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Fanfare

This is some of the finest choral writing from a living composer I have heard in years. Rodney Lister knows exactly what he wants, and how to achieve it. His understanding of text, and his vocal setting of words, is sublime, his choice of poetry exquisite. The settings have an unforced, natural flow that comes from his deep resonance with poetry.

The disc begins with Of Mere Being, a sequence of poems by Wallace Stevens. The first, “Notes toward a Supreme Fiction” bursts with the feeling of love itself; the second, “A Clear Day and No Memories” shows how, against a beautifully calm and equal piano from Chengcheng Ma, Lister can set a text at moderate pace with the utmost clarity—also a testament to the clear attention of the members of the Choir of the Church of the Advent, Boston. The text of “The Snow Man” reminds me of the poignancy of Robert Frost; Lister captures this feeling perfectly. There is real warmth to “Another Weeping Woman” (and the ladies of the choir maintain one through all of their range). It is telling, I think, that the titular song, and therefore one of such importance, makes its point through a seeming simplicity of seeing. “Seeming” because here is so much concealed here; melodies like this rarely come easily, and again the marriage of words and music is a happy one.

The poetry shifts now to Yeats, and the a cappella piece Never Give All the Heart. It is worthwhile, with the choir all alone, to consider just how the music itself seems to breathe: there are air pauses between lines, and they are perfectly judged. It is interesting that the piano re-enters with a huge registral gap and the most overtly “modern” music so far for Vanishing Point. One really can hear how those lines converge onto a “vanishing point.” The close is unbearably poignant; Lawrence Rabb’s poetry is beautifully honored.

It is Frank O’Hara to whom we shift next, with To the Harbormaster. The harmonies warm now, a tale of trust in a vessel against the elements (it is no accident, I imagine, that the music moves toward consonance along with a hopeful upward leap at “with my Polish rudder / in my hand and the sun sinking”). The piece is glorious, as is the almost quizzical final cadence.

Registral separation on the piano again informs the opening of A Downward Look (words by James Merrill). Here is a demonstration of how Lister can fragment the surface but always maintain a sense of coherence on the larger level; it all makes perfect sense even, dare I say, on first listening. Then the subtleties creep in, the slight harmonic twists that make all the difference.

The odd man (text) out here is The Lost Feed, which sets directions for an improvised play by Kenneth Koch. It immediately sounds different, more dramatic: “The Lost Feed,” the choir proclaims, as one, boldly. The words are actually hilarious (“seven actresses, impersonating hens and chickens, should, while retaining their human modesty and dignity, act out in as chicken-like a way as possible”).

It is quite a leap from chickens to Gertrude Stein, but there we go. Lister’s settings of Stein fall under the umbrella title of Stanzas in Meditation. The piano enters in Stanza XV with warm spread chords, while the voices (split into upper and lower) deliver the text once more with utmost naturalness. Stanza XVI is of a brighter disposition (a wonderful tutti rendition of “if they say so” at the end) before Stanza XXXVII could almost stand as a hymn in its own right (if the words were not so enigmatic, that is).

It is the dissonant harmonies and high-register piano curlicues of On the Road Home (Wallace Stevens) that speak most to my soul, its slower gait and huddled-together harmonies reflective of the search for truth. Pianist Chengcheng Ma is superlative ushering in Frank Bidart’s words, To the Republic, a frosty touch to the right hand. The poem’s eerie images are completely mirrored in Lister’s setting; again, here is a sense of narration that is absolutely gripping. And in turn, how beautiful are the fragile moments when the music offers only two vulnerable choral lines.

It is good that the various poets are grouped together. Three Poems of Richard Wilbur follow. The air lightens for “A Pasture Poem” (or just “Pasture Poem” depending on whether one believes the booklet or the disc back cover). It is these moments when the music sounds so simple (but isn’t) that are so impressive. “A Measuring Worm” is a study in the emotive power of harmony on the piano, all in a sustaining pedal embrace. How could the choir, when it enters, sing of a humble caterpillar? Of course, like Lister’s “simple” settings, there is nothing humble here, a song of transformation to come, and the blissful ignorance of the miracle of the organism itself. The harmonies evoke mystery and enigma; how poignant is the poet’s realization that he, too, has no idea which “undreamt condition” he goes toward. The final setting is “Green,” starting for all the world like a Debussy Arabesque before the choir rights us back into Lister’s world.

A bell tolls, via the piano’s most chthonic register, for To a Waterfall, a setting of William Cullen Byrant. This is a complex, sophisticated setting. This is the longest single setting on the disc (by some way: 7:48), full of aching near-silences, given a terrific performance by the Boston choir.

The setting of Virgil in David Ferry’s translation, The Bees, cropped up a number of times in our interview. Buzzing piano writing flits around the choir’s depiction of the “radiance of summer” (Ma’s touch is so even, so swift). Both The Bees and To a Waterfowl seem to hold the essence of Lister. Finally, Shakespeare, and the perfect words to close: Our Revels Now are Ended. The music carries that sense of exquisite regret at an ending.

The recording is as faultless as the performers. Previously in Fanfare, I have made a plea for recognition of Lister’s music: that plea is only strengthened via this disc. This is powerful, varied music, a masterclass in how to set poetry, heard in the strongest possible performances.