Vivian Fine

 

Compositions

***

 

The Nightingale


year

1976


duration

10 minutes


instrumentation

Mezzo-soprano, accompanying herself on percussion


text

John Keats, T.S. Eliot, John Lyly, Richard Barnfield, and the Encyclopedia Brittanica


première

March 4, 1977, Albany Arts Center, Albany, New York, Julie Kabat, soprano


recording

Available on demo CD


reviews

[The piece] is set as an extended fantasy for solo singer, accompanying herself with triangle, woodblock and cymbal….the result is eloquently moving.”

–Heuwell Tircuit, San Francisco Chronicle

 

Nightingale is an avian tour de force….Woodblock, triangle, suspended cymbal and voice created a nostalgic, almost mystical mood which left me wishing that the work were longer.”

–Richard Capparela, KITE, Albany, New York


audio files

The Nightingale

Jug jug jug terew, terew, terew, terew,
chooc chooc chooc, chooc,
terew, she cries, terew, terew, tuh, shh
terew, she cries, tuh, shh
what bird so sings, jug jug jug, jug, terew, tuh shh
what bird so sings yet so does wail,
jug jug jug jug jug jug, terew.

Yet there the nightingale filled all the desert with inviolable voice.
terew, terew, terew,
jug jug jug jug,
and still she cried,
ah…ah…
filled all the desert, filled all the desert,
the nightingale,
filled all the desert.

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves,
The grass, the thicket and the fruit tree wild;
White hawthorne and the pastoral eglantine.

I cannot see what flow’rs are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.
KKKKK, KKKKK, tuh, shhh tuh, shhh,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves,
The grass, the thicket and the fruit tree wild;
White hawthorne and the pastoral eglantine.

Philomel, Philomel, Philomel, Philomel,
tandaradei, tandaradei,
fie fie fie,
how she would cry,
terew, terew, terew, terew, terew, terew, terew,
by and by, by and by, by and by,
Philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby,
tandaradei, tandaradei,
Still wouldst thou sing and I have ears in vain,
while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy!

Towards the end of summer the nightingale disappears to its African winter haunts,
the nightingale, the nightingale,
The voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days,
the nightingale,
Was it a vision or a waking dream?

Fled is that music,
do I wake or sleep?