Vermilion

Quatre petite prières de saint François d’Assise, II. “Tout puissant”

Francis Poulenc

Tout puissant, très saint, très haut et souverain Dieu;
souverain bien, bien universel, bien total;
toi qui seul es bon;
puissions-nous te rendre toute louange,
toute gloire, toute reconnaissance,
tout honneur, toute bénédiction;
puissions-nous rapporter toujours à toi tous les biens.
Amen.

Translation

Almighty, most holy, most high and sovereign God;
sovereign good, universal good, total good;
you who alone are good,
may we offer you all praise,
all glory, all gratitude,
all honor, all blessing;
may we always bring to you everything that is good.
Amen.

Notre Dame Medley

Alan Menken, arr. Aaron Dale, trans. Dan Satter

Morning in Paris the city awakes
To the bells of Notre Dame.

The Fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes
To the bells of Notre Dame.

To the big bells as loud as the thunder.
To the little bells soft as a psalm.

And some say the soul of the
City’s the toll of the bells,
The bells of Notre Dame.

Listen, they are beautiful! But they don’t ring by themselves, no! High in the tower lives the bellringer. And why is he there? It’s a tale of a man… and a monster.

Judge Claude Frollo longed to purge
the world, of vice and sin.

Kyrie eleison.

But he felt fear for his soul and took in this young child, deformed from birth, calling him Quasimodo.

Dies irae.
Dies irae.

I must keep him locked away
Where no one else can see.
(No one will behold him.)
Even this foul creature
May it prove one day to be
Of use to me.

Now here is a riddle
To guess if you can,
Sing the bells of Notre Dame,
Tell me who is the monster
And who is the man?

Safe behind these windows
And these parapets of stone,
Gazing at the people
Down below me.
And all my life I watch them
As I hide up here alone,
I’m hungry for the histories
They show me.

And all my life I memorize their faces,
Just knowing them as they will never know me.
And all my life I wonder
How it feels to pass a day
Not above them, but part of them.

And out there
Living in the sun.
Give me one day
Out there.
All I ask is one
To hold forever.
Out there
Where they all live unaware
What I’d give,
What I’d dare,
Just to live one day out there.

Out there among the millers
And the weavers and their wives,
Through the roofs and gables
I can see them.
Every day they shout and scold
And go about their lives
Heedless of the gift it is
To be them.

If I were in their skin
I’d treasure every instant

Out there
Strolling by the Seine,
I will taste a morning
Out there
Like ordinary men
Who freely walk
About there.
Just one day and then
I swear I’ll be content
With my share,

Won’t resent, won’t despair
Old and bent, I won’t care.
I’ll have spent one day
Out there.

There and I will live to tell the tale
When I’ve found the day to bid farewell
Out there.

So that is the riddle
To guess if you can,
Sing the bells of Notre Dame.
What makes a monster
And what makes a man?

Sing the bells of Notre Dame.

You hear them and feel them
They’re ringing, calling now.
The bells of Notre Dame.

Helplessly Hoping

Crosby, Stills & Nash, arr. Home Free, trans. Rémi Maréchal, ed. Ian A. Cook

Helplessly hoping,
Her harlequin hovers nearby
Awaiting a word.
Gasping at glimpses
Of gentle true spirit,
He runs, wishing he could fly,
Only to trip at the sound of goodbye.

Wordlessly watching,
He waits by the window and wonders
At the empty place inside.
Heartlessly helping himself
to her bad dreams, he worries.
Did he hear a goodbye?
Or even hello?

They are one person.
They are two alone.
They are three together.
They are for each other.

Stand by the stairway,
You’ll see something certain to tell you
Confusion has its cost.
Love isn’t lying, it’s loose
In a lady who lingers,
Saying she is lost.
And choking on hello.

They are one person.
They are two alone.
They are three together.
They are for each other.

Tiger Mountain Peasant Song

Robin Pecknold, Fleet Foxes

Wanderers this morning came by.
Where did they go,
Graceful in the morning light?
To banner fair,
To follow you softly
In the cold mountain air.

Through the forest, down to your grave,
Where the birds wait,
And the tall grasses wave.
They do not
Know you anymore.
More, more, more.

Dear shadow alive and well,
How can the body die?
You tell me everything,
Anything, true.

In the town one morning, I went
Staggering through
Premonitions of my death.
I don’t see
Anybody that dear to me.

Dear shadow alive and well,
How can the body die?
You tell me everything,
Anything, true.

Jesse,
I don’t know what I have done,
I’m turning myself to a demon.
I don’t know what I have done,
I’m turning myself to a demon.

Quiet Place

Ralph Carmichael, arr. Walt Harrah

There is a quiet place,
Far from the rapid pace,
Where God can soothe
The troubled mind.

Sheltered by tree and flow’r,
There in my quiet hour,
With Him, my cares
Are left behind.

Whether a garden small,
Or on a mountain tall,
New strength and courage
There I find;

Then from this quiet place
I go, prepared to face
A new day, with love
for all mankind.

Underneath the Stars

Kate Rusby, arr. Jim Clements, ed. Ian A. Cook

Oh, go gently.

Underneath the stars I’ll meet you,
Underneath the stars I’ll greet you,
And there beneath the stars I’ll leave you
Before you go of your own free will.

Go gently.

Underneath the stars you met me,
Underneath the stars you left me;
I wonder if the stars regret me.
At least you’ll go of your own free will.

Go gently.

Here beneath the stars I’m landing,
And here beneath the stars not ending,
Oh, why on earth am I pretending?
I’m here again, the stars befriending,
They come and go of their own free will.

Go gently.

Underneath the stars you met me,
Underneath the stars you left me;
I wonder if the stars regret me,
I’m sure they’d like me if they only met me.
They come and go of their own free will.

Go gently.

Tskhenosnuri

Georgian traditional, arr. Clayton Parr, ed. Ian A. Cook

Adiloi, dilawo delavda aralo,
ivri aralo,

Oi, I am sitting on my horse,
On my black horse, up on the saddle,
ivri aralo,

Oi, I rode out from Ch’iatura,
I loved you and I thought you were mine,
ivri aralo,

Oi, but now you’re starting to annoy me
And we’ve arrived in Tbilisi,
ivri aralo,

Adiloi, dilawo delavda aralo,
ivri aralo.

~~ Brief Intermission ~~

Change on the Rise

Avi Kaplan, arr. Ian A. Cook

Without the light,
Oh, the darkness comes.
Hold through the night,
Mmm, the shadows will run.
Mmm, fend off the enemy,
Sing out the jubilee,
With all the fire we can breathe.

We’re singin’ all day, and you can’t tame it.
High tide, low tide, you know.
Night time, the mornin’ time, and
we’re goin’ strong.
Headed up, down the river.
Oh, Lord, I feel the revelin’,
I feel a change on the rise.

What good’s a man
Who’s lost his soul?
Can’t take a stand
Mmm, when his flame’s gone cold.
Mmm, fend off the enemy,
Sing out the jubilee,
With all the fire we can breathe.

I feel a change on the,
I feel a change on the rise.
I feel a change on the,
I feel a change on the rise.

Il bianco e dolce cigno

Jacques Arcadelt, ed. Edward Tambling

Il bianco e dolce cigno cantando more,
Ed io piangendo giung’ al fin del viver mio.
Stran’ e diversa sorte:
Ch’ei more sconsolato,
Ed io moro beato.
Morte che nel morire
M’empie di gioia tutto e di desire.
Se nel morir, altro dolor non sento,
Di mille mort’ il di sarei contento.

Translation

The white and sweet swan
Dies singing, and I,
Weeping, reach the end of my life.
Strange and different fate,
That he dies disconsolate
And I die a blessed death,
which in dying fills me
full of joy and desire.
If in dying, were I to feel no other pain,
I would be content to die a thousand deaths a day.

Hide and Seek

Imogen Heap, arr. Ian A. Cook

Where are we?
What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to form
Crop circles in the carpet.
Sinking, feeling.

Spin me around again
And rub my eyes.
This can’t be happening.
When busy streets
Amass with people would stop to hold
Their heads heavy.

Hide and seek.
Trains and sewing machines.
All those years.
They were here first.

Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover,
The sweeping insensitivity of this
Still life.

Hide and seek.
Trains and sewing machines.
(You won’t catch them around here.)
Blood and tears.
They were here first.

Hmm, what’d you say?
Hmm, that you only meant well?
Well of course you did.
Hmm, what’d you say?
Hmm, that it’s all for the best?
Of course it is.

Hmm, what’d you say?
Hmm, that it’s just what we need?
You decided this.
Hmm, what’d you say?
Hmm, what did she say?

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cutouts.
Speak no feeling, no, I don’t believe you.
You don’t care a bit, you don’t care a bit.

Oh, no, you don’t care a bit.
Oh, no, you don’t care a bit.
Oh, no, you don’t care a bit.
You don’t care a bit.
You don’t care a bit.

Sing for Myself

Jacob Hastings, arr. Taylor Quinn

Out of the fallen trees we sing.
Sing like we’re losing everything.
Lost and without a place to go.
Sing for myself, it’s all I know.

Born to a brand new century.
Sing for our sisters patiently.
Born to a day that’s just begun.
Sing for our mothers and our sons.

We sing for the voices never heard.
Sing for the lessons we’ve still not learned.
Sing for the peace we’ve never won.
Sing for the work that’s still not done.

And if on our darkest days we cry!
Sing till we put our fears aside.
And if I feel myself begin to fold.
Sing for myself, it’s all I know.
Sing for myself, it’s all I know.

The Luckiest

Ben Folds, arr. Ian A. Cook

I don’t get many things right the first time.
In fact, I am told that a lot.
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here.

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it every day.

And I know
That I am,
I am, I am
The luckiest.

What if I’d been born fifty years before you
In a house on the street where you lived?
Maybe I’d be outside as you passed on your bike.
Would I know?

And in a white sea of eyes,
I see one pair that I recognize.

And I know
That I am,
I am, I am
The luckiest.

I love you more than I have
ever found a way to say to you.

Next door there’s an old man who lived to his 90s
And one day passed away in his sleep.
And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away.

I’m sorry, I know that’s a
Strange way to tell you that I know we belong.

That I know
That I am,
I am, I am
The luckiest.

Crabbuckit

k-os, as sung by Good Lovelies, arr. Melody Hine, ed. Ian A. Cook

Took a trip on a bus that I didn’t know,
Met a girl sellin’ drinks at the disco,
Said truth comes back when you let it go,
Seems complicated ’cause it’s really so simple.

Walkin’ down Yonge Street on a Friday,
Can’t follow them, gotta do it my way.
No fast lane, still on the highway,
Movin’ in and out, no doubt there’s a brighter day.

No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
Ah, check out the crabs in the bucket.

It’s like flies on the windscreen, writing on walls,
Square these clones claim they’re havin’ a ball,
Foolin’ themselves just before last call,
Tick-a-tick-a-tock, tick-a-tick-a-tock.

Clock strikes twelve, clock strikes one,
Smokin’ gun put these fools on the run.
I know it’s not that simple,
I know it’s not that hard.

No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
Ah, check out the crabs in the bucket.

It’s a conniption fit when the microphone’s lit,
I take it higher like a bird on a wire, retire the fire,
I never ’cause I’m just moving on up,
Choosin’ to touch the unseen craving the clutch.

Damn, if mirrors were created by sand,
Then I’m looking in the water for reflections of man.
Understand the minds above time when it’s empty,
Emcee Tragic’ly Hip, ahead by a Century.

No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
Ah, check out the crabs in the bucket.

No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
No time to get down ’cause I’m moving up,
Ah.