Imagine a beautiful village at the Empordà (not far away from Vilabertran) at that time when the benefits of bathing in sea were beginning to be appreciated. Imagine that that village, which has a very active harbour, also has an efficient railway connection to Girona. Finally, imagine that this village has an important industry that favours relations with Europe. All this speaks of a prosperous village, full of people that come and go, whether they are tourists or dealers on a bussiness trip. A village full of life.
This may have been Sant Feliu de Guíxols, where Juli Garreta was born; it was a village by the sea with an significant cork industry. He grew up surrounded by music because his father was responsible for the music in church, played sardanas (a traditional Catalan music) every Sunday and conducted the ball orchestra at the annual festival. The son followed the path of the father, and he became the most celebrated composer of sardanas of his time; even Igor Stravinsky found his sardanas amazing when he heard first in Barcelona.
Juli Garreta also wrote some songs (of course, I wouldn't be talking about hi otherwise), around thirty, that tenor Roger Padullés and pianist Francisco Poyato compiled and recorded a couple of years ago. This week we will listen to one of them, Records i somnis [Memories and dreams]. I'm afraid this time I can't offer you a translation; I wasn't able to find it and I don't dare to translate the fine poem by one of the greatest Catalan poets, Jacint Verdaguer. At least, I can tell you that the verses talk about the passing of time.
Padullés and Poyato will perform this song at their concert at the Schubertíada; this one and that of Julia Kleiter and Julius Drake are the last song recitals, and you will find the usual revision at the end of this article.
This is the last post of the summer series devoted to the Schubertíada. Next week we should be beginning a new season; which one would be our first song? Who knows…
Cada gota de rosada
té son arc de Sant Martí,
cada ocell sa refilada,
cada palau son jardí.
Té sa llum cada capella,
cada bosc sa fontanella,
el dia clou sa parpella,
més tingué son dematí.
De l’albada de la vida
també he vist l’abril i el maig
abocar-me llur florida,
sobre el front a raig, a raig.
Quan recordo la bellesa,
sol hermós de la infantesa
a l’ocàs de la vellesa,
que depressa i trist me’n vaig.
Frescos anys de la ignorància
com fugiu sens dir-me adéu
amb l’albor de l’existència,
primavera del cor meu.
Oh dolcíssimes onades
d’aquell Edèn davallades
per mon prat ja sou passades,
i mai més hi tornareu!
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