Whew!

I thought I remembered my password, but I was spelling it wrong, so here I am again.

Anyway, today after Derrick's 4th birthday party, we went once more into the Chapel, dear friends.
Where we heard Simple Measures play a program dedicated to DaDa. (sorta)

The first half consisted of Bach's "Coffee Cantata".
"Moon's Ending" set by Andrew Thomas to a poem of Sara Teasdale.
"The Inward Morning" by Don Krishnaswami (brother of Rajan Krishnaswami, the head honcho and chief cello scraper of the group) to the poetry of Henery David Thoreau.
"Die Wolkenpumpe" (The Cloudpump) by Erwin Schulhoff, Hans Jean Arp.
And finally "The Swan" by Camille Saint-Saëns and poetry of Ogden Nash.

Intermission; chocolate chip cookies.
No spinach,(a joke for all you Picasso aficionados)

After that, We had Façade by William Walton, poetry of Dame Edith Sitwell.

Here's the DaDa part; The Bass-baratone who was to sing theThoreau and the Arp got stuck in traffic or somewhat forcing Rajan to reschedule.
"Coffee Cantata" was first, as originally planned but the others, which needed the singer were changed to after intermission, so we got to hear Façade first.
So whatever I told you above intermission is backwards.

Was a great show, anyway.

The musicians were;
Susan Telford, flute/piccolo (you can hear Susan's voice on "Nightmare Prelude" over on my MySpace site)
Sean Osborn, Several clarinets; Brian Chin, trumpet; Michael Brockman, saxophones;
Matthew Kocmieroski, percussion; Rajan Krishnaswami, cello; Ellen Mclain, of the impeccable diction, did the oration and soprano duties; Dave Beck, orator (although he is also a fine cellist who I last heard at the Bach unaccompanied cello extravaganza)And late but not least, Jonathan Silvia, bass-baritone.

DaDa was an art movement inspired by the insanity of the 1st World war when the world(the ones left alive after the guns and the influenza)were knocked silly
by that event.
It was as if the artists involved were saying "if that's an example of humankind's highest most noble behavior, then anything can make sense.

We've gotten worse since then.
Art has apparently given up.

Here's some of the poetry;

Moon's Ending

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,
In the dawn, clouds flying,
How good to go, light into light, and still
Giving light, dying

Sara Teasdale

The Swan

Scholars call the masculine swan a cobb;
I call him a narcissistic snob.
He looks in the mirror over and over,
And claims to never heard of Pavlova.

Ogden Nash

It's still poetry month.