Rising – Hill, Passenger Pigeon
Edie Hill – "Passenger Pigeon"
from Spectral Spirits
Sunrise, Monday May 25
Memorial Day in the U.S.A.
The birds are up and their pre-dawn songs tell us they are unaware it's a day off.
Our grackles have settled into their new home.
they are aware of no one but each other
One of the amazing things about commissioning works is the experience of the premiere. We’re like a beginning skier tackling the big mountain for the first time. Whatever we think it's going to be, it's not that.
We've learned a lot about first performances over the years. Lots of lessons: Always run the entire piece without interruption prior to performance. Always rehearse who is giving pitches (and how, and in what octave). Never assume that what happened in recording sessions will apply to live performance. Know your seams...seams are fragile. It's like flying airplanes; take-off and landing are the tricky moments.
The fun part of tackling The Big Mountain That Is A World Premiere is feeling the wobbliness evaporate, as everyone settles into the piece and relaxes into the same resolve: We know this. We love this. We’re loving singing together. Right now.
We can hear this in today’s Rising w/: our first performance of "Passenger Pigeon," from Edie Hill's Spectral Spirits. The movement begins with a few stops and starts before it takes flight; they’re fun, but tricky. When it takes off, Edie taps the stunning depth of her awe for flying creatures in music of intense motion and speed. She grabs hold of the notes and commands them to capture – to be – the energy and spectacle of millions of birds covering the sky.
they say they were more numerous than all other species combined
The pastoral nature of the first measures is left behind, as pigeons seem to emerge into the scene: alive, aloft, animate. At that moment we find our footing. (It’s so fun to listen to that.)
for three days in succession
We leave behind whatever was holding us back and, by the power of communal singing, we unleash an explosive energy, born of trust and respect for each other – for the gift each individual brings to the whole:
like a hard gale at sea
Laid raw. Vulnerable yet unafraid. A controlled scream from the marvelous, motley mix that is The Crossing.
And that makes the sudden disappearance of this magnificence all the starker in the barren soundscape that follows.
Now, of those hundreds of millions that once darkened
the skies, we are left with Martha, who never lived in the wild,
stuffed in the Smithsonian, Prussian-blue feathers stiff,
glass eyes staring, waiting, still, for her mate.
A memorial to lost birds for Memorial Day.
A celebration of our community.
Through words of Holly Hughes and music of Edie Hill.
On a day we pause to notice the power of neighborhoods, families, and friends.
Of numbers.
Of birds.
We will notice.
Singing.
Wait for it.
This one is worth it.
- The Whole Team @ The Crossing
Spectral Spirits
Passenger Pigeon
music by Edie Hill
words by Holly J.Hughes
recorded live in concert at The Crossing @ Christmas,
December 21, 2019 at the Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill
The Jeffrey Dinsmore Memorial Concert
audio by Paul Vazquez of Digital Mission Audio Services
video art "Sky with the Sound of a Warming Climate" by Christopher St. John (2019, mixed media on paper)
* * *
See how she bends to him, her beak held within his
while she waits for his food to rise up to her hunger.
He rests on the arcing branch, his neck a perfect answer to hers,
wings held aloft and slightly splayed while long tail feathers stream
away, Prussian blue going to dusk, breast russet, branch below
studded with viridian lichen to match his coat, colors chosen
by Audubon as he painted them in courtship in situ.
See how her colors foreshadow the fall—dun, mustard, black—
how her tail balances his wings painted in parallel planes,
how the drooping oak leaf holds them in place, stasis
in which they are aware of no one but each other.
Audubon captured then in gouache, graphite, and pastels,
not knowing they would soon be gone; in his time
they were more numerous than all other species combined.
They say the pigeons flew over the banks of the Ohio River
for three days in succession, sounding like a hard gale at sea.
Years later, guns spattered shot into skies stormy with pigeons.
Thousands plummeted, filling railroad cars bound for fine restaurants.
Now, of those hundreds of millions that once darkened
the skies, we are left with Martha, who never lived in the wild,
stuffed in the Smithsonian, Prussian-blue feathers stiff,
glass eyes staring, waiting, still, for her mate.