Category Archives: classical music

A Selfless Giant.

classical music, , , , ,

Composers, like poets or painters, travel incognito. They aren’t visibly weighed down,  unlike instrumental musicians with those often unwieldy cases. Unlike actors, they wear faces nobody knows. In mixed company, most might see them as afficionados or patrons. But, their agenda sets them apart. When composers attend performances, they are present as keen observers, taking nourishment. They are the unseen, as yet unheard harbingers of the music to come.

In my brief lifetime, I have known only a few composers. One of them is a dear friend.

I met Stephen Colantti, first from afar, then up quite closely.  He’d moved to Erie after twenty years living and working in New York City, and we were formally introduced at the former Mercyhurst College D’Angelo music department’s opera workshop. Around these parts, we seemed to have few Philadelphia-born Italians, and his raven hair, in those early days, was a social stand-out. So also his countenance, always bright and sunny, engaging all who met him.

And, it still does. Stephen has, to this day, the face of a happy boy. One might miss, at first glance, the depth of his capacity for reflection, for contemplation, for wise commentary, or the breadth of his emotional range. But, one will almost immediately grasp his earnest and passionate appreciation for art and artistry.

To my uninitiated ear, his voice was embodied magnificence. I had never sat in such close proximity to a real, Metropolitan tenor – I, with my classical background limited to orchestral and chamber music, my vocal exposure first to that of my beloved father’s croon and, later, the hymns of the Protestant mind. That Stephen Colantti would invite me to learn his original compositions based on the poems of Edna St Vincent Millay, and then perform them as pianist while he sang, was the truest honor.

How surely his melodic line could carried above such harmonic complexity. This was a true scholar, one who could lift motif and element effortlessly from all stylistic periods, yet still let his heart lead. Although more than a decade had passed since my introduction to his writing, I knew what this composer had in him  – and, fully expected more to come. And, more did come.

Stephen took his retirement from public education a bit prior to my own, and this began his molting period. He’d worked for several years at Harding School, helping the children create and develop unique childrens’ operas, each one more worthy than the last. But, the bleak and frigid winter of 2013, he was finalizing what would emerge in the spring as his “piece de resistance” – an opera for all audiences, based on the poetic story of the same name by Oscar Wilde:  “The Selfish Giant.”

From the moment soprano Lisa Layman gave voice to Autumn’s aria, I heard the first of what would bespeak Stephen Colantti’s small masterpiece. All at once, he had captured the personality of the four seasons, the nature of the encumbered giant, the purety of the child. His color palette was tonally rich, laying down hues and tints and shades from across the emotional spectrum. His sense of drama so well-paced, married to the sensibilities of one devoted to the craft of solid structure and seamless segue. I couldn’t wait to be a part of the realization of this work of art.

“The Selfish Giant” made its world premiere in 2014 on the graciously offered stage of the Erie Playhouse. This spring, almost a year to the day, many of those of us who enjoyed that debut will enter the studio to make this wonderful work available on audio recording. Mark Steven Doss, Grammy-award winning bass-baritone, will sing the role of the giant. We are all fully aware that we are going to be part and parcel of something exquisite, humbly created, brilliantly conceived, and devotedly shared – by our own, gifted composer, Stephen Colantti.

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Ruth Ann Scanzillo, principal ‘cellist

Erie Chamber Orchestra at Gannon University.

© 2/24/15  all rights reserved.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Tanglewoodstock.

classical music, contemplative essays, mystical experience, sociology, , , ,

Summer, 1994. “……..and the people bowed and prayed”………

Well. Not exactly.

But, religious ardour was definitely in the air. And, devotion. And, this time, everybody stayed fully clothed. The blanket which, according to recent review, had been “the price of admission” twenty five years earlier on a flatter (if muckier) patch of land came all dressed, too. Be-decked with wondrous fare, from the simple to the lavish, from fresh fruit and elegant drink to full buffet replete with everything short of the proverbial ice-sculpted swan…..”Woodstock”? Schmoodstock. This was the Tanglewood Festival.

There was grass all around – on the ground, this time – a sheltering tree or two and, at the center, a covered amphitheater instead of the riskier if rustic open-air stage whence the music was sure to come.

But, whence had the people come? This cross-generational throng of celebrants and worshippers, lovers and friends, wearing no ideology on their sleeves (though perhaps a tattoo or two beneath) had left political persuasion at home. They, like Christians gathering to remember the Last Supper, had made their pilgrimage from Everywhere to Lenox, Massachusetts again this summer and I, for the first time, had joined them.

Filtered conversations diffused the atmosphere like sounds in nature. A bit of food, a little drink….

Settled on the ground surrounded at arms’ length and on all sides, our interaction was discreet: a polite smile, an admiring glance. We hadn’t come, after all, to act out. Gone was the urgent need to romp noisily; we weren’t puppies who had to play. Electronic distortion would obliterate neither our consciousness nor our auditory nerves tonight. We needed no illusion, no hallucination. We had brought our collective imagination, now almost fully recovered; we would partake together, and commune without saying a word.

In tempo with the setting sun each flame was lit, from citronella to candelabra. Soon, there were innumerable points of light on this horizon. Don’t get me wrong. Symphony orchestras have been performing breathtakingly live for centuries now, but hardly for or in the company of ten thousand people maybe more, sitting on the lawn. And, maybe ten thousand against two hundred of same isn’t a valid statistical comparison but, from the moment the Maestro turned toward the orchestra, a phenomenal hush blanketed the grass as ten thousand people at once fell absolutely silent.

Now, this was distinguishing. Silence?!

Many lay back to gaze at the sky or close their eyes; others sat casually, clasping their knees, and still others, reminiscent of that by-gone event cocooned themselves in pairs as the music suffused them. And, n.o.b.o.d.y. made a sound. A mystical mass-meditation had descended upon that valley. We had all become part of something greater than ourselves – most of us, this time, with our senses intact.

For those who had taken that other trip in 1969 and now found themselves here, there might be no need to pencil in “Woodstock ’94” and wonder, biting nails, who else and if anyone would show. Since having re-structured their lives, acknowledging the passage of time, the birth of the “re-establishment” and the re-enfranchisement of themselves by having, like, grown up? There might be no rhyme or reason to reconstructing the past just for the record (or, the CD). Enough, perhaps, to – like the man said – just “let it be.”

I’ve been to Altamont, New York. It’s a quiet place. One gets the impression that Altamont likes itself the way it is and would rather have preserved its piece of the earth, or place in the sun, or whatever, from, well, never mind. No; I’ve never been to Woodstock. I wasn’t there in 1969 and, unlike many, I’m sure of it; I was twelve years old. But, like Judy Collins said, in one sense many were there who weren’t counted at all.

There were fourteen counted at the Last Supper. Millions attend the retrospective. That event, considered holy by many, will never happen again. Other, less-than-holy occasions may evolve. Let’s learn to know the difference, and move on.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 1994 all rights reserved. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com