“Ständchen”
Der Mond steht über dem Berge,
So recht für verliebte Leut;
Im Garten rieselt ein Brunnen,
Sonst Stille weit und breit.
Neben der Mauer, im Schatten,
Da stehn der Studenten drei,
Mit Flöt’ und Geig’ und Zither,
Und singen und spielen dabei.
Die Klänge schleichen
der Schönsten,
Sacht in den Traum hinein,
Sie schaut den blonden Geliebten
Und lispelt: „Vergiß nicht mein!“
“Serenade”[1]
The moon stands over the mountain,
So right for people in love.
In the garden trickles a fountain;
Everything else is slient, far and wide.
Near the wall, in shadows,
there stand three students:
with flute and fiddle and zither,
they sing and play.
The sounds drift stealthily
to the loveliest girl,
gently entering her dreams.
She looks at her blond beloved
and whispers: “Forget me not!”
There were bright moments during my months at CIM. Every other week, Mr. Thomas Muraco, a New-York-based pianist/vocal coach,[2]would be on campus to work with students. My friends told me that he was very popular among singers in the city and performed frequently in major concert halls. Yet, he was down to earth, casual and friendly.
Before meeting him, I didn’t know that it was possible for anyone to make a living playing songs. I didn’t know what vocal coaching was about. What I knew was that I loved poetry and music. The possibility of working with both disciplines simultaneously excited me.
Having no knowledge and no experience in accompanying, I didn’t even know where to start finding out more about vocal accompanying and coaching. So, I quietly observed Mr. Muraco. Often, in between lessons or during his lunch breaks, he would play standard piano repertoire—to refresh his mind, I believed. I liked sitting in the hallway listening to his playing—fluent, free and always with beautiful sounds. Then, it would be time to knock on the door and start my lesson.
In Mrs. Babin’s studio, everything was formal. There was a dress code: skirts and formal shoes for girls; dress shirts and pants for guys. Lessons always started with scales up, down and in contrary motions. Mr. Muraco had no rules. (If he had, I must not have followed.) We never discussed my situation, but I was sure that he must have heard about it from other students.
He assigned me standard Lieder. I worked on them like piano pieces, trying, as much as I could, to play the right notes and right rhythm. One day we started with Brahms’ “Ständchen.” I hadn’t even gotten halfway through the introduction when Mr. Muraco shouted, “Were those three trombones?” I stopped and looked at him. He wasn’t angry. The expression on his face told me that I must have misunderstood something completely. He guided me through the piece with gentler touch and lighter sound. The lesson ended. I didn’t ask about the trombones. The question was strange enough that I never forgot about it.
Mr. Muraco was my hero during those months. Through him I saw the possibility of someday doing something that I felt passionate about. I was intimidated by his expertise but not frightened by him personally. I envied that he was always traveling. (Of course, I know now how challenging it is to be living out of suitcases.) Most importantly, for an hour each time, I felt relatively safe moving my fingers on the keyboard.
Eventually, I understood the custom of young men delivering their admirations at night with songs underneath the windows or balconies of beautiful girls.[3] I learned to study the text and to reflect its content in my playing. I appreciated how Brahms artfully blended the idiomatic features of flute, fiddles and zither in the piano part, especially the lighthearted introduction. No more trombone choir.
I heard that Mr. Muraco asked about me in the following semester and understood my reason for leaving. He continued traveling to Cleveland for several years. I sent a letter to him at Manhattan School of Music soon after moving to New York. Although we are both in the city now and have a few common acquaintances, I haven’t had the chance to see him and to thank him in person.
[1]
Johannes Brahms, “Ständchen:” Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Hertha Klust, piano.
[2]
http://www.stephensnicolson.com/artists/muraco.html
[3]
The common Chinese translation of “Ständchen” (or serenade) is 小夜曲, literally “little night tune,” similar to that of “nocturne,” 夜曲. I didn’t know the differences between the two.,