I CAN HEAR HER THROUGH THE THIN WALL SINGING for soprano and electric guitar
Music: D. J. Sparr Poems: Patrick Phillips (full score)
www.billholabmusic.com
˅
Texts forb
I Can Hear Her Through˅ the Thin Wall Singing Elegy After Midnightɫ Let the leftovers rot.ɯ Let the last candle burn.ɯ ɯ Let the clocks thinkɯ whatever they want.ɯ ɯ This is the night,ɯ says the night, you were given.ɯ ɯ The hour, each hour,ɯ you've lost.ɯ ɯ So lean into me, love.ɯ Kiss the blue children.ɯ ɯ Come cast our briefɯɯ shadows together.ɯ ɯ Let the wet branches lashɯ the black windows like death.ɯ ɯ Let me lie downɯ beside you forever.ɯ ɯ The Guitarɫ It came with those scratchesɯ from all their belt buckles,ɯɯ ɯ palm-dark with their sweatɯɯ like the stock of a gun:ɯɯ ɯ an arc of pickmarks cutɯɯ clear through the lacquerɯɯ ɯ where all the players before meɯ once strummed—onceɯɯ ɯ thumbed these same latchesɯɯ where it sleeps in green velvet.ɯɯ ɯ Once sang, as I sing, the old songs.ɯɯ There’s no end, there’s no endɯɯ ɯ to this world, everlasting.ɯɯ We crumble to dust in its arms.ɯ
The Singingɫ I can hear her throughɯɯ the thin wall, singing,ɯ up before the sun:ɯɯ two notes, a kindɯɯ of hushed half-breathing,ɯɯ each time the babyɯɯ makes that little moan—ɯ ɯ can hear her tryingɯɯ not to sing, then singingɯɯ anyway, a thing so oldɯɯ it might as wellɯɯ be Hittite or Minoan,ɯ ɯ and so soft no oneɯɯ would ever guessɯɯ that I myself onceɯɯ sang that very song:ɯɯ ɯ back when my sonɯɯ and then his brotherɯ used to cry all nightɯɯ or half the morning,ɯɯ though nothing in allɯɯ the world was wrong.ɯɯ ɯ And now how strange:ɯɯ to be the man from next door,ɯɯ listening, as the baby criesɯɯ then quiets, cries and quietsɯɯ each time she singsɯɯ their secret song,ɯ ɯ that would sound the same tenɯɯ thousand years ago,ɯɯ and has noɯɯ meaning but to calm.ɯ
Poems by Patrick Phillipsɯ Music by D. J. Sparrɯ ɯ World premiere performance byɯɯ Kristina Bachrach, sopranoɯɯ D. J. Sparr, electric guitarɯ
Pianoɫ Touched by your goodness, I amɯ likeɯ ɯ that grand piano we found oneɯ night on Willoughbyɯ ɯ that someone had smashed andɯ somehowɯ ɯ heaved through an open window.ɯ ɯ ɯ And you might think by this I meanɯ I’m brokenɯ ɯ or abandoned, or unloved. Truthɯ is, I don’tɯ ɯ know exactly what I am, any moreɯ ɯ than the wreckage in the alleyɯ knowsɯ ɯ it’s a piano, filling with trash andɯ yellow leaves.ɯ ɯ ɯ Maybe I’m all that’s left of what Iɯ was.ɯ ɯ But touching me, I know, you areɯ the goodɯ ɯ breeze blowing across its rustedɯ strings.ɯ ɯ ɯ What would you call that feelingɯ when the wood,ɯ ɯ even with its cracked harp, starts toɯ sing?ɯ ɯ Heavenɫ It will be the pastɯ and we'll live there together.ɯ ɯ Not as it was to liveɯ but as it is remembered.ɯ ɯ It will be the past.ɯ We'll all go back together.ɯ ɯ Everyone we ever loved,ɯ and lost, and must remember.ɯ ɯ It will be the past.ɯ And it will last forever.ɯ
/ ,01 2 03 2 3 42356 2 42 42/1 70 /1 /1 - * "% - # -
. "%
/ '% 0 . ! '
" # # $ % $
!
8 9 $ ! % * : % ! ; < = ' * ! ! " : ! $ ! !
&
' ( %
' % $ '
* (
% )
+
"
!
, *
! $
(
"
& (
'
$ "
" #
!
*
! $
"
%
!
$ ! $ #
&
* (
! $
'
*
! $
, *
" #
$ ! $ #
"
!
%
$ "
!
% )
!
"
+
"
(
& (
' ( % ' % $ '
$
# # $ %
! "
! "#
"
%&'
( ) * +
, - . /* 0 + 01&& * 1 + %&& * 2 01&& * . + 3&. 4
!
" #
" #
$
$
#
%&'
( ) * +
, # -&&& #
!
"
#
#
#
)
.
/
/
0)
% & '
" #
. "
()*
+ # , -
. /
#
"
!
!
!
$
0
! !
2
1
3
"
"
+ ,
!"# $ % & ' ( & ) *
- .
- .