JEAN REDPATH Obituary

REDPATH--Jean. Jean Redpath was born in Leven, Kingdom of Fife, Scotland in 1937 into a musical family. Four years into her studies at University of Edinburgh, she was encouraged by her mentors to focus on her singing of traditional Scottish music. She came to California in 1961 and after migrating across the United States in a VW bus, made it to Greenwich Village, where she sang at Gerde's Folk City. An enthusiastic review in The New York Times helped to launch her concert and recording career. For over fifty years she traveled the world offering concerts and teaching workshops. She was artist in residence at Wesleyan University (1972-76), and taught Traditional Scottish Music at University of Stirling (1979-89). She has honorary doctorates from the Universities of Stirling, Glasgow, St Andrews, and the Royal Scottish Academy, and numerous honorary memberships in music and literary societies. She sang by invitation at the Queen's Silver Jubilee celebrations at Edinburgh Castle (1977), and in 1987 was awarded an MBE for her services to music. Her portrait hangs in the Scottish National Gallery. In 2011 Jean was artist in residence in the Department of Celtic and Scottish Studies at University of Edinburgh. In May 2014 she sang to standing ovations at her last performance, in Cambridge, New York. Her recorded music is her legacy.

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Published by New York Times on Aug. 31, 2014.

Memories and Condolences
for JEAN REDPATH

5 Entries

Linda Kent

September 2, 2014

"Strathearn, oh how shall I quit thy sweet groves? How bid thee a long, oh an endless adieu?"

I have loved her voice and her irreverant love for Scottish tradition all of my adult life. I had the privilege of meeting and traveling with her a few years ago and I will always be grateful for that.

Joanne Vician

September 2, 2014

There are Angels hovering 'round.
She will never be forgotten. Her beautiful voice and her beautiful person. Thank you Jean, for all you did for the world and the joys you brought others.

Mary Douglas

September 2, 2014

TO JEAN REDPATH

and to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas

"Fled is that music-: Do I wake or sleep?"
John Keats, Ode To A Nightingale

fled is the dream past dream on the clock of waking;
tulip-cupped the moon where the starry snows are flaking.
when will I awake in the rooms of before, not after.

silver, laughed the trees but they are gone
where the sun creaks like old swings on the playgrounds.
after song is evening, afterthought is all,

in pearl bright slippers.
and the sunsets crowd: mere thread
through the needle of the last hour

shadowing the pear trees in the fairy story.
count, king by king and it's away
sigh the milk bright; wept the sailors

lost to executions now;
unread, wrote the poets in the frost of
windowpanes...

I'm going door to door selling all the flowers
out of my mind and orphaned from the business world
and late for lunches wrapped in wax paper;

the jam smudged bread.

nebulae, almost cried the child in the crib
with the orange coverlet;
dream, sighed the clouds and took her home; is it too late

for conversations? they have scattered the cranberry hills
my heart-where it's all flood tide for the
brides with lilies in their hands:

on the cusp of lavender and in the purpling dark

you used to know.
and here they leave you and you don't know why
where the gold and the silver leaves

have fluttered fluttered down
leaving the fairytale branches
that scar the skies:

skirling, the wanderer wandered
and far from the rose red lanes.
the voice of mists may falter:

the Song, remains.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2014;last lines in italics added september 2, 2014

September 2, 2014

and to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas

"Fled is that music-: Do I wake or sleep?"
John Keats, Ode To A Nightingale

fled is the dream past dream on the clock of waking;
tulip-cupped the moon where the starry snows are flaking.
when will I awake in the rooms of before, not after.

silver, laughed the trees but they are gone
where the sun creaks like old swings on the playgrounds.
after song is evening, afterthought is all,

in pearl bright slippers.
and the sunsets crowd: mere thread
through the needle of the last hour

shadowing the pear trees in the fairy story.
count, king by king and it's away
sigh the milk bright; wept the sailors

lost to executions now;
unread, wrote the poets in the frost of
windowpanes...

I'm going door to door selling all the flowers
out of my mind and orphaned from the business world
and late for lunches wrapped in wax paper;

the jam smudged bread.

nebulae, almost cried the child in the crib
with the orange coverlet;
dream, sighed the clouds and took her home; is it too late

for conversations? they have scattered the cranberry hills
my heart-where it's all flood tide for the
brides with lilies in their hands:

on the cusp of lavender and in the purpling dark

you used to know.
and here they leave you and you don't know why
where the gold and the silver leaves

have fluttered fluttered down
leaving the fairytale branches
that scar the skies:

skirling, the wanderer wandered
and far from the rose red lanes.
the voice of mists may falter:

the Song, remains.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2014;last four added september 2, 2014