WASHINGTON NATIONAL OPERA

2020 Marian Anderson Vocal Award Recipient Will Liverman

Watch talented baritone Will Liverman perform an intimate concert that places you front and center on the Opera House stage.

Genre

Washington National Opera
Runtime

1 Hour

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Musical Numbers

Erlkönig

Music by Carl Loewe (1796-1869)
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind:
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er fasst ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

„Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?“
„Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron’ und Schweif?“
„Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.“

„Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel’ ich mit dir;
Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.“

„Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?“
„Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind:
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.“

„Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Rein
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.“

„Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?“
„Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.“

„Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.“
„Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt fasst er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!“

Dem Vater grausets, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not:
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot

Who rides so late through the night and wind?
It is the father with his child.
He has the boy in his arms;
he holds him safely, he keeps him warm.

‘My son, why do you hide your face in fear?’
‘Father, can you not see the Erlking?
The Erlking with his crown and tail?’
‘My son, it is a streak of mist.’

‘Sweet child, come with me.
I’ll play wonderful games with you.
Many a pretty flower grows on the shore;
my mother has many a golden robe.’

‘Father, father, do you not hear
what the Erlking softly promises me?’
‘Calm, be calm, my child:
the wind is rustling in the withered leaves.’

‘Won’t you come with me, my fine lad?
My daughters shall wait upon you;
my daughters lead the nightly dance,
and will rock you, and dance, and sing you to sleep.’

‘Father, father, can you not see
Erlking’s daughters there in the darkness?’
‘My son, my son, I can see clearly:
it is the old grey willows gleaming.’

‘I love you, your fair form allures me,
and if you don’t come willingly, I’ll use force.’
‘Father, father, now he’s seizing me!
The Erlking has hurt me!’

The father shudders, he rides swiftly,
he holds the moaning child in his arms;
with one last effort he reaches home;
the child lay dead in his arms.

Translation © Richard Wigmore, author of Schubert: The Complete Song Texts, published by Schirmer Books, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)

Edward

Music by Carl Loewe (1796-1869)
Text by Johann Gottfried Herder

Dein Schwerdt, wie ists [von] Blut so roth?
[Edward, Edward]!
Dein Schwerdt, wie ists [von]1 Blut so roth
Und gehst so traurig da! - O!
Ich hab geschlagen meinen Geyer todt
Mutter, Mutter!
Ich hab geschlagen meinen Geyer todt,
Und das, das geht mir nah! - O!

[Dein's] Geyers Blut ist nicht so roth!
Edward, Edward!
[Dein's] Geyers Blut ist nicht so roth,
Mein Sohn, bekenn mir frey! - O!
Ich hab geschlagen mein Rothroß todt!
Mutter, Mutter!
Ich hab geschlagen mein Rotroß todt!
[Und's] war so stolz und treu! O!

Dein Roß war alt und hasts nicht noth!
Edward, Edward,
Dein Roß war alt und hasts nicht noth,
Dich drückt ein [ander] Schmerz. O!
Ich hab geschlagen meinen Vater todt,
Mutter, Mutter!
Ich hab geschlagen meinen Vater todt,
Und das, das quält mein Herz! O!

Und was wirst du nun an dir thun?
Edward, Edward!
Und was wirst du nun an dir thun?
Mein Sohn, [bekenn mir mehr]! O!
Auf Erden soll mein Fuß nicht ruhn!
Mutter, Mutter!
Auf Erden soll mein Fuß nicht ruhn!
Will wandern [über] Meer! O!

Und was soll werden dein Hof und Hall,
Edward, Edward,
Und was soll werden dein Hof und Hall,
So herrlich [sonst und] schön! O!
Ach! immer stehs und sink' und fall,
Mutter, Mutter!
Ach immer stehs und sink' und fall,
[Ich werd es nimmer] sehn! O!

Und was soll werden [dein] Weib und Kind,
Edward, Edward?
Und was soll werden [dein] Weib und Kind,
[Wann] du gehst [über] Meer - O!
Die Welt ist groß! laß sie betteln drinn,
Mutter, Mutter!
Die Welt ist groß! laß sie betteln drinn,
Ich seh sie nimmermehr! - O!

Und was soll deine Mutter thun?
Edward, Edward!
Und was soll deine Mutter thun?
Mein Sohn, das sage mir! O!
Der Fluch der Hölle soll auf Euch ruhn,
Mutter, Mutter!
Der Fluch der Hölle soll auf Euch ruhn,

Denn ihr, ihr [riethets] mir! O.

"Why does your sword drip with such blood,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your sword drip with such blood
And why do you go so sadly there, O?"
"O, I have killed my hawk so good,
Mother, Mother;
O, I have killed my hawk so good,
And I had no more but he, O!"

"Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward, Edward!
Your hawk's blood was never so red,
My dear son, I tell you, O!"
"O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
Mother, Mother;
O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
That was once so fair and free, O!"

"Your steed was old, and you have got more,
Edward, Edward!
Your steed was old, and you have got more,
Some other thing troubles you, O!"
"O, I have slain my father dear,
Mother, Mother;
O, I have slain my father dear,
Alas and woe is me, O!"

"And what penance will you do for that,
Edward, Edward?
And what penance will you do for that,
My dear son, now tell me, O!"
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mother, Mother;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll go over the sea, O."

"And what will you do with your towers and your house,
Edward, Edward?
And what will you do with your towers and your house
That were so fair to see, O?"
"I'll let them stand till they fall down,
Mother, Mother;
I'll let them stand till they fall down,
For here never more may I be, O."

"And what will you leave to your children and wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will you leave to your children and wife,
When you go over the sea, O?"
"The world has room, let them beg through life,
Mother, Mother;
The world has room, let them beg through life,
For them never more will I see, O."

"And what will you leave to your mother dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will you leave to your mother dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O!"
"The curse of hell from me shall ye bear,
Mother, Mother;
The curse of hell from me shall ye bear,
For the counsel ye gave to me, O!"

Quatre Poèmes de Guillaume Apollinaire

Music by Francis Poulenc (1899-1963)
Text by Guillaume Apollinaire

1. L'Anguille

Jeanne Houhou la très gentille
Est morte entre des draps très blancs
Pas seule Bébert dit l'Anguille
Narcisse et Hubert le merlan
Près d'elle faisaient leur manille

Et la crâneuse de Clichy
Aux rouges yeux de dégueulade
Répète "Mon eau de Vichy"
Va dans le panier à salade
Haha sans faire de chichi

Les yeux dansant comme des anges
Elle riait, elle riait
Les yeux très bleus les dents très blanches
Si vous saviez, si vous saviez
Tout ce que nous ferons dimanche.

2. Carte-Postale

L'ombre de la très douce est évoquée ici,
Indolente, et jouant un air dolent aussi:
Nocturne ou lied mineur qui fait pâmer son âme

Dans l'ombre où ses longs doigts font mourir une gamme

Au piano qui geint comme une pauvre femme.

3. Avant le Cinéma

Et puis ce soir on s'en ira
Au cinéma

Les Artistes que sont-ce donc
Ce ne sont plus ceux qui cultivent les Beaux-arts
Ce ne sont pas ceux qui s'occupent de l'Art
Art poétique ou bien musique
Les Artistes ce sont les acteurs et les actrices
Si nous étions des Artistes
Nous ne dirions pas le cinéma
Nous dirions le ciné

Mais si nous étions de vieux professeurs de province
Nous ne dirions ni ciné ni cinéma
Mais cinématographe

Aussi mon Dieu faut-il avoir du goût.

4. 1904

À Strasbourg en dix-neuf-cent-quatre
J'arrivai pour le lundi gras
À l'hôtel m'assis devant l'âtre
Près d'un chanteur de l'Opéra
Qui ne parlait que de théâtre

La Kellnerine rousse avait
Mis sur sa tête un chapeau rose
Comme Hébé qui les dieux servait

N'en eut jamais. Ô belles choses
Carnaval chapeau rose Ave!

À Rome à Nice et à Cologne
Dans les fleurs et les confetti
Carnaval j'ai revu ta trogne,
Ô roi plus riche et plus gentil
Que Crésus Rothschild et Torlogne

Je soupai d'un peu de foie gras
De chevreuil tendre à la compôte
De tartes flans et cetera
Un peu de kirsch me ravigote

Que ne t'avais-je entre mes bras.

1. The Eel

Jeanne Houhou, the gentlest [one],
Passed out between the very white sheets
Not alone, Bébert, known as “The Eel"
Narcisse and Hubert the whiting
Close to her played their [game of] manille.

And the pretentious boaster from Clichy
With red eyes from throwing up
Repeats “My water of Vichy”
Go in the salad bowl
Haha without making a pretentious fuss.

[Her] eyes dance like angels
She laughed, she laughed
Eyes very blue, teeth very white
If you knew, if you knew
All the things we’ll do on Sunday.

2. Postcard

The ghost of the very sweet [one] is evoked here,
Idle, and playing a doleful air:
A nocturne or Lied in a minor key that makes her soul ---swoon
In the shadow, where under her long fingers a scale is ---dying away
On the piano, that groans like a poor woman.

3. Before the cinema

And then this evening we will go
To the cinema

The Artists, what kind are they?
They are no longer those who cultivate the Fine Arts
They are no longer those who deal in art
Poetic art or fine music
The Artists are the actors and actresses
If we were the Artists
We would not say "the cinema”
We would say "le ciné"

But if we were old provincial professors
We would say neither “ciné” nor “cinema"
But cinematography

Well my goodness, we must have good taste!

4. 1904

In Strasbourg in nineteen hundred and four
I arrived the Monday before Lent
At the hotel, I sat down by the fire
Next to a singer from the opera
Who spoke of nothing but the theater.

The red-headed German barmaid had
Put a pink hat on her head
Better looking than [any worn by] Hebe (who served the ---gods)
Ever had. Oh, such beautiful things:
Carnival pink hat, Hail to you!

To Rome, to Nice and to Cologne
In the flowers and the confetti
Carnival, I have seen again your face
Oh king, richer and gentler
Than Croesus, Rothschild and Torlogne.

I supped on a bit of foie gras
Of tender venison with stewed fruit
On custard tarts etc.
A swig of kirsch bucked me up

If only you had been in my arms.

King David

Music by Herbert Howells (1892-1983)
Text by Walter De la Mare

King David was a sorrowful man:
No cause for his sorrow had he;
And he called for the music of a hundred harps,
To ease his melancholy.

They played till they all fell silent:
Played and play sweet did they;
But the sorrow that haunted the heart of King David
They could not charm away.

He rose; and in his garden
Walked by the moon alone,
A nightingale hidden in a cypress tree,
Jargoned on and on.

King David lifted his sad eyes
Into the dark-boughed tree --
"Tell me, thou little bird that singest,
Who taught my grief to thee?"

But the bird in no-wise heeded;
And the king in the cool of the moon
Hearkened to the nightingale's sorrowfulness,
Till all his own was gone.

Five Songs of Laurence Hope

Music by Henry T. Burleigh (1866-1949)
Text by Laurence Hope

1. Worth While

I asked of my desolate shipwrecked soul
“Wouldst thou rather never have met
The one whom thou lovedst beyond control
And whom thou adorest yet?”
Back from the senses, the heart, the brain,
Came the answer swiftly thrown,
“What matter the price? We would pay it again,
We have had, we have loved, we have known!”

2. The Jungle Flower

Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair,
Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower.
Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hair;
Sweet thou art and loved — ay, loved — for an hour.

But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast,
Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower,
Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed
When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour.

3. Kashmiri Song

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? [Who lies beneath your spell?]
Whom do you lead on Rapture’s roadway, far,
Before you agonise them in farewell?

Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins
Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

4. Among The Fuchsias

Call me not to a secret place
when daylight dies away,
tempt me not with tine eager face
and words thou shouldst not say.

Entice me not with a child of thine,
ah, God, if such might be,
for surely a man is half divine
who adds another link to the line
whose last link none may see.

Call me not to the Lotus lake
where drooping fuchsias hide,
what if my latent youth awakes
and will not be denied?
Ah, tempt me not for I am not strong
(thy mouth is a budded kiss)

My days are empty, my nights are long;
ah,why is a thing so sweet so wrong,
why is a thing so sweet so wrong
as thy temptation is?

5. Till I Wake

When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly…
Stoop, as the yellow roses droop
In the wind from the south;
So I may when I wake – if there be an awakening –
Keep what lulled me to sleep –
The touch of your lips on my mouth.

Two Black Churches

Music by Shawn E. Okpebholo (b. 1981)

1. Ballad of Birmingham

Dudley Randall

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

“Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?”

“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren’t good for a little child.”

“But, mother, I won’t be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free.”

“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children’s choir.”

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?”

2. The Rain

Marcus Amaker, Charleston, SC Poet Laureate

When the reality
of racism returns,
all joy treads water
in oceans of buried
emotion.

Charleston
is doing
everything it can
to only swim
in a colorless liquid
of calm sea
and blind faith.

But the Lowcountry
is a terrain
of ancient tears,
suffocating through
floods of
segregation.

When a murderer’s gunshots
made waves
at Emanuel AME Church,
we closed our eyes,
held our breath
and went under.

And we are still
trying not to
taste the salt
of our surrounding blues
or face the rising tide
of black pain.

Moonlight in Vermont

Music by Karl Suessdorf
Text by John Blackburn
Arranged by Will Liverman

Pennies in a stream
Falling leaves of a sycamore
Moonlight in Vermont

Icey finger waves
Ski trails on a mountain side
Snowlight in Vermont

Telegraph cables, they sing down the highway
And travel each bend in the road
People who meet, in this romantic setting
Are so hypnotized by the lovely…

Evening summer breeze
Warbling of a meadowlark
Moonlight in Vermont

Telegraph cables, they sing down the highway
And travel each bend in the road

People who meet, in this romantic setting
Are so hypnotized by the lovely...

Evening summer breeze
Warbling of a meadowlark
Moonlight in Vermont

You and I and moonlight in Vermont

Moonlight in Vermont

Read the Digital Program

Digital Stage+

Musical Numbers

Erlkönig

Edward

Quatre Poèmes de Guillaume Apollinaire

King David

Five Songs of Laurence Hope

Two Black Churches

Moonlight in Vermont

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