Selections from The Hollywood Songbook (1943) * Hanns Eisler

Описание: Apollo Music Festival https://apollomusicfestival.com
Cross of Christ Lutheran Church • Houston, Minnesota

Selections from The Hollywood Liederbuch (1942/1943)
Hanns Eisler (1898-1962)

Der Sohn I 00:40
An den kleinen Radioapparat 02:48
Frühling 04:18
Der Kirschdieb 04:54
Hotelzimmer 1942 07:28
Panzerschlacht 09:46
In der Frühe 10:41
Vom Sprengen des Gartens 12:51
Die Heimat 14:07
An eine Stadt 15:47
Erinnerung 20:14

Artists
Alan Dunbar, voice https://alan-dunbar.com/
Garret Ross, piano https://www.garretross.com/

TRANSLATIONS (by Alan Dunbar)

Der Sohn I (The Son I)
(Bertolt Brecht)
When at night she lay thinking of her son on the fierce sea, she could not fall asleep, her heart, it thumped so loudly.
When her son came to visit, she stood at night in front of the cottage, with a pail full of water splashing it against the wall, behind which her son lay, so that he would fall asleep, so that he thought he was still at sea.

An den kleinen Radioapparat (To a little radio)
(Bertolt Brecht)
You little box that I carried as I fled, so that your works would not be broken, taken from house to ship, from ship to train, so that my enemies might continue to speak to me.
Next to my bed and to my pain,
the last thing at night, the first in the morning, hearing of their victories and of my troubles, promise me, you won't go silent again.

Frühling (Springtime)
(Bertolt Brecht)
Fish-stocked water, beautiful-treed forests, the smell of birches and berries.
Melodious winds stir the air so gently, so that the iron churns that roll from the white farmhouses might open.
Blurred by smell and sound and sight and sense, the refugee sits beneath the alders
and once more takes up his laborious task of hoping

Die Kirschdieb (The cherry thief)
(Bertolt Brecht)
Early one morning, long before first light,
I was awakened by some whistling and went to the window.
Up in my cherry tree - twilight filled the garden--sat a young man with patched trousers gleefully picking my cherries.
Seeing me, he nodded to me; with both hands he put the cherries from the branches into his pockets.
For a long time afterwards, as I was lying back in my bed,I heard him whistling his jolly little tune.

Hotelzimmer 1942 (Hotel room 1942)
(Bertolt Brecht)
Against the whitewashed wall
stands the black suitcase with the manuscripts, on it sits the smoking case with the copper ashtray, the Chinese canvas, portraying the Doubter, hangs over it.
And the masks are also there, and next to the bed is the small six-tube radio. In the morning I turn the dial and listen to the victory broadcasts of my enemies.

Panzerschlacht (Tank battle)
(Bertolt Brecht)
You dyer's son from Lech, who played marbles
with me in years past, where are you in the dust clouds from the tanks, that now drive down to Flanders?
That bomb of flesh, that fell above Calais, was that you, o weaver's son? O baker's son from my childhood, did you provoke the bloody screams in Champagne?

In der Frühe (In the early morning)
(Anacreon/Eduard Mörike)
From the thin cake for breakfast, I broke off a little piece, and drank a jug of wine with it.
And now I reach for my gentle lute.
My poor homeland, when will I see you again?
My poor homeland

Vom Sprengen des Gartens (Watering the garden)
(Bertolt Brecht)
Oh, sprinkle the garden, to freshen the green.
Watering the thirsty trees, give more than enough.
And do not forget the shrubs, nor the ones without fruit.
And do not overlook the weeds in between the flowers, for they also thirst. Do not water only the fresh grass, or just the scorched patches, but also refresh the naked earth.

Die Heimat (The homeland)
(Friedrich Hölderlin, adapted by Hanns Eisler)
The sailor happily returns home to the bright streams from distant islands, where he has worked
1, too, would like to return to my homeland Ah, how I have reaped misery.
You lovely shores, that raised me, ah, when I return, give to me, you forests of my childhood, peace once more.

An eine Stadt (To a City)
(Friedrich Hölderlin, adapted by Hanns Eisler)
Long have I loved you, have wanted to call you mother, and give you a simple song; you, the fatherland's city, most beautifully situated of the many I have seen.
Like a bird from the forest flying above the hills, vaulted over the stream as it rolls by glistening,
the bridge, elegant and strong, rumbles with the sounds of carts and men.
As I crossed it, the magic grabbed me, and deep in the mountains I could see far into the lovely surroundings.
You gave the fugitive cool shade, and your banks saw him as he passed, and from the waves echoed a beautiful scene.
Bushes bloomed up to the edges of the valley where on the hills, or by your banks, your cheerful lanes rest under fragrant gardens.

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