Daniel Okulitch: The New American Art Song
Posted by Garrett Schumann in Uncategorized
Daniel Okulitch, baritone
The New American Art Song
Songs by Ricky Ian Gordon, Jake Heggie, Lowell Liebermann and Glen Roven, accompanied by the composers
GPR Records
The first solo record by Canadian baritone Daniel Okulitch is an impeccable portrait of his voice’s warm and earthy elegance. Through sets of songs by Ricky Ian Gordon, Jake Heggie, Glen Roven and Lowell Liebermann, Mr. Okulitch’s voice comes across as richly dark, sensitive and – above all – clear. The songs themselves are very good and lovely as well, but do not necessarily display a wide swath of the landscape of contemporary American song. With this fact stated, I want to stress that each cycle has beautiful, poignant moments and are scrupulously written…they are just cut from a similar cloth in terms of their musical materials. Because the composers actually accompany Mr. Okulitch on the recording, I was particularly attentive to the interplay between the piano and vocal parts. The role of the two musical characters varied greatly between and within each group of songs, providing – along with the transient moods of the texts – the listener with welcome volatility and contrast against the stylistic consistently of the works and Mr. Okulitch’s undeviatingly sterling performance.
Dominating the CD is Glen Roven’s from the Underground, a set of fifteen songs each with an isolated personality and texture, yet united by Mr. Roven’s mostly triadic and diatonic musical fabric. The piano imitates the vocal line in many of the songs, strengthening the reflection of, “[Mr. Roven’s] personal feelings about each poem”, which he describes is his goal when writing art songs. Repetitive rhythms in the piano accompaniments, combined with humorous texts gave some songs, like “This is Just to Say”, the flavor of musical theater music (an affect that reappears in other cycles on this disc). Though I enjoyed the whole set, I felt the song “Come to the Edge” was the most beautiful – perhaps perfectly constructed – thanks to the absolutely engrossing way the vocal line pairs with the piano. Mr. Okulitch’s part begins quietly, accompanied by timorous pandiatonic clusters in the piano, the two musical bodies simultaneous build momentum, energy and scope until the vocal line climaxes and the piano part spills into a valley of lush extended triads, marking the most important moment in the poem.
The musical hints at musical theater I noted in from the Underground are also apparent in the album’s first cycle – Ricky Ian Gordon’s Quiet Lives. To me, all songs are theatrical and narrative, so I am not surprised – in a contemporary music world typified by the fusion of popular and traditional motifs – that the clear phrasing and persistent rhythms of musical theater songs have bled into the already closely related genre of ‘art song’. Like all the composers on the album, Mr. Gordon has written some stunningly beautiful songs fueled by very interesting texts with the exact personality of each song remaining pretty variable. Contrastinglt to from the Underground, the piano is limited to a strictly accompanimental presence and does not often double or imitate the vocal line. Conveniently, the cycle’s extremes in mood appear adjacent to each other. “As Planned” features a sarcastic text discussing the unpredictable consequences of drinking too much vodka, with the air of mischief shared in the piano’s tongue-in-cheek, cabaret-style waltz. The following song, “Kid in the Park” is the cycle’s most reflective, with a piano part that hints, with the most extraordinary subtleness, to slow, R&B ballads (I could very well be imagining such a connection exists). The tempo and chordal accompaniment leave Mr. Okulitch plenty of room to draw the listener into the text’s account of the challenges facing urban youths.
The two remaining cycles both stood out to me with their more coherent character/mood (thanks, no doubt, to their relative brevity in comparison to the aforementioned works), and subtly cultivated drama. Lowell Liebermann’s Night Songs, probably the most traditional sounding of the disc, paints a delicate and convincing portrait of the introspection that so often accompanies the setting of the sun. This is particularly apparent in the set’s first two songs – “Good Night” and “She Tells Her Love Half Asleep” – whose repetitive accompaniments and melodies firmly establish a musical world haunted by the stillness of moonlight and stars. Jake Heggie’s Of Gods and Cats had, by far, the most memorable texts of the whole album. The first, “In the Beginning”, retells the biblical creation through the perspective of a cat engaging with quotidian experiences such as drinking milk and falling asleep in a paper bag. Closing out the pair is “Once upon a Universe”, which describes what God was like as a child, destroying his toys much to the chagrin of his mother. Of course, the text is not so engrossing on its own accord: Mr. Heggie sets it both impishly and austerely, with the piano part adding masterfully timed moments of levity to an otherwise reverent portrayal of poet Gavin Geoffrey Dillard’s comical musings.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Great Piece on GPRrecords by William Madison
Stringing the Pearls
The Five Borough Songbook, presented by the Five Boroughs Music Festival at the Galapagos Art Space, lured me out to Brooklyn on 6 October with the prospect of songs by nearly 20 composers, performed by four able singers. Getting to Galapagos — which used to be conveniently located in Williamsburg, across the street from my friend Eric’s apartment, but is now Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass (a.k.a. DUMBO) — got me lost in the dark in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I felt like a tourist, and I missed the first several songs.
But I arrived in time for two that I’d anticipated most gladly: those by Jorge MartÃn (“City of Orgies, Walks, and Joys!” to a text by Whitman) and Glen Roven (“F from DUMBO,” to a text by Michael Tyrell*). And I enjoyed the performances of the four singers: baritone David Adam Moore (no stranger to readers of this blog), soprano Martha Guth, tenor Alex Richardson, and the real discovery of the night, mezzo Blythe Gaissert.
Now, thanks to Roven’s ingenuity — and the fact that he’s the “G” in GPR Records — I’ll be able to listen to the Five Borough Songbook again and again, as often as I please, without getting lost in Brooklyn. Last week, I sat in on a recording session, and the experience proved fascinating indeed.
Glen Roven
GPR aims to step into the void left by the major labels, all of which have been hammered by economic and technological challenges, and some of which have neglected classical music for years. Working with Peter Fitzgerald (the “P”) and Richard Cohen (the “R”), Roven can avail himself of new technologies and unbeatable access: Fitzgerald, for example, is president and co-owner of Sound Associates, and he’s been sound designer for countless concerts and Broadway shows, including Rags. When the sound equipment is already in place, Roven says, and with studio facilities readily available in New York, it’s easy enough to record a piece; since brick-and-mortar stores are a thing of the past, it’s actually become easier to distribute albums.
Sitting in the control room with Roven, Cohen, and studio engineer Megan Henninger, I listened as David Adam Moore and pianist Thomas Bagwell put the finishing touches on Roven’s “F from Dumbo”; then Blythe Gaissert and composer Mohammed Fairouz came in to record his “Refugee Song” (to a text by Auden).
My experience in radio studios is pretty vast, but my experience in music-recording studios is quite limited — and all of it predates the digital revolution. Henninger can achieve with a few keystrokes what used to require razor blades and Scotch tape on the old reel-to-reel machines. (I still bear the scars.)
You’d wind up with a crazy-quilt of patches, and in some cases, you really did go crazy. That’s one reason that artists like Teresa Stratas tried so hard to get it right on the first take (as she did with The Unknown Kurt Weill), and the resulting record would be in that sense very much like a live performance: played straight through.
David Adam Moore
Now, however, the singers, pianist, and composers could go over individual bars again and again until they were satisfied, and the editing process was largely complete, almost instantly. The process struck me as less like a live performance and more like a rehearsal or coaching session, in which the musicians repeat fragments of the score and may never perform the song complete. (In this case, as with Stratas’ first Weill album, which grew out of a recital at the Whitney Museum, it surely helped that the Songbook musicians had performed the cycle complete before an audience only a few days earlier.)
In many ways, the process reminded me of filmmaking, and I remembered an interview with the actor John Malkovich, who said that his theatrical training proved useless or even harmful when it came time to make movies: he had to think in a different way, just as Moore may do before the microphone. Now the image that presented itself was that of a mosaic, piecing together a larger picture — or perhaps (because music is in its way linear) the stringing together of scattered pearls.
Familiar as I am with Moore’s voice, the acoustic of a studio is different from what I’ve heard before, yet of course I recognized the clarity and the open, conversational tone I admire in his singing. Given that he’s such a physical vocalist, it shouldn’t be surprising that he listens with his whole body during playback, too.
Blythe Gaissert
I had a moment to chat with Gaissert before the session began. She’d given a thrilling performance in Brooklyn, not only in Fairouz’ song but in all her offerings; perhaps most surprising was the advanced stage of her pregnancy, at which few in the Galapagos audience might have guessed. Naturally, it turns out that she’s from Beaumont, Texas (birthplace of Joyce Castle), and she and David Adam Moore have known each other since they were in their teens.
“Refugee Song” requires that Gaissert traverse a wide range of strong emotions, and she delivers the music with guts and fire, always demanding more from herself. Another surprise: you know how we non-singers hate to listen to the recorded sound of our own voices? Well, singers feel the same way — but both Gaissert and Moore put up with the process gallantly. (Bagwell was unflappable all the while.)
Fairouz seemed on edge throughout the session, and afterward I asked whether he found the process stressful. Not at all, he said; in fact, recording isn’t difficult, but “Refugee Song” itself is so intense that he responds to the song this way. (I daresay he’s not alone in that response.)
Mohammed Fairouz
Through it all, Roven seemed playful, almost ebullient as he pushed the buttons and encouraged the musicians: producing a record is creativity expressed, and he really enjoying this work. If his ambitions drive him to record more and more music, I suspect that it’s due not only to his dedication to art but also to his desire to have fun.
And in due course, the Five Borough Songbook will reach an audience far beyond DUMBO. The cycle is necessarily a mixed bag, with work of varying quality (and surprisingly few lyrics worth setting**); I’m frankly not terribly enthusiastic about some of the songs, and I doubt I’ll play them often. But at least I’ll have the opportunity.
If I’d known how hard it was to find a good picture of Thomas Bagwell, I’d have brought my camera to the studio. I’ve heard him perform several times, not only as accompanist but also as conductor.
*NOTE: Roven’s was but one of several subway-themed songs, and the rare of these numbers that didn’t rely on comical complaints for (admittedly crowd-pleasing) effect.
**Indeed, the concert served as a useful reminder that, for all their lyrical gifts, composers aren’t always the best judges of what constitutes good poetry.
The Five Borough Songbook, presented by the Five Boroughs Music Festival at the Galapagos Art Space, lured me out to Brooklyn on 6 October with the prospect of songs by nearly 20 composers, performed by four able singers. Getting to Galapagos — which used to be conveniently located in Williamsburg, across the street from my friend Eric’s apartment, but is now Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass (a.k.a. DUMBO) — got me lost in the dark in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I felt like a tourist, and I missed the first several songs.
But I arrived in time for two that I’d anticipated most gladly: those by Jorge MartÃn (“City of Orgies, Walks, and Joys!” to a text by Whitman) and Glen Roven (“F from DUMBO,” to a text by Michael Tyrell*). And I enjoyed the performances of the four singers: baritone David Adam Moore (no stranger to readers of this blog), soprano Martha Guth, tenor Alex Richardson, and the real discovery of the night, mezzo Blythe Gaissert.
Now, thanks to Roven’s ingenuity — and the fact that he’s the “G” in GPR Records — I’ll be able to listen to the Five Borough Songbook again and again, as often as I please, without getting lost in Brooklyn. Last week, I sat in on a recording session, and the experience proved fascinating indeed.
Glen Roven
GPR aims to step into the void left by the major labels, all of which have been hammered by economic and technological challenges, and some of which have neglected classical music for years. Working with Peter Fitzgerald (the “P”) and Richard Cohen (the “R”), Roven can avail himself of new technologies and unbeatable access: Fitzgerald, for example, is president and co-owner of Sound Associates, and he’s been sound designer for countless concerts and Broadway shows, including Rags. When the sound equipment is already in place, Roven says, and with studio facilities readily available in New York, it’s easy enough to record a piece; since brick-and-mortar stores are a thing of the past, it’s actually become easier to distribute albums.
Sitting in the control room with Roven, Cohen, and studio engineer Megan Henninger, I listened as David Adam Moore and pianist Thomas Bagwell put the finishing touches on Roven’s “F from Dumbo”; then Blythe Gaissert and composer Mohammed Fairouz came in to record his “Refugee Song” (to a text by Auden).
My experience in radio studios is pretty vast, but my experience in music-recording studios is quite limited — and all of it predates the digital revolution. Henninger can achieve with a few keystrokes what used to require razor blades and Scotch tape on the old reel-to-reel machines. (I still bear the scars.)
You’d wind up with a crazy-quilt of patches, and in some cases, you really did go crazy. That’s one reason that artists like Teresa Stratas tried so hard to get it right on the first take (as she did with The Unknown Kurt Weill), and the resulting record would be in that sense very much like a live performance: played straight through.
David Adam Moore
Now, however, the singers, pianist, and composers could go over individual bars again and again until they were satisfied, and the editing process was largely complete, almost instantly. The process struck me as less like a live performance and more like a rehearsal or coaching session, in which the musicians repeat fragments of the score and may never perform the song complete. (In this case, as with Stratas’ first Weill album, which grew out of a recital at the Whitney Museum, it surely helped that the Songbook musicians had performed the cycle complete before an audience only a few days earlier.)
In many ways, the process reminded me of filmmaking, and I remembered an interview with the actor John Malkovich, who said that his theatrical training proved useless or even harmful when it came time to make movies: he had to think in a different way, just as Moore may do before the microphone. Now the image that presented itself was that of a mosaic, piecing together a larger picture — or perhaps (because music is in its way linear) the stringing together of scattered pearls.
Familiar as I am with Moore’s voice, the acoustic of a studio is different from what I’ve heard before, yet of course I recognized the clarity and the open, conversational tone I admire in his singing. Given that he’s such a physical vocalist, it shouldn’t be surprising that he listens with his whole body during playback, too.
Blythe Gaissert
I had a moment to chat with Gaissert before the session began. She’d given a thrilling performance in Brooklyn, not only in Fairouz’ song but in all her offerings; perhaps most surprising was the advanced stage of her pregnancy, at which few in the Galapagos audience might have guessed. Naturally, it turns out that she’s from Beaumont, Texas (birthplace of Joyce Castle), and she and David Adam Moore have known each other since they were in their teens.
“Refugee Song” requires that Gaissert traverse a wide range of strong emotions, and she delivers the music with guts and fire, always demanding more from herself. Another surprise: you know how we non-singers hate to listen to the recorded sound of our own voices? Well, singers feel the same way — but both Gaissert and Moore put up with the process gallantly. (Bagwell was unflappable all the while.)
Fairouz seemed on edge throughout the session, and afterward I asked whether he found the process stressful. Not at all, he said; in fact, recording isn’t difficult, but “Refugee Song” itself is so intense that he responds to the song this way. (I daresay he’s not alone in that response.)
Mohammed Fairouz
Through it all, Roven seemed playful, almost ebullient as he pushed the buttons and encouraged the musicians: producing a record is creativity expressed, and he really enjoying this work. If his ambitions drive him to record more and more music, I suspect that it’s due not only to his dedication to art but also to his desire to have fun.
And in due course, the Five Borough Songbook will reach an audience far beyond DUMBO. The cycle is necessarily a mixed bag, with work of varying quality (and surprisingly few lyrics worth setting**); I’m frankly not terribly enthusiastic about some of the songs, and I doubt I’ll play them often. But at least I’ll have the opportunity.
If I’d known how hard it was to find a good picture of Thomas Bagwell, I’d have brought my camera to the studio. I’ve heard him perform several times, not only as accompanist but also as conductor.
*NOTE: Roven’s was but one of several subway-themed songs, and the rare of these numbers that didn’t rely on comical complaints for (admittedly crowd-pleasing) effect.
**Indeed, the concert served as a useful reminder that, for all their lyrical gifts, composers aren’t always the best judges of what constitutes good poetry.
Monday, May 9, 2011
My Dinner with Arthur
MY DINNER WITH ARTHUR
By Glen Roven
With his passing, I remember an amazing dinner I had with Arthur Laurents that changed the way he lived his life. Arthur, as everyone who knew him knew, didn’t change anything easily.
I was collaborating on a musical with Armistead Maupin, a musical that made it as far as the Cleveland Playhouse. But before its untimely demise, the show was “heading for Broadway.” Maupin had just published the first collected edition of eight groundbreaking novels under the title Tales of the City. As for Arthur, I had worked with him and considered him a professional collaborator while not a personal friend. He called, told me how much he liked Maupin’s books and said that he would love to meet him. Maupin happened to be in town. He was just as eager, so we set up a dinner.
Maupin can be extremely charming. When I introduced him to the great legend, the man who wrote West Side Story, Gypsy, The Way We Were, The Turning Point, he adopted his innocent, country-boy (he’s from North Carolina) hick demeanor. For a gay man from a small town in North Carolina, it doesn’t get better than going out with the writer who had Gypsy say, “I’m a pretty girl, Mama,” or Barbra beg Redford, “Stay till the baby is born, Hubbell.”
We went to a little restaurant down the street from Arthur’s house; the mood was congenial and festive. “I love your books.” “I love your movies.” “You really are terrific.” “You really are amazing.” The honeymoon.
Then, it got juicy. This was 1988 -- way before gays were allowed in the military, even before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Gay marriage didn’t seem a remote possibility, wasn’t even a pipe dream. Still, 1988 certainly better than the 50’s, but we had a long, long way to go.
Arthur talked about the most consequential time in his life, the McCarthy trials of the fifties. Armistead talked about the most important time of his life, when he came out.
Arthur said, quite proudly, with that Laurentian air of superiority, he has always been out. Even in Hollywood in the ‘50s, where he could easily have been blacklisted, he never hid his love life. Never. (Dramatic pause) “Except in print.” Putting it in print was off limits, a Rubicon. That’s where he drew the line, the line not to be crossed. He would never talk about it to a reporter. Period.
Armistead instantly dropped the North Carolina hick routine and turned into the political animal he had become. He looked directly at Laurents and said, forcefully, directly and loudly, “THEN YOU’RE NOT OUT!”
Arthur blanched! I’m not sure Arthur ever “blanched” in his life. He quickly started to defend his position.
I wish the iPhone had been invented for this conversation so I could have recorded it. Two brilliant minds but two completely different generations of homosexual men, one man who came of age in the 50’s, the other, the 70’s, rumbling like Tony and Bernardo, battling like Mary Ann and her Beau. Arthur valiantly defended his position about never talking to reporters, and Armistead, the younger generation, shot down every argument. Arthur wouldn’t give in. Armistead wouldn’t give up.
I couldn’t possibly recreate that conversation. But this was real theater. Real political theater. Arthur tried to conjure up the McCarthy era and the nightmarish time it was, using it as a shield against having to go into battle again; Armistead told him times had changed and he had to grow and update his politics and positions. That might have been the worst blow to Arthur’s might ego, to hear that his political ideas were out of date. And to hear it from one of the most important political writers in the country.
The conversation finished, the tempers cooled. Dessert was served. We got back on to safer topics: PBS was about to shoot Tales of the City. Bette was thinking about doing Gypsy.
But of course, an awkwardness hung over the apple crumble.
We walked Arthur back home, said our good-byes.
A few days later, in an interview given to a paper, I read Arthur Laurents, the man who vehemently said he would never talk about his homosexuality in print, quoted by the reporter, saying, “As a gay man….”
And I was there.
By Glen Roven
With his passing, I remember an amazing dinner I had with Arthur Laurents that changed the way he lived his life. Arthur, as everyone who knew him knew, didn’t change anything easily.
I was collaborating on a musical with Armistead Maupin, a musical that made it as far as the Cleveland Playhouse. But before its untimely demise, the show was “heading for Broadway.” Maupin had just published the first collected edition of eight groundbreaking novels under the title Tales of the City. As for Arthur, I had worked with him and considered him a professional collaborator while not a personal friend. He called, told me how much he liked Maupin’s books and said that he would love to meet him. Maupin happened to be in town. He was just as eager, so we set up a dinner.
Maupin can be extremely charming. When I introduced him to the great legend, the man who wrote West Side Story, Gypsy, The Way We Were, The Turning Point, he adopted his innocent, country-boy (he’s from North Carolina) hick demeanor. For a gay man from a small town in North Carolina, it doesn’t get better than going out with the writer who had Gypsy say, “I’m a pretty girl, Mama,” or Barbra beg Redford, “Stay till the baby is born, Hubbell.”
We went to a little restaurant down the street from Arthur’s house; the mood was congenial and festive. “I love your books.” “I love your movies.” “You really are terrific.” “You really are amazing.” The honeymoon.
Then, it got juicy. This was 1988 -- way before gays were allowed in the military, even before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Gay marriage didn’t seem a remote possibility, wasn’t even a pipe dream. Still, 1988 certainly better than the 50’s, but we had a long, long way to go.
Arthur talked about the most consequential time in his life, the McCarthy trials of the fifties. Armistead talked about the most important time of his life, when he came out.
Arthur said, quite proudly, with that Laurentian air of superiority, he has always been out. Even in Hollywood in the ‘50s, where he could easily have been blacklisted, he never hid his love life. Never. (Dramatic pause) “Except in print.” Putting it in print was off limits, a Rubicon. That’s where he drew the line, the line not to be crossed. He would never talk about it to a reporter. Period.
Armistead instantly dropped the North Carolina hick routine and turned into the political animal he had become. He looked directly at Laurents and said, forcefully, directly and loudly, “THEN YOU’RE NOT OUT!”
Arthur blanched! I’m not sure Arthur ever “blanched” in his life. He quickly started to defend his position.
I wish the iPhone had been invented for this conversation so I could have recorded it. Two brilliant minds but two completely different generations of homosexual men, one man who came of age in the 50’s, the other, the 70’s, rumbling like Tony and Bernardo, battling like Mary Ann and her Beau. Arthur valiantly defended his position about never talking to reporters, and Armistead, the younger generation, shot down every argument. Arthur wouldn’t give in. Armistead wouldn’t give up.
I couldn’t possibly recreate that conversation. But this was real theater. Real political theater. Arthur tried to conjure up the McCarthy era and the nightmarish time it was, using it as a shield against having to go into battle again; Armistead told him times had changed and he had to grow and update his politics and positions. That might have been the worst blow to Arthur’s might ego, to hear that his political ideas were out of date. And to hear it from one of the most important political writers in the country.
The conversation finished, the tempers cooled. Dessert was served. We got back on to safer topics: PBS was about to shoot Tales of the City. Bette was thinking about doing Gypsy.
But of course, an awkwardness hung over the apple crumble.
We walked Arthur back home, said our good-byes.
A few days later, in an interview given to a paper, I read Arthur Laurents, the man who vehemently said he would never talk about his homosexuality in print, quoted by the reporter, saying, “As a gay man….”
And I was there.
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