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1.
Prelude 01:52
2.
(A police station. A woodcutter delivers his testimony.) THE WOODCUTTER I found the body in the grove, where I go every day to cut wood. On the mountain, not far off the Foundry Post Road. Through the fog, I saw a flash of blue. I made my way past splintered saplings, over trampled ground— Until I came upon a body lying in a bed of broken fireweed, leaves stained red, chest, struck through. The blood had dried, trapping a single fly, straining to be free. There was no blade, no sign of a horse. I found only a rope coiled in the roots of a hemlock— and a brooch.
3.
(The interrogation room. A priest delivers his testimony.) THE PRIEST On the Foundry Post Road I passed a man leading a woman on a horse. He tipped his hat. I assumed she was his wife. The sun was high. The brim of her cloche shadowed her face. I remember— The violet of her clothes. But more than this I do not— How tall was she? What color was her hair? I don’t recall. I am but a priest. It is not my way to notice the details of a lady— I remember— Her figure, a violet satin sheen, the mare’s mane cut short, the rich, deep chestnut of its coat. The settler’s gun— a rifle. The fine leather detail of its scabbard. I never thought— That today he would be— Life is fleeting. My deepest—
4.
(THE POLICEMAN and an older woman, THE MOTHER, each in a separate space, deliver their testimonies.) THE POLICEMAN I caught the bandit on the Ragged Creek Bridge last night at dusk. Luther Harlow. Hobbled by a fall from his horse. The vigilante’s evaded me countless times, but I put an end to that last night. THE MOTHER I have gazed upon the corpse and I can tell you that’s him. Dead, he’s dead— Her husband is dead— And my daughter, Leona— She’s gone, disappeared, vanished. Please— You must tell me— Where is she? What has happened to her? THE POLICEMAN I arrested the suspect as the mountainside smoked and the mare looked on, grazing by the side of the road. Luther Harlow, wearing green, armed with this: (He offers up a rifle in a tooled leather scabbard.) Leather, finely tooled. The mare? Her mane was cropped. THE MOTHER The dead man? He has a name. Ambrose Raines. School teacher. They were on their way from his people to hers, newly wed. They had known each other just a couple of months. To my eye, he looked a little . . . sickly. Dreamy, she used to say. I wasn’t at all sure, but she seemed so— Taken. THE POLICEMAN If the victim owned an Enfield then Harlow’s your man. He’s feared around here, reviled. THE MOTHER Describe my child? Nineteen. Bright. Headstrong Obsessed with the names of plants, trees, stones. She wants to study botany, evergreens, heartwood. But knowing that won’t help you find her. THE POLICEMAN Some say Harlow’s to blame for the string of women gone missing on the mountain. THE MOTHER Her eyes? They change color depending on the day. They change color depending on the light. Her skin is clear. A mark. Here. But you must tell me. Where is she? What has happened to her? THE POLICEMAN What color was the mare, did you say? Chestnut.
5.
Interlude 01:48
6.
7.
Interlude 02:00
8.
(A mountainside chapel or convent.) LEONA I have come to this place— I have come to this place seeking refuge. From what happened on the mountain. From the truth. I want nothing more than to cover it up, block it out. But you would have me remember, recount. (LEONA’s memory of her journey with AMBROSE. In the distance a man appears.) Crossing Burnt Rock Pass a man appears— threadbare clothes, coiled rope. Ambrose, always buried in his books, doesn’t seem to see the stranger’s ragged grin, his rusted eyes cutting straight through me. THE OUTLAW “Greetings. Just past the entrance to the mine stands a grove of hemlocks— buried there lies a cache of treasure, left behind by some settler on the run.” LEONA And that’s all it takes. My husband is entranced. THE OUTLAW “Moonstones, opals, silver filigree.” AMBROSE “Opals, like your eyes.” LUTHER He says. LEONA “Ambrose— It’ll be dark soon. ” AMBROSE “I’ll be quick, I promise—” LUTHER He replies, with that look of his, so I can’t help but give in, give over— when the stranger’s sneer stops me cold. “We don’t want anything to do with him,” I whisper. But Ambrose keeps on: AMBROSE “A windfall we could use—” LEONA “But why—?” AMBROSE “So I can keep you in finery—” LEONA “I don’t need to be kept.” AMBROSE “So I can provide— Protect against—” LEONA “Protect? Ambrose. Stay with me. Please.” But my husband, suddenly a stranger himself, turns and goes— (AMBROSE follows the man into the grove, leaving LEONA by herself, waiting.) —disappears into the shadows. He follows the drifter into the grove. (Alone, LEONA sings a ditty to keep fear at bay.) Smoke, ash, smoldering ghosts— AMBROSE “No! Please, I—” LEONA —of looming trees, once stands of aspen, juniper. (We see THE OUTLAW making his way towards her.) The man, emerging from the grove, alone strides towards me. Ugly, rough, he comes too close. THE OUTLAW “Hurry, come! Your husband, he’s—” I follow, keeping my distance, calling on the cedar relics for protection. (Upon entering the grove, LEONA sees her husband bound and gagged.) “Ambrose!” (LEONA moves towards AMBROSE.) The stranger cuts me off, throws me, holds me down. His stench— sweat, tobacco, metal, flint— does not smother me, I do not cry out. I do not feel the hot damp of his breath blasting in my face. I hear nothing but the sound of my own name. Leona. Leona. Leona. I twist out from under him, hide behind a tree. (A shift. The tension of quiet. LEONA, hiding behind a tree, grabs the knife from where it’s fallen on the ground. She picks up a stone and flings it at the OUTLAW.) I hurl the stone. It hits its mark. (The rock cracks against his skull, the man staggers, crashing to the ground.) I grab my knife from where it fell. My husband’s wrists are bound, mouth, crammed full of leaves— I undo the blindfold, cut his ties. “Ambrose,” I plead. “Let’s leave this place. Come on. Let’s go.” But Ambrose just spits the last leaves from his mouth, he says nothing as the man stirs— “Ambrose, before it’s too late— Take my knife.” (LEONA presses the knife into his hand. AMBROSE takes it, but doesn’t move.) But Ambrose just murmurs. AMBROSE “My heart.” LEONA “What did you say?” AMBROSE “My heart. I can’t—” LEONA “I don’t understand—” AMBROSE “My heart. It won’t—” LEONA “Ambrose! You brought us here,” I lash, as the man staggers to his feet. “Go on! Go on!” But Ambrose, still as a tree, doesn’t move. He just looks through me— (AMBROSE spins around, entering into combat with the OUTLAW. As they fight LEONA grabs the rifle, aiming it at them both.) Two smudges, slashing at the smoke— I aim the rifle at their rabid strokes, Ambrose, gaining now, with a mettle I’d missed. As his strength begins to wane, I point the muzzle towards the smoke-glutted sky— (A gunshot. The echoing silence of its aftermath. The OUTLAW stumbles, flailing, thrusting the blade into his opponent’s side.) “Ambrose—!” (LEONA runs towards AMBROSE, dropping the gun.) Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod to stop the spilling blood. I forage nettle, dock, pyrola to staunch the wound— I look up. The man is gone. “Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod— I know these things. I can help him— Crocus to blunt the pain.” (With AMBROSE now, tending to him.) “Ambrose. Look at me.” AMBROSE “I can’t. How could you? I heard, I saw.” LEONA “Nothing. You saw nothing.” AMBROSE “Moonstones, opals, eyes on fire— Burning. For him.” LEONA “Him?” And in that moment I’m like a tree, heartwood cracked. What we had is gone. All the good done in— AMBROSE “Erased.” (AMBROSE breathes in, a strange sound.) LEONA “Ambrose. Ambrose. No.” A hollow rattle, and he’s dead. Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod, nettle, pyrola, dock. Stunned by his scorn, his sudden, stony hate, I faltered— I failed to apply pressure to the wound, to staunch his bleeding, to keep death at bay. I failed. It was me. I failed. I killed him. It was me. Leona. I ram myself against a rock. I carve a crevice in my skin. I turn back. Sun streaming through the blackened grove, lighting up the body— Its pallor shines, it shone. I run blindly through the woods, hurtling down the steep, flinging myself over ledge and precipice, plunging into a black, bottomless pool, weighed down with rocks. I do not drown— Stepping before a stampeding cart, I endure, bruised but breathing still. I stand before you, a murderer— Destroyed. What am I to—? What am I to—? What am I—?
9.
10.
(We are in a new reality. The vastness of empty space.) THE MEDIUM Silence is the sound of a heart growing cold. As the mountain throws its shadow across the grove. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Cold heart, cold bones, weak heart, my heart was weak. Rheumatic fever when I was three. Sentenced to half a life. Weak heart. I was weak. I couldn’t bear for her to know. THE OUTLAW Greetings, good day. LEONA Darkness falling. Ambrose. We need to go. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE So I kept it from her. My heart. Kept it from me. Pushed it down, under the skin of who I was, how I wanted to be seen. THE OUTLAW Greetings, good day. I’m on my way to dig up a haul of shining gold you’ve never set your eyes on. Care to join me? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE And so, needing to prove I was invincible, wanting to give her the moon, I fell for his ruse. LEONA Moonstones? Opals? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Her glow so bright. LEONA Moonstones? Opals? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I could hardly believe— Was she mine? LEONA But I don’t care about— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Needing to prove— I walked into his net, left her waiting, alone. (Jumping forward in time.) Blindfolded, bound, my mind’s eye— Sounds too terrible to— THE OUTLAW I will take her from you, I will break her into bits. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE As he lured her and he took her, as he used her, as he broke her, as, my back turned, bound, I could do nothing. LEONA Ambrose! THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE She stops him with a stone. THE OUTLAW Sky spinning, lights flashing— LEONA Look at me! THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE But I don’t. Fearing the weakness she sees inscribed in me— LEONA I don’t understand. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Afraid to face my own frailty reflected in her gaze— My heart— LEONA Your heart? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE My heart. I try to speak— I fail. I should have told her then. LEONA Your heart? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I should have told her then, but I hated her like I’d loved her— swept up in a storm of love and hate— hated myself more than anything— I was in too deep, LEONA Ambrose! You brought us here. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I’d obscured who I was. LEONA Do something! THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE My feebleness an afterthought, I gave in to the fate— LEONA Don’t just— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE —written on my leaky valves. LEONA Ambrose! THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Less than half a life. THE OUTLAW I pull myself up, unsteady— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I had no choice but to fight. I faded soon enough. (Reprise echo of decayed gunshot. As he’s dying.) Hating her for stepping in, hating myself more than anything— THE OUTLAW I grab the gun and go. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I hold it close— My heart’s atrophy— LEONA Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod— Ambrose, why won’t you look at me? THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I heard, I saw— I cut as she tends to me: LEONA Nothing. You saw nothing. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE I heard, I saw, I know— LEONA Nettle, dock, pyrola. I can help you— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE You’re nothing to me. I leave her. I slide towards unknowingness, letting her believe— LEONA I failed to apply pressure to the wound— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE And so I broke her. LEONA It was me. I killed him. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE And now— There’s no turning back. I can’t absolve her. No matter how far she travels from this blackened grove— LEONA Heartwood cracked. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE —every time she shuts her eyes she’ll see what she believes she did to me. LEONA I stand before you, a murderer— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE So I stay— here, in between, splintered saplings, trampled ground. LEONA Smoke, ash, smoldering ghosts— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE A bed of broken fireweed. THE OUTLAW The grove, as quiet as the grave. THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Lost, lurching through the emptiness. LEONA Looming trees— THE MEDIUM & AMBROSE Haunted by her opal eyes, even in this dim. Blockaded by venom, dolor, remorse. Silence is the sound of a heart growing cold. As the mountain throws its shadow across the grove. Hemlock fading, birdsong flown, shrouding the silence of the sky’s dissolving as I fall into the arms of unending dark—
11.
Postlude 01:17

about

In a Circle Records proudly presents In a Grove, an opera with music by Christopher Cerrone and a libretto by Stephanie Fleischmann. A full-length follow-up to Cerrone’s GRAMMY-nominated 2021 album, The Arching Path, In a Grove features singers soprano Lindsay Kesselman, countertenor Chuanyuan Liu, tenor Andrew Turner, and baritone John Taylor Ward, accompanied by the intrepid Metropolis Ensemble.

Sited within a ghost forest in the Pacific Northwest in 1922, the opera unfolds within a barren, haunted landscape devastated by wildfire. Into a terrain of broken dreams, marred by violence and obfuscated by smoke, comes a young woman who upends conventional notions of gender and narratives of victimhood, claiming agency for herself. Transpiring within a frontier territory driven by class struggle and fear of the other, this retelling of Akutagawa’s tale—famously adapted as the film Rashomon—manifests a world in which the environment is under siege, and wildly veering personal truths vie with absolute fact, shattering what one thinks they know.

As a studio recording, the work becomes a sonic drama. As with other recent studio projects (including 2019’s The Pieces that Fall to Earth and 2021’s The Arching Path, both nominated for GRAMMY awards), it was co-produced by Cerrone, Mike Tierney, and Andrew Cyr. They created a new kind of opera album, utilizing overdubbing, multi-tracking, close-micing, compression, and other studio techniques to create a brand-new sonic world, entirely different from the one created on stage.

The shifting viewpoints of Akutagawa’s classic short story lend themselves eloquently to music’s ability to conjure, via repetition and variation, the ways human perception is fallible, imprecise, and subject to interference. Characterized by a subtle handling of timbre and resonance, composer Christopher Cerrone’s music balances lushness and austerity, immersive textures, and telling details. This dynamic new adaptation melds the dramatic impact and interiority of Cerrone’s unique voice with librettist Stephanie Fleischmann’s charged, poetic text to produce a powerful interrogation into how we see, hear, remember, and believe.

credits

released July 7, 2023

Music by Christopher Cerrone
Libretto by Stephanie Fleischmann
After the story by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

Produced by Mike Tierney, Christopher Cerrone, and Andrew Cyr.

Cast (in order of appearance)
John Taylor Ward—The Woodcutter/The Outlaw (Luther Harlow)
Chuanyuan Liu—The Priest/The Medium
Andrew Turner—The Policeman/The Settler (Ambrose Raines)
Lindsay Kesselman—The Mother/The Missing Woman (Leona Raines)

Metropolis Ensemble
Michael Avitabile, flutes
Anton Rist, clarinets
Laura Weiner, horn
Ian Rosenbaum, percussion
Nuiko Wadden, harp
David Kaplan, piano
Clara Kim, violin
Estelle Choi, ‘cello
Christopher Cerrone, electronics
Andrew Cyr, artistic director
Electronics created in collaboration with Dave Sanchez

Designed by Jessica Fleischmann
Cover photograph by Norman McBeath, from Perdendosi

In a Grove was recorded throughout 2022 and 2023 by Mike Tierney at Shiny Things Studios in Brooklyn, NY at the Bunker Studio in Brooklyn, NY. Edited and mixed by Mike Tierney. Mastered by Alan Silverman.

© 2021 Schott Music Corporation (ASCAP). Commissioned by the Los Angeles Opera, with production support from Pittsburgh Opera, with additional creative and development support provided by Metropolis Ensemble, Raulee Marcus, and Steven Block.

This recording was made possible with support from Nancy and Barry Sanders, Raulee Marcus, Steven Block, and Metropolis Ensemble.

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Christopher Cerrone Brooklyn, New York

Christopher Cerrone (b. 1984) has been commissioned by Los Angeles Philharmonic, Detroit Symphony, and the Cincinnati Symphony, among others and his opera Invisible Cities was a finalist for the 2014 Pulitzer Prize. He was nominated for 2020 and 2022 Grammy Awards. He lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. ... more

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