she always thinks they are making fun of her figure, of her bald head and drooping tail.
And she never stops screaming her discordant cry, which pierces the air like a needle.
Sometimes she leaves the yard and vanishes. She gives the peace-loving poultry a moment’s respite.
But she returns more rowdy and shrill. And in a frenzy she wallows in the earth.
Whatever’s wrong with her?
The cunning creature is playing a trick.
She went to lay her egg in the open country.
I can look for it if I like.
And she rolls in the dust, like a hunchback.

Marlos Nobre Canções de Beiramar Op. 21

I Estrela do Mar

Oh Iemanjá quem vem me beijar
Abaluaê quem vem me arrastar
Eu vou c’oa rede pescar
E vou muito peixe trazer
Das verdes estradas do mar

Quero ser feliz quero me afogar
Nas ondas da praia vou ver
Vou ver a estrela do mar
E no chão desse mar esquecer
O que eu não posso pegar

O’Ia ôtô vem ver meu penar
O Bajare quem me faz sonhar
Sereia fuja do mar e venha na praia
Viver em cima da areia brincar

Quero me perder, venha oh Iemanjá
A noite que ela não vem
É só de tristeza pra mim
E eu ando pr’outro lugar
Dexando êsse mar tão ruim

I Star of the Sea

I call to the sea who knows my name,

To the waters that lure and carry me away.

I cast my net into green depths,

Hoping for fortune,

Hoping for peace.

I long to be happy,

To lose myself in the rolling waves,

To glimpse the shining star beneath the water

And forget, in the sea’s vast floor,

All that escapes my grasp.

Spirits of the sea, hear my sorrow.

Mermaid, leave the deep waters,

Come dance upon the sand with me.

For when the sea does not answer,

Only sadness remains,

And I wander away from its cruel beauty.

II Iemanjá ôtô

Iemanjá ôtô bajarê, ô Iá ôtô bajarê ô.

Sereia do mar levantou.

Sereia do mar que brincar.

Canoas te vão trazer,

Presentes te vão levar,

Mãe d’Água aceitou macumba,

Vem vindo brincar na areia,

Trazendo Orungã, o filho d’Inaê.

Ô Iná ôdê rêsseê ôki Iemanjá éro lêguê.

II Iemanjá Ôtô

Mother of the sea, arise.

Hear my voice carried by the tide.

From the depths, I call to you—

Shelter me,

Soothe my unrest.

Your name moves like a chant,

Like waves repeating without end.

I surrender my fear to the water,

And wait in devotion

For your presence

II Ogum de lê

Eu me chamo Ogun de lê,

Não nego meu naturá,

Sou filho das águas claras,

Sou neto de Iemanjá,

Iemanjá vem do mar!

A noite que ela não veio,

Foi de tristeza pra mim,

Ela ficou nas ondas,

Ela se foi afogar,

Iemanjá vem do mar!

Eu vou pra outras terras,

Que minha estrela se foi,

Nas ondas verdes do mar,

Iemanjá vem do mar!

III. Ogum de Lé

Ogum advances—

Lord of iron and open roads.

Clear the path before me,

Give strength to my steps,

Courage to my heart.

With your force, I move forward.

With your blade, all obstacles fall.

I walk unafraid,

Guided by power and resolve,

Toward the road that lies ahead.

Heitor Villa-Lobos Big Ben | 3 Miniaturas | Viola | Cromos No. 2 | Cromos No. 3

Big Ben

Words by Heitor Villa-Lobos

The soul of the English people,

Is the gray pall over London…

How’s your old man?

Get a move on!

Got a match, mate?

Gotcha!

Well, I’m blowed!

Thanks ducks!

Bit of all right!

Barrow boy!

Pearlie King!

Jellied eels!

Fresh winkles!

Lovely violets!

Tuppence coloured!

Spives and drones…

Up on the pools.

Blimey!

Stand clear of the gates…

Strike me pink!

Cab, sir?

It’s me feet!

Fares please!

Talk about laugh!

« Petticoat lane »,

« Pimlico »

‘Appy ‘Ampstead

« Mild and bitter »

Arf a mo’!

Take it easy…

‘Ave a nice cuppa…

Ah! London… Ah! London…

The soul of the English people,

Is the gray pall over London…

Turn again, Whittington…

Ah!…

Viola

Source by Sílvio Romero

Quando eu te amava,

Oh! rustico instrumento!

Tu que as maguas,

As dores alivias Da sertaneja,

Em mansas melodias,

Inda hoje me vem ao pensamento!

Puro e bom despertava o sentimento,

A alma dourando,

Como doura os dias O sol

Nosso conviva.. e tu vertias

Teus gemidos sutis todos ao vento!

Companheira querida das matutas,

Confidente fiel de seus desejos.

De seus sonhos de amor serenas lutas,

Como és boa da roça nos festejos,

Quando as morenas languidas,

As tuas, Afinam pela prima o som dos beijos!

Viola

When I loved you,

Oh! rustic instrument!

You who the sorrows,

the pains relieve for the woman of the backlands,

In gentle melodies,

Even today you come to my thoughts!

Pure and good, you awakened feeling,

Gilding the soul,

As the sun gilds the days,

Our guest… and you poured

Your subtle moans all into the wind!

Dear companion of the country women,

Faithful confidante of their desires,

Of their love-dream serene struggles,

How good you are in the farmstead feasts,

When the languid brunette women,

Theirs [the strings],

Tune to the first string the sound of kisses!

Cromos No 2

Source by B. Lopes

Na alcova sombria e quente,

Pobre demais se não erro,

Sobre uma cama de ferro,

Repousa um moço doente,

Pé-de-lhe baixo inclinada

Sua mulher que adormeça

Em cuja perna curvada,

Ele repousa a cabeça,

Vem uma loura figura,

Com a colher da tintura,

Que ele recusa num ai!

Mas o solicito anginho:

Diz-lhe com riso e carinho:

Bébe que é doce papai.

Cromos No 2

In the dark and warm alcove,

Too poor, if I am not mistaken,

Upon a bed of iron,

Rests a sick young man.

Seated lowly beside him,

His wife falls asleep,

Upon whose bended knee,

He rests his head.

A blonde figure approaches,

With a spoon of medicine,

Which he refuses with a sigh!

But the solicitous little angel Tells him

with smiles and affection:

“Drink it, it is sweet, Papa.”

Cromos No 3

Source Abílio Barreto

Rescende o pomar Laurita na redoiça se embalança,

De um jambeiro sob a frança,

Que levemente se agita,

Pedrinho outra linda criança,

por perto corre, saltita.

Se encontra uma flor bonita,

Traz e lh’em gasta na trança

Mas,enfim, ei-lo que agora colhendo uma rubra amora,

Fita-a. Uma idéia o provoca e diz-lhe a flor dos pimpolhos:

Abre a boca e fecha os olhos! E da-lhe um beijo na boca!

Cromos No 3

The orchard breathes fragrance; Laurita swings in the hammock,

Under the foliage of a jambeiro tree,

Which lightly stirs,

Pedrinho, another lovely child,

Runs and skips nearby.

If he finds a beautiful flower,

He brings it and tucks it into her braid.

But, at last, here he is now, plucking a crimson blackberry,

He gazes at her. An idea provokes him, And the “flower of the youngsters” says to her:

“Open your mouth and close your eyes!” And he gives her a kiss on the lips!

Xavier Montsalvatge 5 Canciones negras

Cuba dentro de un piano
Spanish source: Rafael Alberti

Cuando mi madre llevaba un sorbete de fresa por sombrero
y el humo de los barcos aún era humo de habanero.

_Mulata vueltabajera_ …
Cádiz se adormecía entre fandangos y habaneras
y un lorito al piano quería hacer de tenor.
_… dime dónde está la flor que el hombre tanto venera._
Mi tío Antonio volvía con su aire de insurrecto.
La Cabaña y el Príncipe sonaban por los patios del Puerto.
(Ya no brilla la Perla azul del mar de las Antillas.
Ya se apagó, se nos ha muerto.)
_Me encontré con la bella Trinidad …_
Cuba se había perdido y ahora era verdad.
Era verdad,
no era mentira.
Un cañonero huido llegó cantándolo en guajira.
_La Habana ya se perdió._
_Tuvo la culpa el dinero …_
Calló,
cayó el cañonero.
Pero después, pero ¡ah! después
fue cuando al SÍ
lo hicieron YES.

When my mother wore a strawberry ice for a hat
and the smoke from the boats was still Havana smoke.
_Mulata from Vuelta Abajo …_
Cadiz was falling asleep to fandango and habanera
and a little parrot at the piano tried to sing tenor.
_… tell me, where is the flower that a man can really respect._
My uncle Anthony would come home in his rebellious way.
The Cabaña and El Príncipe resounded in the patios of the port.
(But the blue pearl of the Carribean shines no more.
Extinguished. For us no more.)
_I met beautiful Trinidad …_
Cuba was lost, this time it was true.
True
and not a lie.
A gunner on the run arrived, sang Cuban songs about it all.
_Havana was lost_
_and money was to blame …_
The gunner went silent,
and fell.
But later, ah, later
they changed SÍ
to YES.

Punto de Habañera
Spanish source: Néstor Luján

La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡Qué blanco!
¡Hola! Crespón de tu espuma;
¡Marineros, contempladla!
Va mojadita de lunas
que le hacen su piel mulata;
Niña no te quejes,
tan solo por esta tarde.
Quisiera mandar al agua que no se escape de pronto
de la cárcel de tu falda.
Tu cuerpo encierra esta tarde
rumor de abrirse de dalia.
Niña no te quejes,
tu cuerpo de fruta está
dormido en fresco brocado.
Tu cintura vibra fina
con la nobleza de un látigo,
toda tu piel huele alegre
a limonal y naranjo.
Los marineros te miran
y se te quedan mirando.
La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡Qué blanco!

The Creole girl goes by in her white crinoline.
How white!
The billowing spray of your crepe skirt!
Sailors, look at her!
She passes gleaming in the moonlight
which darkens her skin.
Young girl, do not complain,
only for tonight
do I wish the water not to suddenly escape
the prison of your skirt.
In your body this evening
dwells the sound of opening dahlias.
Young girl, do not complain,
your ripe body
sleeps in fresh brocade,
your waist quivers
as proud as a whip,
every inch of you skin is gloriously fragrant
with orange and lemon trees.
The sailors look at you
and feast their eyes on you.
The Creole girl goes by in her white crinoline.
How white!

Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in the The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992)

Chévere
Spanish source: Nicolás Guillén

Chévere del navajazo,
se vuelve él mismo navaja:
pica tajadas de luna,
mas la luna se le acaba;
pica tajadas de sombra,
mas la sombra se le acaba;
pica tajadas de canto,
mas el canto se le acaba;
y entonces pica que pica
carne de su negra mala.

The dandy of the knife thrust
himself becomes a knife:
he cuts slices of the moon,
but the moon is fading on him;
he cuts slices of shadow,
but the shadow is fading on him,
he cuts slices of song,
but the song is fading on him;
and then he cuts up, cuts up
the flesh of his evil black woman.

Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in the The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992)

Canción de cuna para dormir un negrito
Spanish source: Ildefonso Pereda Valdés

Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
tan chiquitito,
el negrito
que no quiere dormir.

Cabeza de coco,
grano de café,
con lindas motitas,
con ojos grandotes
como dos ventanas
que miran al mar.

Cierra los ojitos,
negrito asustado;
el mandinga blanco
te puede comer.
¡Ya no eres esclavo!

Y si duermes mucho,
el señor de casa
promete comprar
traje con botones
para ser un ‘groom’.

Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
duérmete, negrito,
cabeza de coco,
grano de café.

Lullay, lullay, lullay,
tiny little child,
little black boy,
who won’t go to sleep.

Head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean,
with pretty freckles
and wide eyes
like two windows
looking out to sea.

Close your tiny eyes,
frightened little boy,
or the white devil
will eat you up.
You’re no longer a slave!

And if you sleep soundly,
the master of the house
promises to buy
a suit with buttons
to make you a ‘groom’.

Lullay, lullay, lullay,
sleep, little black boy,
head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean.

Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in the The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992)

Canto negro
Spanish source: Nicolás Guillén

¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Repica el congo solongo,
repica el negro bien negro.
congo solongo del Songo
baila yambó sobre un pie.

Mamatomba,
serembé cuserembá,

El negro canta y se ajuma.
el negro se ajuma y canta.
el negro canta y se va.

Acuemem e serembó
aé,
yambó
aé.

Tamba, tamba, tamba, tamba,
tamba del negro que tumba,
tamba del negro, caramba,
caramba, que el negro tumba,
¡Yambá, yambó, yambambé!