FRANK STEMPER, COMPOSER

Symphony Alesia (1992)
Full Orchestra  [15 mins.]

Commissioned by the Musikschule Dornbirn, Austria, 
Premiered in 5-6 September 1993 by the Jungendsinfonieorchester Dornbirn, 
Guntram Simma, Music Director, Kulturhaus Dornbirn, in Austria.
A.S.C.A.P. work I.D. 49685323
The music of Symphony Alesia, is schitzophasia contrasted with a more romantic/pleading cantabile texture.  After the introduction, which is just a quick, single pitch’s crescendo, the overall impression’s narrative is very disjunct, yet somehow builds to an emotional climax.  Part 2 follows and is quite different.  It is pleasant, cohesive – even repetitive, and rather pretty.   It states its case, which is really a continuation of the pleading theme – just presented in a different way.  But of course, it doesn’t last.  Life creeps into the more pleasant music, and the return of the disjunct outbursts lead us back to the opening crescendo, followed by cadenza for the string section, the pleading cantabile, and more and more schitzophasia.  After a final solo in the percussion, the beginning returns as the end.
 
This piece was written for a children’s orchestra, the Jungendsinfonieorchester Dornbirn, lead by its briliiant conductor/teacher, Guntram Simma.  The orchestra is made up of Austrian kids from as young as 6 years old up to about 20.  For the premiere performances, I was invited to travel to Austria to help with the preparation.  It wasn’t needed, because Maestro Simma was so perfect with his kids.  And the kids in his orchestra loved Guntram – and each other. They all had a lot of fun at the rehearsals. It was perfect music-making.  
 
But my music is very difficult to perform.  I should have realized that much of Symphony Alesia could never have been performed by the younger kids in the orchestra.  And, much to my disappointment, for the premiere performances, after performing Beethoven, indeed, the smallest kids in the orchestra left the stage.  I felt I had failed.  Why can’t modern music be simpler?  But as I remember it, the little kids WERE in their chairs, playing along, for the rehearsals.  Maestro Simma made a point of telling me that he kept them there so they would learn from my difficult, “current” music.  And, indeed, 30 years later, when Guntram’s  adult professional orchestra, the Collegium Instrumentale Dornbirn, premiered my 4th Symphony, many of the adults were the kids from Symphony Alesia’s premiere.  
 
In a couple of epilogues, my wife traveled with me to Austria for both premieres.  For the first premiere in 1993, we became great friends with Guntram and Christina, who would later become his wife.  And the commission of my Symphony No. 4 (Protest) came about as an excuse for us to get together again – 30 years later.  The four of us picked up where we left off.  We are now planning more – now that all of us have the time to do so.
After Symphony Alesia’s premiere, there was a banquet for the entire orchestra.  My wife and I sat at the head table with Guntram and Christina.  Guntram offered me a good, strong Austrian beer.  I was happy, and accepted.  The fun went on – the kids were eating and singing and doing their victory cheer over and over.  When I was half way through my third beer, Guntram whispered to me, “You must get up and speak to the room, Frank.”  I was like a deer in the headlights, but quite a tipsy deer!  I stood up, there was applause, the room quieted.  Then just like a cosmopolitan guy, I spoke, extemporaneously for 5 or 6 minutes — IN GERMAN.  How about that!

Seamaster
(Waves Reflecting Two Ways)
by Kevin Lynch
 
Harbor secrets dampness can’t hide
When the past come sailing by
It trickles up the down crevice. 
You hear it you twisted it
You slide and the wave  
Can’t show you where you started
On the Green moss, the blue reflection.
 
Whole nose and up the gruff 
twist of flux. 
I can see the fat beckon 
beyond my encrusted eyelids, 
depressing my daily bed. 
What’s the who that jumps my fool 
Without a mind. 
“I can’t go swimming,”
The waters nailed shut, 
my ayes can't sea my harm’s in the way. 
My strands moon’s night 
but not the rising sun.
 
Flush, rush the sprint can blow 
the bush under fried maples. 
The ball blonde got earth 
Cracked, a thousand needles. 
You lift don’t cry me down.
 
Are the goals waiting 
linger than the west? 
Look back to the shore where 
I don’t know to fly off 
my hands best paint can 
under Lunt’s idea.
The purple’s on the red malice. 
The reds in the drain sink. 
Trickle down the magic disease 
now don’t look back to the shore; 
he’s dead as the wailing sirens.
 
 
Reach back across the sky of fallen waves, 
past great gray whales 
basking far above the gulls, 
to a distant quasar 
which lit our path westward 
through gleaming backbone of the sky 
and hills with holes and eyes, 
till mine awake to desert gold.   
Bay and bluff portend to 
shoulder crested with scrambling granite 
beneath foot: gaping wind curtain 
and lost green mirror far below. 
Teewinot sneezes and shutters, 
We cling like fleas to her glistening skin. 
Wait, collar, dream 
of flying Fords and lives to live. 
Escape down clouds not waterfelled.
 
Imagine a trois new generation splits, 
Fay play beige joy. 
(La dada deed a yada bad a dee)
Are the goals waiting linger then the west,
To saying and cry, 
circle vulture to feed on your riding past 
or your unborn destiny? 
Prometheus laughs even 
at many grander notions. 
You swallow spiteful jokes 
like steaming skins of swine.
What is Art but 
a tear in the laugh art. 
A blanched voice said yes 
as Jack said well to spring 
as the empire said nay to Kong 
we know it wasn’t the airplanes.
 
Swayed then buy a skyscraper and a prairie, 
A jester and mauve silhouettes
 and a monk don’t ask him now. 
Forget your turf and soul 
wordless hail of flats and G’s 
sown in sprung 
blue and blown. 
Each moment truth’s confession.
Moments empty, moments full 
as of life surprised, comprised. 
 
Flout the spleen and slip 
the sphincter glow, 
fit of muckrake in a whole nose 
and up the gruff twixt of flux.
Call the less pass the peak 
till odd words don’t meld 
old deeds nor harm 
and an eye’s Iris rolls. 
Sputtering impatience ushers past 
you sitting groping for the note 
that folds inside the hearts interface. 
Hoary Sam won’t larf the plunk 
he hunkers the happy fool’s debunk.
 
Bulb and tease me tastebud 
salty lick off foamy pup 
Swoop a sloop and dolphin 
strut ‘n’ wheel, blink of lush 
pool whirl to wash. 
White-breasteds inside you 
cry, fly, fall 
back to shore long recall.
 
Swept north by rust and fins be fine 
the tottering tip of greener Prickley’s. 
Down shadow muddle in your gut 
Mine’s hung o’er gravitie’s kiss. 
This echoed on a river
gulls never knew. 
Cajoles, wet bones, and kills. 
Broadside delusions more real 
than dream cum rue. 
Drews shot! I’m scared. 
This is the beginning 
of a beautiful child 
of the stars bequeathed 
far over rainbows.  
 
Reach across the time that falls
Between the cracks in memory.
As you wait, search, you love to want.
Hold to staff and pen
Stare into the ageless creases
Lean, caress the whispering coffin.
Lift arc the back that breeds
Trace the softest line,
Lay in breath-wept meadows.
 
Find the coast I atop 
island distant would ravine. 
Speak not to prattlers but to 
one the shore laid to wait.
I float on empty wings 
you land unfertile resource 
a soul sustains spirit bereft. 
Meet at Mount fragment seen a new, 
feel the weight of vision’s tether,
The quivering still of wet gardens,
the keening horror of Viscayan villiage.
Reach across the soaring spectre of hopeless love,
“on no…” guffaws the horse that heals heads.
 
Of nascent creature in warm tow. 
To distant shores look back
the years of waves to bow, 
tensile hands curl round rail, 
Mind arcs two question’s gently prodding 
like shafts of whiteness stream 
from wispy leviathans above. 
What notion of master flickers 
in vague reflector below, once a horizon
of life’s baffling matrix. 
They what they say trappings of truth. 
What dwells ‘neath waves 
within see mothers breast. 
Secrets masters harbor in folds
discovered when this cloak his shed 
for rays drunk in by oldest skin’s 
tendered vigil. 
Look, the high wills have flown. 

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