FRANK STEMPER, COMPOSER
1963 (2009)
for soprano, flute/picc., clarinet/bs.cl., violin, ‘cello
piano and percussion [12 mins.]
poetry by Frank Stemper, Jr.
First Performance by Diane Coloton, soprano and the Altgeld Chamber Players during Outside the Box, new music festival, Carbondale, Illinois; Also performed by Lucy Shelton, soprano, in St. Louis’s ”60th Birthday Concert”
Opus 66 — A.S.C.A.P. work I.D. 451866894
SCORE
Opus 66 — A.S.C.A.P. work I.D. 451866894
SCORE
NOTES
My father died in 1998, of lung cancer from the millions of cigarettes that he smoked in his lifetime. He was, of course, a physician, actually a psychiatrist – and a good one. Like many World War II veterans, he was a very politically conservative young professional during the 1950s and 60s. As he got older, however, he not only became very politically liberal, but he also became quite eccentric: He made tapioca pudding every day for a couple of years, took albums full of photos of his dogs and of his wife laughing, he drove his 1960 Cadillac until it fell apart in 1982, etc. When his seven children started producing grandchildren in the late seventies, he refused to be called grandpa. At his request, all his grandchildren (24 or so in all) called him “Uncle Clarence.”
One of his grandchildren, my son, wrote the poem, which I set for an ensemble combination that is known as Pierrot plus percussion. Although it describes an event that has become almost
In the late afternoon of November 22, 1963 he emerged from his psychiatric hospital office and headed toward the nurses station to pick up the evening newspaper. He had been seeing patients all day barely stopping for a quick lunch. He was undoubtedly thinking about what his wife might have created for dinner, and was contemplated the martini he would fixAs he approached the “ladies in white uniforms,” but before picking up a copy of the Milwaukee Journal, he said, with mock seriousness, what he had been saying every afternoon since Kennedy became president: “Did they shoot that bastard yet?”
My father died in 1998, of lung cancer from the millions of cigarettes that he smoked in his lifetime. He was, of course, a physician, actually a psychiatrist – and a good one. Like many World War II veterans, he was a very politically conservative young professional during the 1950s and 60s. As he got older, however, he not only became very politically liberal, but he also became quite eccentric: He made tapioca pudding every day for a couple of years, took albums full of photos of his dogs and of his wife laughing, he drove his 1960 Cadillac until it fell apart in 1982, etc. When his seven children started producing grandchildren in the late seventies, he refused to be called grandpa. At his request, all his grandchildren (24 or so in all) called him “Uncle Clarence.”
One of his grandchildren, my son, wrote the poem, which I set for an ensemble combination that is known as Pierrot plus percussion. Although it describes an event that has become almost
In the late afternoon of November 22, 1963 he emerged from his psychiatric hospital office and headed toward the nurses station to pick up the evening newspaper. He had been seeing patients all day barely stopping for a quick lunch. He was undoubtedly thinking about what his wife might have created for dinner, and was contemplated the martini he would fixAs he approached the “ladies in white uniforms,” but before picking up a copy of the Milwaukee Journal, he said, with mock seriousness, what he had been saying every afternoon since Kennedy became president: “Did they shoot that bastard yet?”
Clarence
by Frank Stemper, Jr.
Rock salt under worn
wing tips. The old man hums
a tune he doesn’t know. Dirty snow
covered walkway on a bone chilling day.
There is a crumbling red
brick building. Inside the nurses
are weeping over bright
countertops and dim headlines.
The doctor, wearing a slender
Smile, is almost in. He is aware
of his worn down face. His skin drooping
through heavy clouds of cigarette smoke.
And the ladies in white uniforms
Stifle their tears as he speaks:
No crying for old hole in the head.
Not on my watch.
Tears linger on dry pink cheeks
before staining the newspaper.
Ink runs toward the sunlight
through the words of the dead.
Dirty snow covered walkway
on a bone chilling day. Rock salt
under worn wing tips. The old man
hums a tune he doesn’t know.
by Frank Stemper, Jr.
Rock salt under worn
wing tips. The old man hums
a tune he doesn’t know. Dirty snow
covered walkway on a bone chilling day.
There is a crumbling red
brick building. Inside the nurses
are weeping over bright
countertops and dim headlines.
The doctor, wearing a slender
Smile, is almost in. He is aware
of his worn down face. His skin drooping
through heavy clouds of cigarette smoke.
And the ladies in white uniforms
Stifle their tears as he speaks:
No crying for old hole in the head.
Not on my watch.
Tears linger on dry pink cheeks
before staining the newspaper.
Ink runs toward the sunlight
through the words of the dead.
Dirty snow covered walkway
on a bone chilling day. Rock salt
under worn wing tips. The old man
hums a tune he doesn’t know.
PRESS NOTICE
The New Music Circle All-Stemper- 60th Brithday Concert
Lucy Shelton and the Altgeld Chamber Players
Kranzberg Center for the Arts, 7 April 2012, St. Louis
"The Stemper retrospective was one of the finest concerts of contemporary music I’d heard in quite some time. Stemper’s music has matured over the years without losing its mischievousness, with many of its strongest qualities intact and in bold, sharp relief."
--Kevin Lynch, CULTURE CURRENTS, MAY 2012
The New Music Circle All-Stemper- 60th Brithday Concert
Lucy Shelton and the Altgeld Chamber Players
Kranzberg Center for the Arts, 7 April 2012, St. Louis
"The Stemper retrospective was one of the finest concerts of contemporary music I’d heard in quite some time. Stemper’s music has matured over the years without losing its mischievousness, with many of its strongest qualities intact and in bold, sharp relief."
--Kevin Lynch, CULTURE CURRENTS, MAY 2012