Karen Kahan; arr. Ekaterina Shelehova and Laura Mercado-Wright

I am my mother’s savage daughter, 
The one who runs barefoot, cursing sharp stones. 
I am my mother’s savage daughter. 
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.

My mother’s child is a savage.
She looks for her omens in the colors of stones,
In the faces of cats, in the fall of feathers, 
In the dancing of fire, in the curve of old bones. 

I am my mother’s savage daughter,
The one who runs barefoot, cursing sharp stones. 
I am my mother’s savage daughter. 
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice. 

My mother’s child dances in darkness. 
She sings heathen songs by the light of the moon,
And watches the stars, and renames the planets, 
And dreams she can reach them with a song and a broom.

We are all brought forth out of darkness,
Into this world through blood and through pain. 
And deep in our bones the old songs are waking, 
So sing them with voices of thunder and rain. 

We are our mothers’ savage daughters, 
The ones who run barefoot, cursing sharp stones. 
We are our mothers’ savage daughters. 
We will not cut our hair, we will not lower our voice.

by Philip Glass

Etude No. 20 marks the culmination of a twenty-year artist’s journey for Philip Glass. It is the last of his set of Etudes for Piano, composed over a period of twenty years spanning 1992-2012. To my ear, it is the most expressive of the set and among the most luminous of his works. It feels organic; more circular than angular, soaring to higher heights and sinking to deeper depths than the etudes that precede it, demonstrating a richer tonal landscape. One could say it is an example of Glass at both his most powerful and most feminine.
—Carla McElhaney

Words and Music by Russell Podgorsek, taken from Interviews with the VAMPs

In May 2023, VAMP was lucky enough to perform in Page’s doctoral recital where we heard a  beautiful song cycle, which Page commissioned from composer Russell Podgorsek. Since then, we have wanted the chance to collaborate with Russell. When he approached us with the idea for this work, we were somewhat skeptical: a man writing a work about the experience of women in a patriarchal society? But his approach came from his desire to know more, to understand our perspective, and to serve as an ally in the telling of our experiences. He sat down with us for two three-hour interviews and listened to our stories, outbursts, joys, and challenges. We thought it would be fitting for the program note for this piece to be a conversation, emulating the way it came into being:

Russell: This piece is an exploration of women’s experience and deals with some pretty deep emotional content. That said, there are some lighter matters at issue too. I structured the piece in five movements such that the outer ones are more superficial and simpler emotionally, while the inner ones become more serious and complex. This works musically but also connects to the audience in a way that’s more akin to having a discussion - you generally don’t start with the heavy stuff.

Page: But the inner movements are the heart of the matter. In the six hours of VAMP interviews that Russell recorded with VAMP, he cataloged the patterns in our relationships with men that weigh on us. He pressed us to describe in detail our sensations and emotions we experience living under patriarchal standards. He wove our language into song lyrics and our emotions into the musical material.

Movement 2, “Push,” illuminates the aggravation and dread we feel when men purposely push our buttons (to manipulate, oppress, or belittle us, to start a fight, feel powerful at our expense, etc…). We repeat the word “push” throughout the piece with an incessant pedal D. The dynamics quietly seethe, but threaten to explode. 

Russell: Movement 3, “A Single Line,” uses the line as a metaphor (tightrope, tether, hanging on by a thread, etc.) to explore feelings of anxiety and exhaustion, of things about to fall apart. The voices overlap on the same note, or those close together to represent narrowness and entwining.

Movement 4, “I Need to be Perfect” also uses an image, that of a pane of glass, to invoke the feelings of invisibility and also the impossible task of pulling oneself together with little or no support when dealing with trauma. Musically this manifests as a simple repeated gesture, not unlike “Push,” but with very different energy.

Page: The first movement, “The Little Things,” positions us for the dark inward dive with a scene that women know well. It highlights the invisible labor that women do to support families and partners. Russell uses a blues scale and winding chromaticism to underpin long lists of all the issues we handle, too often without assistance.

The title of the final movement, “King Baby,” tells you all you need to know about the subject matter. It vacillates between C and E major, stacking triads that evoke a pompous, operatic chorus. It’s fitting to wrap up the work with homophony and humor–it’s the musical version of VAMP’s approach to working through all these real-life issues: together, and with healing laughter!

Russell: It’s easy to see some of the humor and commiseration as negatively oriented, but one thing that struck me in listening to VAMP during the interviews for this piece was the deep and sincere feelings of compassion and love for their partners. I made a deliberate effort, especially in “King Baby,” to highlight those sentiments because this piece is not about criticism, but rather it is a call for renewed commitments to balanced and functional relationships whether they are romantic, platonic, or professional.

It’s the little things that scratch,
That bite and claw
And get stuck right up here in my craw.
When I have to ask
Have to plead, remind, beg, and fucking nag!

Please, please, please,
For fuck’s sake!

The budget, bills, the funds
The toilet, the sink, and
The mirrors, the floor, and tub.

It’s the little things, 
It’s the little things, 
Oh, so small

The floors and sink, the tub, 
The toilet, the mirrors, 
the budget, the bills and funds.

It’s the little things,
Oh, so small, so very tiny!
It's all the tiny, the miniscule, little things.
Those break my heart.

Vacations and friends…
The toilet, the tub…
The towels, the sheets…
The bills and the funds!

The litter box, it reeks
Wash, dry, and fold
The towels, the shirts and sheets!

It’s the mundane stuff that hurts,
That drains and wears, 
They’re the burdens that we should share!
But for every task
I must plead, remind, and nag, or nicely ask!

Please, please, please,
For fuck’s sake!

Push - Push - Push
Don’t you do it!
Push

Don’t you Push that button,  
Don’t you flip that switch 
Pulled, pressed, or flipped
I’ll smile, laugh - won’t be that bitch
(Yes, please, do it, do it!)

I’ll weather the push, the pressure, that click
But I’m compressed under thumb
And incorporeal I become a pulse
A go-between for desire and result

That dread, that pit
In my stomach
It presages the Push

It’s heavy, hot, malignant
A sphere of slag, indignant and ignited
And despite the disappointment
I contain and restrain it

I’ve made a commitment to keep the peace
And yet
With apparent ease and sometimes glee,
You Push - Push - Push

Push - Push - Push
Don’t you do it!
Push
Don’t you Push that–
Wait…

… there’s no pull, press, or flip?

I’m in shock, awed, and shook
Not because it’s so rare
Or any of those soft words like love, tender, fair, or care 
But because I’ve been taught
To expect so little
So very little

Push
Don’t you do it!
Don’t you Push

A single line, a thread
Fibers gathered, fibers spun

Many lines entwined
Combined, that single line 
refined

But is it fraying from the tension?
Or is it just my weight?
It’s a rope, that line
That I walk with care
And feels narrower every day

If only the smaller and smaller me
Could scurry along that dwindling path
Reduced and divided by glib advice
“Be nice!” , “You’re right!”
But it narrows at such a clip
I can’t win the race to naught, nil, null, to zip

What grows though is resentment
Into a pall so dark and deep
That were I not so thin as to be mostly, often, completely missed
I’d fade from view: no contrast, no value, no hue

But the rope I’m on is between us too
My hands friction-raw
Trying to inch, injured, to your position
While an infinite collection
Of my flaws, mistakes, and quirks
Articulates that distance
Your frustrations, your irks, 
and expectations…

I call out across the void
My voice as ragged as my palms
To be heard, seen
For a gentle, soft, subtle word
And I hear it
Yes, I think I do, 

But it’s fleeting, 
Like my balance - lost -
And the braid becomes irreparably loose.
That it unravels isn’t fate
Or circumstance, or nobody’s fault,

But instead, letting it do so,
Here, now
Is something that I choose.

I need to be perfect, consistent,
It’s the constant hum of existence.
A persistent whisper in my ear.
No flaws, a perfect pane of glass 
Through which invisible light can pass, 
Unobstructed, unrefracted, unreflected.

And some days I think I’ve been seen–
A glare, a trick of the light, maybe
But, no, it’s a bird, confused and disturbed,
Crashing into me and hurt.
A moment of connection?
No.

You look through me and maybe sigh,
And here I am–Am I just fine?
No, no, no
“No cracks, that’ll do
The rain will clean it so I don’t have to”

But when the glass does break
I’m all edges, jagged, ready to draw blood.
My inner me comes out swinging,
Bringing, carrying that shattering

But. I. Must. tend to your cuts, 
Dress your wounds.  
The cries of your pain masks that clattering
While inner me retreats and glues
Herself back together

Never the same
Not that flawless pristine pane
But all is well, good, ok, fine
So long as the light can pass

Unobstructed
Uninterrupted
Unseen

And here he is, his Majesty the Baby!
King Tot!

Get off the tit!
Le Roi bébé. Mamá? Not me.
We’re partners, colleagues, and friends
But that’s a real nice diaper you’ve got there

His Majesty the Tot. Don’t you call me mama!
I’m joking with you, I tease
But what I want is for you to see
That potential that I love, deeply, 
That capability to grow.

But the pace is so unbelievably slow
- and I’m just here.
Just here…

When am I going to live, King Baby?
Your Excellency, get off the tit!
Le Roi bébé. Mamá? Not me
We’re partners, friends, and colleagues
Here comes the airplane…hey!
We will not spoon feed you!

His Majesty the Tot. Don’t you call me mama!
I’m teasing you, I joke
But what I want for you is to know
That I should expect something more than
“Just tell me what to do” 
No! Get out now!

There’s no gold star for “try”.
I know you’re working on it
But, your Highness, why?
Why should I wait and have to ask?

When am I going to live, King Baby?
Le Roi! Your Excellency. Why? 
Why should I wait and have to ask? 
When am I going to live, King Baby? 

by Kim Baryluk

I was  a shy and lonely girl – with the heavens in my eyes
and as I walked along the lane – I heard the echoes of her cries

I cannot fight, I cannot a warrior be;
It’s not my nature nor my duty.
It is the womanhood in me.

I was a lost and angry youth – there were no tears in my eyes.
I saw no justice in my world – only the echoes of her cries.

I cannot fight, I cannot a warrior be;
It is my nature – not my duty.
It is the womanhood in me.

I am an older woman now – and I will heed my own cries
and I will a fierce warrior be – ‘til not another woman dies

I can and will fight, I can and will a warrior be;
It is my nature and my teaching.
It is the sister-hood in me.

I can and will fight, I can and will a warrior be;
It is my teaching and my duty – it is the sisterhood in me

by Astor Piazzolla; arr. Carla McElhaney

Piazzolla composed his Angel Series triptych for Tango del Angel, a play by Argentinian playwright Alberto Rodríguez Muñoz, in which an angel heals the spirits of residents in an impoverished neighborhood of Buenos Aires.  Milonga del Angel (1965) is the second of the set. Rife with pathos, the piece is a lament as appropriate to our time as it was then.
—Carla McElhaney

from Spring Awakening 

Duncan Sheik and Steven Sater; arr. Lisa DeSpain

Mama who bore me,
Mama who gave me
No way to handle things,
Who made me so sad.
Mama, the weeping,
Mama, the angels.
No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem.

Some pray that one day 
Christ will come a-calling.
They light a candle, 
and hope that it glows.

And some just lie there, 
crying for Him to come and find them.
But when He comes, 
they don't know how to go.

Mama who bore me,
Mama who gave me
No way to handle things,
Who made me so bad.
Mama, the weeping,
Mama, the angels.
No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem.

Mama who bore me,
Mama who gave me,
Mama the angels, 
Who made me so sad.
Mama who bore me,
Mama who gave me
No way to handle things,
Who made me so sad.

Mama, the weeping,
Mama, the angels.
No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem.

Some pray that one day 
Christ will come a-calling.
They light a candle, 
and hope that it glows.
And some just lie there, 
crying for Him to come and find them.
But when He comes, 
they don't know how to go.

Mama who bore me,
Mama who gave me,
Mama the angels, 
Who made me so bad.
Mama, the weeping,
Mama, the angels
Sweet Mama.

No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem.

Words and Music by Joni Mitchell

Willy is my child, he is my father
I would be his lady all my life
He says he'd love to live with me
But for an ancient injury
That has not healed

He said I feel once again
Like I gave my heart too soon
He stood looking through the lace
At the face on the conquered moon

And counting all the cars up the hill
And the stars on my window sill|
There are still more reasons why
I love him

Willy is my joy, he is my sorrow
Now he wants to run away and hide
He says our love cannot be real
He cannot hear the chapel's pealing silver bells

But you know it's hard to tell
When you're in the spell if it's wrong or if it's real
But you're bound to lose
If you let the blues get you scared to feel

And I feel like I'm just being born
Like a shiny light breaking in a storm
There are so many reasons why I love him

Willy is my child, he is my father

from Dear Evan Hansen 
Words and Music by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul
Piano arr. by Alex Lacamoire and Justin Paul

It was a February day
When your dad came by, before going away
A U-Haul truck in the driveway
The day it was suddenly real

I told you not to come outside
But you saw that truck
And you smiled so wide
A real live truck in your driveway
We let you sit behind the wheel

Goodbye, goodbye
Now it's just me and my little guy
And the house felt so big, and I felt so small
The house felt so big, and I felt so small

That night, I tucked you into bed
I will never forget how you sat up and said
"Is there another truck coming to our driveway?
A truck that will take mommy away"

And the house felt so big, and I felt so small
The house felt so big, and I—

And I knew 
there would be moments that I'd miss
And I knew 
there would be space I couldn't fill
And I knew I'd come up short 
a million different ways
And I did, and I do, and I will

But like that February day
I will take your hand, squeeze it tightly and say
There's not another truck in the driveway

Your mom isn't going anywhere
Your mom is staying right here
Your mom isn't going anywhere
Your mom is staying right here
No matter what
I'll be here

When it all feels so big
'Til it all feels so small

Words and Music by Wayne Thompson, Mark James and Johnny Christopher; arr. Ed Lojeski

Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have,
And maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have.
If I made you feel second best  
Girl, I'm sorry I was blind.
But you were always on my mind;
You were always on my mind.

Maybe I didn't hold you
All those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you
I'm so happy that you're mine.
Little things I should have said and done,
I just never took the time.
But you were always on my mind;
You were always on my mind.

Tell me, 
Tell me that your sweet love hasn't died.
Give me,
Give me one more chance to keep you satisfied.

Little things I should have said and done,
I just never took the time.
But you were always on my mind; 
You were always on my mind.

from Waitress: The Musical
Words and Music by Sara Bareilles

It's not simple to say;
That most days, I don't recognize me
That these shoes and this apron.
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them.

It's not easy to know;
I'm not anything like I used to be,
Although it's true,
I was never attention's sweet center.
I still remember that girl:

She's imperfect, but she tries.
She is good, but she lies.
She is hard on herself.
She is broken and won't ask for help.

She is messy, but she's kind.
She is lonely most of the time.
She is all of this, 
mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie.
She is gone, but she used to be mine.

And it's not what I asked for.
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person
And makes you believe it's all true,
And now I got you.

And you're not what I asked for.
If I'm honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over
And rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew,

Who’d be reckless just enough;
Who’d get hurt,
But who learns how to toughen up
When she's bruised
And gets used by a man who can't love.

And then she'll get stuck,
And be scared of the life that's inside her,
Growing stronger each day,
'Til it fin’lly reminds her to fight just a little
To bring back the fire in her eyes
That's been gone, but used to be mine.

She is messy, but she's kind.
She is lonely most of the time.
She is all of this, 
mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie.
She is gone, but she used to be mine.

Words and Music by Emily Straye, Jack Antonoff, Martie Maguire and Natalie Maines

Gaslighter, denier,
Doing anything to get your ass farther.
Gaslighter, big timer,
Repeating all of the mistakes of your father.

We moved to California 
and we followed your dreams.
I believed in the promises you made to me.
Swore that night “'till death do us part,”
But you li-li-li-li-lied.

Hollywood welcomed you with open doors.
No matter what they gave you, 
you still wanted more.
Acting all above it when our friends divorced.
What a li-li-li-li-lie.
You're such a

Gaslighter, denier,
Doing anything to get your ass farther.
Gaslighter, big timer,
Repeating all of the mistakes of your father.

Gaslighter, you broke me.
You're sorry, but where's my apology?
Gaslighter, you liar.

You thought I wouldn't see it 
if you put it in my face.
Give you all my money, 
you'll gladly walk away.
You think it's justifiable; I think it's pretty cruel.
And you know you lie best when you lie to you.

'Cause boy, 
you know exactly what you did on my boat.
And boy, that's exactly why you ain't comin' home.
Save your tired stories for your new someone else
'Cause they're li-li-li-li-lies
Look out, you little

Gaslighter, denier,
Doing anything to get your ass farther.
Gaslighter, big timer,
Repeating all of the mistakes of your father.

Gaslighter, you broke me.
You're sorry, but where's my apology?
Gaslighter, you liar.

Just had to start a fire.
Couldn't take yourself on a road a little higher.
Had to burn it up, had to tear it down.
Tried to say I'm crazy.
Babe, we know I'm not crazy, that's you.
Gaslighting.

You're a li-li-li-liar.
Oh, honey, that's you.
Gaslighting.
You made your bed and then your bed caught fire.

Gaslighter, I'm your mirror
Standing' right here 
until you can see how you broke me
Yeah, I'm broken
You're still sorry, and there's still no apology

Gaslighter, denier,
Doing anything to get your ass farther.
Gaslighter, big timer,
Repeating all of the mistakes of your father.

Gaslighter, you broke me.
You're sorry, but where's my apology?
Gaslighter, you liar.

Words and Music by John Madara and David White; arr. Arin Maya Lawrence and Katrina Saporsantos)

You don't own me;
I'm not just one of your many toys.
You don't own me;
Don't say I can't go with other boys.

And don't tell me what to do,
Don't tell me what to say.
And please, when I go out with you
Don't put me on display 'cause

You don't own me;
Don't try to change me in any way.
You don't own me;
Don't tie me down 'cause I'd never stay.

And don't tell me what to do,
And don't tell me what to say,
And please, when I go out with you
Don't put me on display.

I don't tell you what to say,
I don't tell you what to do,
So just let me be myself–
That's all I ask of you.

I'm young and I love to be young.
I'm free and I love to be free
To live my life the way I want,
To say and do whatever I please.

You will never own me.