Janet Baker is transcendent!

Six or so years ago, I was asked to be on a panel to discuss the topic of "Definitive Performances" or something like that. The panel discussion never took place. I don't quite recall why, but I was relieved. I really didn't want to take part in it and I didn't even know whether I believed there was such a thing. I still don't know, but if I did, this Les Nuits d'été with Janet Baker would certainly be one of my choices.

When it comes to Les Nuits d'Été, the Régine Crespin recording with Ansermet has always been the acccepted gold standard. I remember listening to it until the LP was worn down, same thing with Crespin's recording of Ravel's Shéhérazade.

Coming across these videos of a live performance of Janet Baker singing these pieces with Herbert Blomstedt conducting was such a thrill! Her performance is utterly transcendent.

Having never seen Baker or Crespin perform "live" is one of my greatest disappointments, so this is really an amazing treat. No better way to start our journey into Mélodie.

After watching these, I would encourage you to also view the Crespin performance of Spectre d'une rose, which is at YouTube HERE. Crespin's approach focuses on the ethereal quality of the "spectre." Her ability to control her sound to achieve this is astonishing.

Berlioz, Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°1. Villanelle.

Note: This is the only one that is out of sink. The rest are fine.
All translations are from the Lied Art Song Texts Page- Link at left of blog.

Villanelle

When verdant spring again approaches,
When winter's chills have disappeared,
Through the woods we shall stroll, my darling,
The fair primrose to cull at will.

The trembling bright pearls that are shining,
Each morning we shall brush aside;
We shall go to hear the gay thrushes
Singing.

The flowers are abloom, my darling,
Of happy lovers 'tis the month;
And the bird his soft wing englossing,
Sings [carols sweet]1 within his nest.

Come with me on the mossy bank,
Where we'll talk of nothing else but love,
And whisper with thy voice so tender:
Always!

Far, far off let our footsteps wander,
Fright'ning the hiding hare away,
While the deer at the spring is gazing,
Admiring his reflected horns.

Then back home, with our hearts rejoicing,
And fondly our fingers entwined,
Lets return, let's return bringing fresh wild berries
Wood-grown.

Berlioz, Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°2. Le spectre de la rose

Text: Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)

Le spectre de la rose/
The ghost of the rose

Open your closed eyelid
Which is gently brushed by a virginal dream!
I am the ghost of the rose
That you wore last night at the ball.
You took me when I was still sprinkled with pearls
Of silvery tears from the watering-can,
And, among the sparkling festivities,
You carried me the entire night.

O you, who caused my death:
Without the power to chase it away,
You will be visited every night by my ghost,
Which will dance at your bedside.
But fear nothing; I demand
Neither Mass nor De Profundis;
This mild perfume is my soul,
And I've come from Paradise.

My destiny is worthy of envy;
And to have a fate so fine,
More than one would give his life
For on your breast I have my tomb,
And on the alabaster where I rest,
A poet with a kiss
Wrote: "Here lies a rose,
Of which all kings may be jealous."

Berlioz, Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°3. Sur les lagunes.

Text: Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)

Sur les lagunes/
On the lagoons

My beautiful love is dead,
I shall weep always;
Into the tomb, she has taken
My soul and my love.
Without waiting for me,
She has returned to heaven.
The angel which took her there
Did not want to take me.
How bitter is my fate!
Ah! without love, to go to sea!

The white creature
Is lying in the coffin;
How all in Nature
Seems bereaved to me!
The forgotten dove
Weeps and dreams of the one who is absent;
My soul cries and feels
That it has been abandoned.
How bitter is my fate,
Ah! without love, to go to sea!

Above me the immense night
Spreads itself like a shroud;
I sing my romanza
That heaven alone hears.

Ah! how beautiful she was,
And how I loved her!
I will never love
Another woman as much as I loved her;
How bitter is my fate!
ah! without love, to go to sea!
To go to sea!

Berlioz, Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°4. Absence.

Text: Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)

Absence/
Absence

Come back, come back, my dearest love!
Like a flower far from the sun,
The flower of my life has drooped,
removed from the charm of your smile.

Between our hearts how long a distance!
What a wide space our kisses divide!
O bitter fate! O cruel absence!
O longing vain, unsatisfied!

To that far land where dwells my love,
Alas! if I could only go!
If wings were tied to my body,
As to my soul, then I would fly!

Far away, above the green hill tops,
The lofty mountains with peaks of blue,
The meadows gay, the babbling rivers,
With quick, sure wing I'd take my flight!

The body can't keep up with thought!
With me the spirit goes ahead,
Just like a poor dove that is wounded
And lights on the roof of his cot.

Berlioz, Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°5. Au cimetière.

Text: Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)

Au cimetière/
At the cemetery

Do you know the white tomb
Where floats with plaintive sound,
The shadow of a yew?
On the yew a pale dove,
Sad and alone under the setting sun,
Sings its song:

An air sickly tender,
At the same time charming and ominous,
Which makes you feel agony
Yet which you wish to hear always;
An air like a sigh from the heavens
of a love-lorn angel.

One would say that an awakened soul
Is weeping under the earth in unison
With this song,
And from the misfortune of being forgotten,
Moans its sorrow in a cooing
Quite soft.

On the wings of the music
One feels the slow return
Of a memory.
A shadow, a form angelic,
Passes in a trembling ray of light,
In a white veil.

The beautiful flowers of the night, half-closed,
Send their perfume, faint and sweet,
Around you,
And the phantom of soft form
Murmurs, reaching to you her arms:
You will return!

Oh! never again near the tomb
Shall I go, when night lets fall
Its black mantle,
To hear the pale dove
Sing on the limb of the yew
Its plaintive song!

Berlioz, Les Nuits d'été. Janet Baker.n°6. L'ile inconnue

Text: Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)

L'ile inconnue/
The unknown isle

Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
The sail swells itself,
The breeze will blow.
The oar is made of ivory,
The flag is of silk,
The helm is of fine gold;
I have for ballast an orange,
For a sail, the wing of an angel,
For a deck boy, a seraph.

Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
The sail swells itself,
The breeze will blow.

Is it to the Baltic?
To the Pacific Ocean?
To the island of Java?
Or is it well to Norway,
To gather the flower of the snow,
Or the flower of Angsoka?
Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
Lead me, says the beauty,
To the faithful shore
Where one loves always!
This shore, my darling,
We hardly know at all
In the land of Love.