Stephen Powell ~ Why Do The Nations

Stephen Powell at the piano; photo by Shannon Finney

Acis Productions have released a new recording from baritone Stephen Powell, Why Do The Nations, which brings us 27 songs in ten languages, with the singer accompanying himself at the piano. When I first read of it, I wasn’t quite sure how I would feel about it. It’s a lot of ground to cover, for one thing. And then: is Mr. Powell as fine a pianist as he is a singer?

An initial playing of the disc dispelled any misgivings I might have had. The songs weave a multi-hued sonic tapestry of languages and styles. And – as it turns out – Mr. Powell’s an excellent pianist. I wept, I laughed…I derived great pleasure from this collection. So many of the songs – and Stephen’s singing of them – reached me on a very personal level.

Stephen Powell talks with Brad Cresswell about how Why Do The Nations came to be here.

The disc offers a mix of the very familiar with several songs I’ve never heard, and a couple of composers I’d never heard of.

Four of Germany’s lords of lieder – Schubert, Brahms, Wolf, and Strauss – are represented. Of their songs on this disc, only Schubert’s “Die Forelle” was familiar to me; Mr. Powell sings it so well, and his pianistic skills are impressive, too. Hugo Wolf’s “Auch Kleine Dinge“, about a delight in small things, is sung with an appealing subtlety. A truly beautiful Strauss song that I’d never heard, “Ich Trage Meine Minne”, speaks of the sustaining power of love; after a somewhat darker second verse, the song returns to light and joy with the memorable line: “I carry my love in silent bliss”.  From Johannes Brahms, Mr. Powell brings us “Meine Liebe ist grün”, which celebrates the Springtime of love, wherein the poet is intoxicated by the scent of lilacs…something to which I can easily relate.

From France, we have songs by Maurice Ravel, Gabriel Fauré, and Émile Paladilhe, the last-named being only a name to me. His song, “Petits Enfants“, receives its world premiere recording on Mr. Powell’s disc. The poem, about the beauty of young children, is by Alphonse Daudet. The song has a delicate piano accompaniment, and Mr. Powell’s sweet upper notes sustain the atmosphere. Maurice Ravel’s boisterous drinking song, “Chanson à boire” comes from the well-beloved song cycle Don Quichotte à Dulcinée. It’s full of laughter, and ends with the piano on its own. Mr. Powell gives a fresh feeling to Fauré‘s familiar “Mandoline“, sung with a light touch, and with the piano part deftly handled.

Three of America’s greatest 20th century composers are heard from: Samuel Barber, Charles Ives, and Aaron Copland. Barber’s I Hear An Army, composed in 1937, has an aggressively dynamic accompaniment over which the words of James Joyce compare the end of an intimate relationship to the galloping hooves of an attacking troop of cavalrymen.

In 1952, Aaron Copland adapted Zion’s Walls, originally a folk song that became popular at camp meetings in Georgia; Copland eventually used the song in his opera THE TENDER LAND. On first hearing Mr. Powell’s rendering of Zion’s Walls, I simply wrote: “This Is Great!”

Charles Ives wrote Majority in 1921; Mr. Powell chose it as the final song on the disc. It’s a sort of toiling dirge, but with a reassuring ending.

The two kings of Italian opera turn up in canzoni mode: Giuseppe Verdi and Giacomo Puccini are allotted two songs each. Verdi”s La Seduzione (a seduced-and-abandoned tale) and the touching Il Poveretto (“The Poor Man”) have an operatic feeling to them. The latter tells of a poor veteran who, having served his country, is now reduced to begging. The song was written in 1847, but the problem still exists today. An ironic waltz springs up, only to halt as Mr. Powell movingly voices the line, “My country has forgotten me!” 

The disc’s other Verdi song, La Seduzione, starts with a slow waltz and becomes more animated, with the telling line: “Nine moons moaned the betrayed…” The singer’s voice becomes tearful as he tells of the disgraced woman’s lonely, anonymous death.

It’s to Puccini that Stephen Powell turns for his opening song: Morire? (“To die?”). The text is by Giuseppe Adami, the composer’s librettist for LA RONDINE, IL TABARRO, and TURANDOT. It’s a poem that reflects on the meaning of death; one curious feature of this song is that the piano drops out for most of the final verse. The voice goes on high at the end.

Puccini’s Terra e mare did what a song often does for me: it put me in mind of a beloved literary passage, in this case from JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings:

“Legolas Greenleaf long under tree, In joy thou hast lived, Beware of the Sea! If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.”

In this Puccini song, a man falls asleep, lulled by the sound of the wind in the poplar trees, which he dreamily mistakes for the sound of the sea. It’s a restless song, and both the piano and the voice capture the sensations of the lyrics perfectly.

Russian jewels by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky and Sergei Rachmaninoff bring forth some of Mr. Powell’s most engaging singing. Tchaikovsky’s “Nights of frenzy, sleepless nights”, a lament for a lost love of long ago, is particularly fine. In Rachmaninoff’s familiar “Spring Waters“, the singer conveys an almost operatic sense of vocal authority. The same composer’s “The Soldier’s Wife” is one of the collection’s saddest songs: the lament of a woman who married the man she loved, only to have him be taken from her by army recruiters. The song, with its deep sorrow,  covers a wide vocal range and ends with a vocalise. 

Benjamin Britten and Michael Head represent the United Kingdom. Two contrasting Britten songs are heard: the wryly humorous The Brisk Young Widow (which benefits greatly from Mr. Powell’s very clear diction), and the more pensive Every Night and Every Morn, with words by William Blake. In this song, the accompaniment seems somehow unsettling. There’s a rise in drama as the song nears its end…and then a questioning air at the finish. Composer Michael Head is new to me; his song Money, O!, written in 1928, covers a big vocal range, going deep. It sings of some of the advantages of being poor.

Meu Amor Me Disse Adeus (“My love told me goodbye forever“) by the Brazilian composer Cláudio Santoro hit me right where it hurts as the tenth anniversary of a bitter parting looms before for me. Like so many songs in this collection, this one is intensely personal, and Mr. Powell’s affecting singing of it makes it even more so.

The songs from the Asian lands are of special interest to me, in part because my spouse is Chinese, and in part because I’ve never heard them before. All three – one each from China, Japan, and Korea – could easily come from the pen of a Western composer, though the tell-tale harmonies say otherwise. I imagine Western singers might be happy to explore more song literature from these lands, but mastering the languages is not easy.

Listening to Mr. Powell sing Rentarō Taki‘s dreamlike Kōjō no Tsuki (“Moonlight Over the Ruined Castle”) – one of the most evocative songs on the disc – made me wish that my late friend, the contralto Makiko Narumi, was still here to sing me some Japanese songs.

The Korean composer Dong Jin Kim gives us a remarkably beautiful song, Gagopa (“I Want to Go Back“), full of longing for the days of childhood. The poet recalls the place of his birth, which he left long ago: “I want to recapture those days that had no tears.”

I asked my husband, Gotham’s premier Chinese tutor and translator, to listen to Mr. Powell’s recording of Zhao Yuanren’s “How Can I Not Think of Her“, wherein everything in nature reminds the poet of his lost love.  I asked Wei to rate the singer’s diction. After a line or two, he said: “Good…very good…very clear!”. Then he asked to hear the song again, and he began to sing along.

From Spain, songs by Fernando Obradors, Manuel de Falla, and Xavier Montsalvage have a particular appeal in Mr. Powell’s interpretations. Fernando Obradors’ ¿Corazón porqué pasáis…? a brief delight of a song about affairs of the heart. The accompaniment is particularly pleasing, while a central passage of wordless vocalizing seems to say: “Don’t take this song too seriously.”

Manuel de Falla’s ironic El paño moruno (“The Moorish Cloth” ) is the shortest song in the collection. To very familiar melody, the story tells of a tiny stain on a piece of fine cloth that diminishes its value. 

As with every song recital disc, there’s bound to be a favorite track. From Stephen Powell, we get the most hauntingly beautiful rendering of Xavier Montsalvage’s dusky lullaby “Cancion de cuna para dormir a un negrito” from Tres Canciones Negras that I have ever heard.

~ Oberon