"The paradise of storms subsides. Savages ceaselessly dance the nocturnal feast. And, once, I descended into the stir of a Baghdad street, where crowds sang the joy of fresh labours, in the dull breeze, circling without power to elude the fabulous phantoms of the hills where they must have gathered. What kind arms, what sweet hour will recover that region from which my slumbers and slightest movements come?" (end of movement)
On the slopes, harvests of flowers, vast as our swords and cups, bellow. Processions of Mabs in russet, opaline robes ascend the ravines. Their feet in the waterfalls and briars, the deer up there suckle at Diana’s breast. The suburban Bacchantes sob, and the moon burns and howls. Venus enters caves of smiths and hermits. Clusters of bell-towers sing the ideas of peoples. From castles built of bone an unknown music issues. All the legends evolve and elks move through the towns.
"On platforms in the midst of the gulfs, Rolands trumpet their valour. On bridges across the abyss, and the roofs of inns, the sky’s heat covers the masts with flags. Crumbling apotheoses overtake the high meadows where seraphic centauresses step among avalanches. Above the line of highest crests, a sea troubled by Venus’ eternal birth, charged with orphic fleets and the murmur of precious pearls and conches – that sea darkens at times with mortal lightning." (continued)
"Cities indeed! This is a people for whom those Alleghanies and Lebanons of dream were staged! Chalets of crystal and wood that move on invisible rails and pulleys. Old craters circled by colossi, and palm-trees of copper roaring melodiously in flames. Feasts of love resound, on canals that hang there behind the chalets. The hunt of chimes cries in the gorges. Guilds of gigantic singers flock among robes and oriflammes dazzling as the light on the summits."(continued)
Apparently it's in French... I don't understand a word either, but his voice is beautiful. Exactly that lyrical-but-strong, and still "fragile" sound. A good Brittenian tenor makes me want to protect him, no matter how proud the character is.
My, I really hope he will sing Vere on stage (he did in concert) and those dudes MAKE a dvd.
"The paradise of storms subsides. Savages ceaselessly dance the nocturnal feast. And, once, I descended into the stir of a Baghdad street, where crowds sang the joy of fresh labours, in the dull breeze, circling without power to elude the fabulous phantoms of the hills where they must have gathered. What kind arms, what sweet hour will recover that region from which my slumbers and slightest movements come?" (end of movement)
Varese13 6 months ago in playlist Ian Bostridge
On the slopes, harvests of flowers, vast as our swords and cups, bellow. Processions of Mabs in russet, opaline robes ascend the ravines. Their feet in the waterfalls and briars, the deer up there suckle at Diana’s breast. The suburban Bacchantes sob, and the moon burns and howls. Venus enters caves of smiths and hermits. Clusters of bell-towers sing the ideas of peoples. From castles built of bone an unknown music issues. All the legends evolve and elks move through the towns.
Varese13 6 months ago in playlist Ian Bostridge
"On platforms in the midst of the gulfs, Rolands trumpet their valour. On bridges across the abyss, and the roofs of inns, the sky’s heat covers the masts with flags. Crumbling apotheoses overtake the high meadows where seraphic centauresses step among avalanches. Above the line of highest crests, a sea troubled by Venus’ eternal birth, charged with orphic fleets and the murmur of precious pearls and conches – that sea darkens at times with mortal lightning." (continued)
Varese13 6 months ago in playlist Ian Bostridge
"Cities indeed! This is a people for whom those Alleghanies and Lebanons of dream were staged! Chalets of crystal and wood that move on invisible rails and pulleys. Old craters circled by colossi, and palm-trees of copper roaring melodiously in flames. Feasts of love resound, on canals that hang there behind the chalets. The hunt of chimes cries in the gorges. Guilds of gigantic singers flock among robes and oriflammes dazzling as the light on the summits."(continued)
Varese13 6 months ago in playlist Ian Bostridge
grandioso
haruwebshots 2 years ago
It's French indeed ! Rimbaud ! Britten, Bostridge, Rimbaud. Hum, what's exactly love ? :)
Meoskay 2 years ago
love it, thanks!
muekam 2 years ago
Uh...huh? I love Britten, but I don't get this!
blondoperasngr 2 years ago
Apparently it's in French... I don't understand a word either, but his voice is beautiful. Exactly that lyrical-but-strong, and still "fragile" sound. A good Brittenian tenor makes me want to protect him, no matter how proud the character is.
My, I really hope he will sing Vere on stage (he did in concert) and those dudes MAKE a dvd.
Sieglinde84 2 years ago