In the early 2000s, I wrote the libretto for a musical adaptation of T.G.H. Strehlow's Journey to Horseshoe Bend. The novel is an account of a young boy and his family's attempt in 1922 to flee their home in remote, inland Australia and get to the coastal city of Adelaide where his desperately-ill father can receive medical attention. As the family travels through Australia's desert regions, the boy Theo becomes aware of his missionary father's mortality even as their Aboriginal guides awaken him to the totemic significance of the landscape. The work that Andrew Schultz and I wrote, based on Strehlow's novel, therefore blends Aboriginal lore, language and vocal-style with the European orchestra and European choral tradition.
As I have again been thinking about the nature of libretto-writing
lately, I thought I’d reprint this article which first appeared in 2007 in the Manchester
University Press/Open University publication: Music, words and voice: A reader.
The Little Blueprint? – an amplification of the meaning of ‘libretto’
A lyricist once couldn’t help himself when he heard someone whistling a
Tom Jones hit. ‘I wrote the words,’ he skited. Annoyed at being interrupted,
the whistler said, through clenched teeth, ‘I wasn’t…whistling…the words.’ Does this sum up the problem for lyricists,
and by extension librettists? Should we expect people to pay more attention to
the words?
Actually,
you’ll get a much better sense of what makes a libretto if you see it as more
than merely ‘the words’, or the ‘words on the page’. In its largest sense a
libretto is a suggestion to the composer of what s/he should achieve
dramatically. That’s not to say that a libretto can’t possibly have its own
reading pleasures. Many of the examples below are drawn from the libretto for
Andrew Schultz’s and my Journey to Horseshoe Bend which to a greater-than-usual extent
betrays its origins in a book, the book of the same name by T.G.H. Strehlow.
Of course Journey to Horseshoe Bend (JHB) is not an opera either, and it could be
instructive to wonder why not. But a libretto, whether to an opera, oratorio or
cantata, should only really be fully assessed alongside the music that it leads
to.
When colleagues of mine derided the
libretto of La traviata as ‘terrible
writing’ I suspect they had mistakenly judged it as armchair reading or
playscript. But were they reading it for the aurals and visuals suggested by
the text, that is, testing to see if it contained what Verdi called ‘scenic’
words? Were they reading it to see what musical product Verdi could make of it?
I sense that much of the underestimation
of libretti relates to an overestimation of the importance of words in theatre.
Being able to write good dialogue does not necessarily make a good playwright.
This is to miss the other essential dimensions that make good theatre. It’s
probably best not to think of words as the basic unit in a libretto either.
What’s more important is something bigger – a physical action, a use of the
space, a psychological beat – albeit all with musical resonance. You can of
course suggest action and shape with any number of words. To produce something
as refined as 20 pages of libretto requires precision and control as well as
powers of suggestion.
Is Piave’s libretto to La
traviata really so poor? It sets up strongly contrasting characters in
strong situations reflected in different settings. It provides good
opportunities for contrasting music, but guaranteeing a forward flow. This text
may be sparse – and when you read it aloud you get through its transitions
quicker than spoken dramatic development should let you - but the point is it
is text waiting to be sung, action waiting to be set to music. When performed
it is complete. Librettist and composer have contributed. They were both
creators; they were each other’s first audience.
It should be said that Journey to
Horseshoe Bend was the result of a true collaboration. While Andrew and I
didn’t do each other’s jobs, we discussed the work for a good two years, shared
ideas, felt comfortable making suggestions about either libretto or score and
mostly found ways to incorporate each other’s suggestions, even if there were
initial doubts. There was a vigorous to-and-fro.
--
Opera reformers have often started with the words. Wagner’s theoretical
text, Oper und Drama promoted a
relationship between words and music. Wagner is thought to have backed down
when he came to write Tristan und Isolde,
under the influence of the philosopher Schopenhauer, who had put music on a pedestal.
We have in Tristan and Act III of Siegfried moments of pure sound,
melismas on single syllables even, which the younger Wagner had derided. The
music clearly comes first – or does it? After Oper und Drama, as Jack M Stein pointed out years ago in Richard Wagner and the Synthesis of the
Arts, Wagner wrote an essay called Beethoven,
in which he lit on another opposite partner to music, what he called
‘pantomime’. It was music and
action that he paired in Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, the
other work (besides Tristan) that he
took time out to write before returning to the Ring and the dramatic high pressure of Götterdämmerung.
We have here a clue to what else the libretto is besides a ‘little
book’. It’s a little springboard for musical action. The libretto is, in
addition to words and perhaps more importantly, the larger plot movements,
sequence, scenes, mise-en-scène, characters, numbers, a suggestion of duration,
proportion and pace. It might even hint at a compositional scheme. J.D.
McClatchy (1984, An American Tragedy) tells of how he first presented a libretto A Question of Taste, to William Schuman,
who said ‘they [the words] don’t do anything for me.’ McClatchy tried
to point out that ‘the image in line 3 links up in line 6,’ but Schuman cut him
off: ‘I told you it [the libretto] didn’t do anything for me.’ McClatchy went
back and introduced a new character to add a tenor voice, formulated more
solos, duets and choruses, and thought less ‘of the dramatic unfolding and more
of the musical progression.’
Early on in the creation of JHB
(at libretto stage) I developed a sense of musical numbers that Strehlow’s work
could be broken into. This partly determined the means of making the adaptation
from T.G.H. Strehlow’s 220-page novel. Bringing the chorale Wachet auf in as soon possible meant
fast-forwarding through the first 22 pages of Strehlow’s text. Indeed the first
pages of Strehlow’s book were rethought to provide musical opportunities –
sunrise, chorale, travelling music. Andrew and I discussed the idea of the
three significant stopping places in the novel (Henbury, Idracowra and
Horseshoe Bend) being ‘camps’ or points of rest, defining three Acts, or the
parts of a broadly ternary form. Notwithstanding the fact that Andrew agreed
early on that the work would be through-composed (and this accounts greatly for
the inexorability of the work’s progress to Pastor Carl’s death), I am
convinced that thinking the libretto in terms of set numbers also helped
crystallise the moments.
The first draft of the libretto for JHB
is very like prose, a cut and paste from the novel to work out what more to
cut. The cantata was initially conceived as a work for narrator, chorus and
orchestra. To study the various drafts is to follow the course of a piece of
writing towards the status of a libretto. Of course our JHB doesn’t become a fully-staged opera, but subsequent drafts took
on more musico-dramatic aspects. At first there was no boy soprano Theo, and
passages such as the third scene’s night journey through the desert oaks were
conveyed more prosaically:
Journey to Horseshoe Bend, scene 3 - 1st draft
CHORUS
Friday, 25 October.
NARRATOR
‘It was half past two next morning when
Theo was wakened by the sudden blazing of the restoked campfire and the
talking of Njitiaka and Lornie, who were rolling up their blankets (87).’
They broke camp ‘and the van moved away
from the cheery blaze of the campfire into -’
NARRATOR
& CHORUS
-
‘the moonlit sandhill silence (87).’
Processional
(Brittania Sandhills) music: the ‘sighing of casuarinas’. Sandhill music.
NARRATOR
‘The resinous scent emanating from the
bulging tufts of spinifex…was not as overwhelming in the cool night air as it
had been in the heat of the previous evening; but it nevertheless pervaded
the whole atmosphere with the unmistakable menace of its aroma. For here as
elsewhere in the Centre this resinous fragrance drew attention to the deep
loneliness and the dangerous waterlessness of the huge inland sandhill
regions (87).’
‘[The] continual sighing of the magnificent
desert oaks in the soft night breeze indicated the extraordinary length to
which their jointed needle-like leaves had grown (88).’
Theo thought of the iliaka njemba, the emu-like phantom that terrified Aranda
children.
‘The black forests of desert oaks, whose
moon-silvered crests were shimmering so brightly, kept on exciting Theo’s
intense admiration (90);’ ‘Talpa, not taia,’ said Njitiaka, correcting Theo’s
western Aranda word for ‘moon’….He pointed out some of the prominent sites.
Nakua potta kuka [ ], raka kngara [ ]
NARRATOR
‘Gradually the dark eastern horizon
became tinged with grey. The blurred and shapeless tree forms began to reveal
their limbs with increasing clarity. The eastern sky became overspread by a
reddish-yellow tinge, and finally the spinifex tips on the crests of the
sand-dunes began to glow in the first rays of the rising sun….the sudden
burst of warmth that accompanied its full revelation foretold that the
day…would be, in local terms, a “real scorcher” (90).’
CHORALE
CHORUS
(O
Sacred Head sore wounded) [1st verse]
Aka tjantjurrantjurrai,
Ilkaartapartangai....
NARRATOR
‘About midday they reached the end of the
Brittania Sandhills (97).’
‘Njitiaka pointed out a dune which
overtopped all other sandhill crests by scores of feet –
|
And suddenly the sense of climax is interrupted, and
we are still travelling…
It was only later that much of that
information was transformed into a duet between Njitiaka and Theo, raising the
dramatic, and at the same time, musical profile of the work. As the frequency
of Theo and Njitiaka’s exchanges increased so action took over from narrative:
Journey
to Horseshoe Bend, scene 3 - final version
T.G.H
It was half
past two next morning when I was wakened by the sudden blazing up of the
restoked campfire. Njitiaka rolled
up the swags and untethered the donkeys.
NJITIAKA
Keme-irreye
tangkey ngkerne lhetyenele!
T.G.H.
And we moved
away from the cheery blaze of the campfire into the moonlit sandhill silence.
NJITIAKA
Unte irnterneme
urnpe lhanhe? Lhanhe yurte-ipne urnpe. Unte irterleretyeke kwatye kweke ware
nemenhe nhanerle.
THEO
Spinifex tufts
-
Kicked up by
donkeys -
Have such an
odour,
a certain
smell?
Moonlight,
sandhills, silence
NJITIAKA
Werlethenaye
werinerle irrkepe ngketyeke ingkwarle mpareme. Ilpele thwerte-nirre ngkeleme.
THEO
Desert oaks,
Their long
needles swishing,
Sighing,
crying, calling…
NJITIAKA
(pointing it out) Pmere ngkweke lanhe,
Kwatye pmere. Karte ngkwekeneke pmere.
THEO
Kwatye?
NJITIAKA
Ya, pmere
ngkweke
THEO
Your home?
NJITIAKA
Leyeke pmere.
THEO
Taye
parrtyeme
The moon is
shining -
NJITIAKA
Terlpe!
THEO
What?
NJITIAKA
Terlpe parrtyeme!
THEO
Terlpe parrtyeme?
NJITIAKA
Unte arrtye irrtne ilmeletyeke? Lanhe
renye ‘terlpe’ itye ‘taye’.
(Dismissively) Western Aranda!
THEO
Terlpe larnnga-larnnga…
NJITIAKA
Awa!
THEO
Terlpe imerneme nwerneke.
|
You’ll notice that in the first draft
there was the suggestion of another chorale to be used in the musical texture.
The repertoire of chorales was reduced as work proceeded. Andrew rightly sensed
that too many chorales would create an excess of material to shape while having
to stick to our brief for the duration of the work. But it is important to note
that these decisions came out of discussions at the libretto-writing stage.
It has been said that music has a degree of persuasiveness that words
can only aspire to. The completion of the chorale at the end of JHB is more moving than a mere spoken
rendering would be. Music can even, handily sometimes, lead us up the wrong
emotional path. So what do we miss if we don’t know the words?
At the end of Das Rheingold,
there is a shimmering and swelling in the music which finally blazes forth in a
proud, even harsh, assertion of triumphal power. The Gods are finally crossing
the rainbow bridge into their citadel Valhalla.
This is the most wonderful example of pure, unalloyed
‘rubbing-the-loser’s-nose-in-it’ victory. An audience may even hate themselves
for feeling excited, associating Wagner’s music with Nuremberg Rallies and
sheer unconscionable arrogance!
But the thing is: the ‘Entry of the Gods into Valhalla’ can only have
this meaning when you’ve paid no
attention to the storyline; when you’ve ignored the dramatic context.
Because when you finally hear this passage in the theatre, or at least as part
of the music drama, to use Wagner’s term, you realise that the gods are
entering a kingdom that has been doomed; that Wotan and the other gods are
blind, as Loge says, ‘to the end towards which they are heading’. He says it, but we even see them step over
the dead body of Fasolt or freeze momentarily at the sound of the Rhinemaidens
keening below. It is the most spectacular example of irony in the history of…
well, what is it? Music or Drama? But one thing’s for sure. You need the drama
to ‘get’ this irony. The combination of both elements together creates an emotional nuance that libretto and music
wouldn’t be able to achieve on their own. And it’s not just Loge’s words that
fulfil the whole condition of undermining. We have just watched two hours of
Wotan tieing himself in knots, back-pedalling and swindling. You can twig, even
without selecting the subtitle option on your DVD.
True, we can be mightily swayed by music, but even misinterpreting
depends on knowing what is conveyed by the sounds. Never having read the
surtitles at the beginning of Madama
Butterfly, we may overlook Pinkerton’s bastardry (the fact that he is
calculating the length of the marriage contract) because the opening of this
opera is what romantic music sounds like to us; we know from a thousand contexts. Do we know enough about Inuit
music to know what is moving in it? The opening bars of Tristan – what do they mean? Without the context – in this case 100
years of tonality – do we know that a minor 6th in 19th
century Romantic music denotes yearning?
Context is all important. In JHB
I was able to convey the outcome of the story of the crow of Mbalka; how he was
drowned by the rain women of Erea, in few enough words to allow the music to
continue unimpeded, because the story had been previously established.
Super-structure. Context. And sequence!
Thinking any of this has much to do with the beauty of the words is a
bit of a furphy. The words in fact should probably be as simple as possible.
The score can pinpoint the exact shade of emotion; the libretto has an
anchoring, orientating primacy. Be
careful of being too flash.
I find John Adams and Alice Goodman’s Nixon in China exceptionally, even movingly clear, so it may seem
churlish to pounce on this next example. But I remember being impressed by
certain lines in Act I, the chorus singing:
The people are the heroes now
The heroes pull the peasants’ plow
Of course, a successful libretto should provide the composer with
musical opportunities that enhance the dramatic flow. It is an absolute
masterstroke in the libretto of Verdi/Boito’s Otello to begin with Shakespeare’s second act and therefore give
the composer and the drama a storm to start with.
Journey to Horseshoe Bend fast forwards
through the preparations and background to the journey to light on a chorale
which arises, as if spontaneously from the voices of the Ntaria women. The
first pages draw from the novel to create a couple of musical situations –
sunrise and chorale. It was a libretto-stage decision to leave out T.G.H.
Strehlow’s impressive ten page description of the massacre history of
Irbmangkara, even though it may be the most virtuosic piece of writing in the
book. We had to get moving.
A libretto is a blueprint for musical
action. If the job has been considered well enough, the composer can sit down
and see the musical form inherent in the material. The libretto is good insofar
that you can judge by the intelligence of its suggestion of actable music:
momentum, weight, musical numbers (who sings what), purely musical segments,
and, at the level of detail, what I call its ‘play with specificity’.
JHB is a cantata. It
is meant to be a concert work. This
was the result of a number of decisions taken at the libretto stage. If JHB had been fully sung it would of
course have been twice as long, but speech allowed us filmic pacing, a
directness and spontaneity; to move quickly through concepts that don’t
normally make it into opera. We were aiming for a certain richness and at the
same time intelligibility. We rejected the idea of the narration being sung in
recitative (although recognising that the narrator fulfilled some of the
function of an Evangelist in a Bach passion), partly to broaden the work’s
appeal, but also because we needed another speaking role to pair with Njitiaka.
Nevertheless, it is worth testing this theory of libretto writing by examining
the proximity of each cantata scene to completely dramatised opera.
Scenes 3 and 4 are arguably the most
fully-dramatised. Strehlow’s descriptions of conversations between Theo and
Njitiaka as they travel at night through the sand-dune country are turned into
duet. In scene 4 Carl’s struggles with his faith, described in third person by
T.G.H. Strehlow in his novel, are turned into an aria with responding chorus.
This aria is juxtaposed with a cinematic cutaway to Theo’s ditty-like listing
of sights around Idracowra station. I particularly love the melody that Andrew
came up with when he arrived at what I considered the heart of the scene, and
perhaps of the philosophy of the work:
But God cannot be known
Nor made to answer men.
No use in us demanding
The meaning of our pain.
Action and music? In Journey the ongoing movement of the
music was complemented by verbal pointers to direction: ‘…25 miles to the north
west rugged Rutjubma…’; ‘…already moving through the…saltbush flat which spread
south…’; ‘…turned in a more easterly direction...’ Njitiaka gives
many of the directions. But these examples are taken from TGH, the narrator.
Journey to Horseshoe Bend stayed a cantata
in some ways to preserve the flavour of Strehlow’s original novel. But that meant
particular problems. One of the big hazards for libretto writing is leaving too
much ‘on the page’. I say that having written a wordy libretto, and having
early on tried to force Andrew into setting TGH’s denser and slower-moving
sentences. This example is from the third draft. The party have arrived at
Horseshoe Bend.
Journey to
Horseshoe Bend, scene 6 – 3rd draft
CHORUS
(continuing under)
Horseshoe Bend is the eye of a flame
Horseshoe Bend is the eye of a fire
T.G.H.
Horseshoe Bend had been remarkable for
its cruel heatwaves for as long as human memory went back.
NJITIAKA
Atua Rubuntjaka janha ntoaka. Pota urbula
arei. Itne uralalanga.
T.G.H
(Translating)
Everywhere the Rubuntja men vomited they left black pebbles whose heat
essence is evoked to this day in freezing weather.
CHORUS
(continuing under)
Horseshoe Bend is a fiery place
A land of burning cliffs
NJITIAKA
Nana pmara uraka. Nakua ngapa nama. Era
ura taka, altjiraka.
CHORUS
(continuing under)
Horseshoe Bend is a fiery place
A land of burning cliffs
NJITIAKA
Nana pmara uraka. Nakua ngapa nama. Era
ura taka, altjiraka.
CHORUS
Of searing plains
T.G.H
(As
if translating for Njitiaka) ‘The main totemic sites in the region were
all associated in some way with fire or with the scorching heat of the summer
sun. Worst was Mbalka, the home of a malicious crow who had flitted over the
landscape at the dawn of time, lighting fires.
CHORUS
Fire
Exploding spinifex
Shrieking over sandhills
Shooting from branches screaming
Writhing from mulga, like pillars of
Fire,
Crackling torches of flame
(Continuing)
NJITIAKA
Erea tara rana rranthaka, rana
lakarlalaka…
T.G.H.
(Translating)
At last, two rain ancestresses from Erea surprised the crow and drowned him.
The lake of fire became a sea of water. Clouds of steam hissed up from
sizzling tree stumps and charred stumps.
|
Listen to the music as it is now and you
can hear that TGH’s and Njitiaka’s words would have impeded the flow. As a
solution Andrew went ahead and composed music for this scene using only bits of
the text. Only after the music had been freed in this way did I go back to make
sure that the characters told the same story in telegraphic form.
Journey to
Horseshoe Bend, scene 6 - final version
NTARIA
LADIES CHOIR (very quietly)
Kaartai, nurna-nha wurlathanai (Father, hear our prayer)
CHORUS
Horseshoe Bend is the eye of a flame
Horseshoe Bend is the eye of a fire
NJITIAKA
Urte
Rubuntja ntwe-irrke nhakeke.
T.G.H.
The Rubuntja men vomited over there.
NJITIAKA
Perte
urrpwerle raye…
T.G.H.
Yes, the black stones.
NJITIAKA
Itne
metyepenhe…
T.G.H
They’re from fire?
CHORUS
Fire
Exploding spinifex
Shrieking over sandhills
Shooting from branches screaming
Writhing from mulga, like pillars of
Fire,
Crackling torches of flame
Horseshoe Bend is a fiery place
A land of burning cliffs
NJITIAKA
Nhanhe metyeke pmere.
T.G.H.
This is fire country.
NJITIAKA
Ngkape
nhakele…
metye itekele,...
CHORUS
Horseshoe Bend, etc…
|
A libretto needs to be able to turn on a dime. While composing, the
composer may ring up and say, ‘I need eight syllables in the following rhythm’.
The librettist knows s/he has to tie up three or four plot points in that space
as well. There is so much more to appreciate if the libretto is examined hand
in hand with the music.
I mentioned before the play with specifity. The relationship between
text and music is far more fascinating than a side by side comparison would
suggest.
Andrew often says that the music is the poetic element, and that’s
true. But well-placed words can enhance a poetic moment. ‘The smell of
rain-soaked earth fills the air…’, sings Theo, as his final notes ring out.
I have myself tried to explain the
relationship between music and text in terms of the text being the noun and the
music the verb, but sometimes the text, acting as context, can be adverb. And
sometimes the music is the noun. Andrew’s chorale harmonies and counterpoint
give reality to JHB’s Lutheran
setting. Is the libretto here the adjective? Can the music be the subtext
revealing the text’s true concerns?…
Journey to Horseshoe Bend ends with a
storm. Music does storm beautifully. It can convey a storm without a word in
sight. Think Beethoven, Rossini, Britten. Think Otello. But it’s important for the audience in JHB to know that that storm confirms
Theo’s decision to make his future in Central Australia by corroborating for
him the reality of a storm that took place in the mythological era at the
beginning of time. That’s the reason for the verbal exchanges between
Njitiaka and TGH at the beginning of the third part (the arrival at Horseshoe
Bend), and for this exchange towards the end:
NJITIAKA: Kwatye ngkarle arpenhe petyeme
TGH: More clouds?
NJITIAKA: Itne renhe nyenhe inetyeke.
TGH: Those rain-women get that crow always.
NJITIAKA: Ngampakala. Finish him.
Which brought all the elements to a point, after the score was completed - after
Andrew had been set free to follow the course of the dramatically-generated
music.
--
A libretto may mask a great many decisions. It needs to be thin. But
one decision taken at the libretto stage can say heaps. Strehlow spends many
paragraphs describing Pastor Carl’s character. We needed an
authoritative voice. As a bass-baritone Carl had for me associations with a
Wotan or a Boris Godunov and in that one decision was all that we needed to say
about that ‘rockplate’ clergyman who threw the murderous Constable Wurmbrand
off the mission property and who stood in the path of a party of Kukatja
avengers. I remember being fascinated by the changed significance that could be
achieved merely by assigning words to different characters. Imagine the quite
different cast of meaning if you assign the chorus’s words: ‘But God cannot be
known…’ to one of the other parts.
All this information can be encompassed
by the libretto. And some of a libretto’s achievement may literally be
invisible, left to the composer or left out. It may only be realised on stage
(another’s job). But let’s go back to the libretto as words, since that is the
level on which the debate is usually waged.
The libretto is important. The words are
significant. The librettist J.D. McClatchy’s name was left off the CD cover for
Emmeline (composer: Tobias Picker). I
would have been peeved. And librettos and programs and texts can push composers
in directions they might not have explored if left to their own devices. I
think of the soundtrack to Bullitt
and compare it with Lalo Schifrin’s more recent recording with the West German
Radio Big Band.
To me the version made to showcase the music lacks the rhetorical pointedness
of the soundtrack. It seems to lack the gestural definiteness, seems less
urgent.
Could it be that ‘text’ (the action) forestalls a converging on purely musical
elements, a narrowing of meaning? And yet so often we read in annotations: ‘The
composer sensed rightly that the music was coherent in its own terms, and did
not need the added literary explanation,’ or ‘We may disregard the program. For
the work stands as music.’
Charles Rosen speaks of music’s ‘emancipation from the word’ in a
recent New York Review of Books article
on Richard Taruskin’s Oxford History of
Music; and of how that emancipation enabled sophisticated absolute
structures. True, but are
they better or worse than texted musical works; there is a pleasure to be had
from the way the words and music mesh and collide in Pitjantjatjara chant, for
example. Perhaps annotators should accord the libretto and its relationship to
the music the same subtlety of understanding that they plead for in relation to
absolute music.
But to come back to the words, because I dispute (even discounting
larger plot movements, sequence, scenes, mise-en-scène, characters, numbers, a
suggestion of duration, proportion and pace) that the words are inferior or weaker carriers of meaning.
A colleague once cited Some
Enchanted Evening to me as an example of the primacy of music: it’s the
music that we carry away from the performance. Now I guess we don’t go out whistling the words, but even if you
only know the first lines of hundreds of songs, the general sense and situation
reinforces the message to be taken from the melody, harmony, pace and orchestration,
and I doubt if music would be as meaningful if judged, as Stravinsky may have
wished, ‘powerless to express anything other than itself’. After all, what is Some Enchanted Evening in musical terms: tonic chord with a
melodic turn on the fifth followed by a downward drop, the sharpened fourth in
the turn undermining stability; that turn repeated followed by an upward lift
to the leading note, but this time with the harmony shifting underneath to the
dominant; the turn again, this time followed by a lift to the tonic, but with a
sharpened fifth underneath preparing the way to a supertonic 6/5 harmony... Certainly the harmony creates an urging forward and there is a poignancy often
found in Richard Rodgers’ chordal progressions one step beyond the harmonically
obvious, but does that fully explain the emotional resonance? I suppose my words prove the lack of music’s poetry. But I still think you
at least need to know that the song is about an enchanted evening where you may
meet a stranger across a crowded room; what any of us would bring to that love
at first sight; words and sentiments that preclude
being set to a ‘rumpty-tumpty’ melody.
But don’t take my word for it. Get an audience of Americans to stand
with hands over their hearts and sing:
To Anacreon in heav’n, where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of Harmony sent a petition,
That He their Inspirer and Patron would be;
When this answer arrived from the Jolly Old Grecian:
no longer be mute,
I’ll lend you my Name and inspire you to boot,
And besides, I’ll instruct you, like me, to entwine
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus’s Vine.’
and I bet not a single one of them would shed a tear, no matter how
good the tune, at the original words of the drinking song that became - The Star-Spangled Banner.
Gordon Kalton Williams
Open University, ©2006
This article first appeared in Music, words and voice: A reader, edited by Martin Clayton and published by Manchester University Press, ISBN: 978-0-7190-7787-6
Reproduced by kind permission.
Acknowledgements
Andrew Schultz
The Strehlow Research Centre
Katherine D. Stewart
Natalie Shea
Siobhan Lenihan
James Koehne
Strehlow, T.G.H. Journey to Horseshoe Bend, Angus &
Robertson, Melbourne, 1969. Quotes by permission of the Strehlow Research
Centre, Alice Springs Australia
‘Aka tjantjurrantjurrai’ (O Sacred Head now
Wounded) No.75, p.169,
Arrarnta
Lyilhintja Lutheran Worlamparinyaka (Arrarnta Lutheran Hymnal), Finke River
Mission Board, Alice Springs, 1997
T.G.H. Strehlow provides a huge amount of information about his
father on pp7-8 and 20 of the Angus & Robertson edition of his novel.