Miranda Duarte
Performers are listed inside the program.
Sunday, April 12, 2026
7:30 pm
Thomas J. Long Theatre
busted seams (2022)
Miranda Duarte (b. 2004)
Miranda Duarte, guitar, vocals
playground (2025) Duarte
Miranda Duarte and Zoie Macapanpan, vocals
Riko Hirata, flute
Bergen Finley, guitar 3′
brain lab (2025) Duarte
Bergen Finley (b. 2003)
Miranda Duarte and Zoie Macapanpan, vocals
Alex Maldonado, trumpet
Bergen Finley, guitar
Kyle Saelee, bass
Joe Evans, drums
overcaffeinated (2025) Duarte
Miranda Duarte, vocals
Alex Maldonado, trumpet
Bergen Finley, guitar
Kyle Saelee, bass
Victor Cyrus-Franklin, drums
oil slick (2025) Duarte
Miranda Duarte, vocals
Riko Hirata, flute
Kyle Saelee, bass
Miranda Duarte, recorded vocals, electronics
dollhouse (2025) Duarte
Casey Kim (b. 2005)
Miranda Duarte, vocals
Benedict Ventura, cello
Kyle Saelee, bass
Casey Kim, percussion
fingertips (2024) Duarte Finley
Miranda Duarte and Zoie Macapanpan, vocals
Bergen Finley, guitar
Casey Kim, percussion
heartbreaker (2022) Duarte Finley
Miranda Duarte, vocals, guitar
Zoie Macapanpan, vocals
Bergen Finley, guitar
Kyle Saelee, bass
Cole Long, drums
rudimentary tools (2025) Duarte Finley
Miranda Duarte, vocals, guitar
Aimee MacDonald, alto saxophone
Bergen Finley, guitar
Kyle Saelee, bass
Casey Kim, percussion
Cole Long, drums
emerald (2025) Duarte
Miranda Duarte, vocals
Aimee MacDonald, alto saxophone
Bergen Finley, guitar
Cole Long, drums
Softly (Despite the Fog) (2026) Duarte
Miranda Duarte, vocals, guitar
Alex Maldonado, trumpet
Bergen Finley, guitar
Cole Long, drums
(2024) Duarte
Solo Samba (2023) Duarte
Miranda Duarte, vocals
Alex Maldonado, trumpet
Bergen Finley, guitar
Kyle Saelee, bass
Cole Long, drums
Picnic
PROGRAM NOTES
This recital is presented as a degree requirement for a Bachelor of Music in music composition.
Miranda Duarte is concluding her music composition degree this May, proudly wearing many hats ranging from composer to vocalist, stage manager, and photographer. She has studied under the instruction of Dr. Eric Wood, Dr. Andrew Conklin, and Dr. Hendel Almetus. She is grateful to the loved ones who have supported her work over the years. Miranda hopes to continue as a professional in the creative world and collaborate with artists for many years to come.
Program notes by the composer
Dollhouse is a concept album, and each song is a testament to a portion of my youth. Though slowly wearing with time, thank you to my dad for saving my dollhouse, to know he shares my inkling to hold on to the past. If not for sentimentality’s sake, then for the encouragement to take the next step.
I extend my gratitude to the faculty and friends, especially my Grandma Gloria and Grandpa Mario for the constant generosity and love. Creating this album would not have been possible without the work of many; I will be forever appreciative of this experience. Community continues to be the cornerstone of good artistry, so feel free to talk with me about the content, the process, and the music.
busted seams
A mess. I was surrounded by crafts, but I should have stayed in it a little longer.
playground
Icebreaker of the day: “What did you do on the playground at school?”
brain lab
Middle school was the genesis of an obsession with dystopian society. We are truly living in one.
PROGRAM NOTES
overcaffeinated
Monster tabs: a trophy of a bad habit. Now an occasional occurrence: infrequent boba runs and particularly early mornings.
oil slick
Kyle was told, “You’re a polar bear and you’re floating away on the last iceberg.”
dollhouse
Cheers to the powers of distraction and diversion!
fingertips
I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know how to tell myself the truth.
heartbreaker
An insecurity I hold deeply secluded under a hardened facade: the question of, “am I deserving of love?”
rudimentary tools
In "American Psycho," Patrick Bateman uses crayons to sketch crude images on the tablecloth. What can we do with rulers and playdough?
emerald
To-do list:
1. Find a pocket journal.
2. Fill it with concepts.
3. Fulfill my promise.
Softly (Despite the Fog)
Fondly dedicated to Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Joe, inseparable in sickness and in health.
Picnic
This song is my mom’s favorite. #forestgoblin
Solo Samba
Sometimes we dance in a circle, back to where we started.
TEXTS
Lyrics by the composer
busted seams
Busted seams can’t hold in the stuffing: loose leaf strings, buttons, eyes, and little gems, my pretty things, all the scraps on the floor.
Knotted threads: unraveling, tangled, where’s the end? Interweaved in storytime, we play pretend. Why did I close the drawer?
Velcro isn’t needed for a heart worn on the sleeve, vulnerable and giddy at the smallest of things.
Why give up the peace and ease? Why grow up and want to leave?
playground
If I keep on losing barbie shoes in tanbark, will you help me come and find them? Are you busy on the monkey bars, skip a few to build the blisters? Did you cry when lunch was over?
In light-up shoes, and hopscotch was the biggest news.
Pick a number for your fortune, if you lose, the boys might chase you ‘round the green. You’ll get taunted worse than horse girls do, did the marker taste like blue?
Don’t you move; they blew the whistle. With scraped up knees, don’t crush my ant hill please.
The playground’s mean, so pick your place to be.
Made a bracelet out of rubber bands, can I trade you for the sweets packed by your dad?
TEXTS
If I told you that I like you, does it mean you like me back? Now the whole school will know we’re married.
I’m in between the lunchtime games; it’s all routine. I can’t believe you’d pick your nose. It’s so unclean. The playground’s mean, so pick your place to be.
brain lab
Who is, who is in my head, in my head
Throw your gun to the pavement, with the brain’s blasted, wasted. Can’t you taste the resistance? Are the fruits of your labor better locked in iron bars?
Take the weary and useless. No one cares to believe it. Can you hear through the madness? Does a life even matter if it’s locked in iron bars?
Why don’t you lie and deceive? If you were honestly meant to be here, can’t you leave here, and bleed, and cry?
Man or machine, fueled by greed? If you were offered the chance to leave here, volunteer. Lose your mind. Survive.
overcaffeinated
She’s collecting cans like awards. Oo, I gotta—wanna. God, I wanna—gonna… She might crash out and sweat bullets.
It’s essential to be so eclectic. She fears you’ll never care.
Sip if you’re desperate. Down yet another. Find a different substance, If you’re feeling somewhat bothered. oil slick flesh and tears are null swerve obsession the tree has the worm
how do I tell you the game is rigged no matter weigh the factors it’s all the same it’s all…
TEXTS
dollhouse
Drink the poison so you don’t notice the warping in the ballroom floor.
Pick preemptive, practiced plotlines purposely prepared, letting lines convey connections cast correct with care.
Chorus:
Walls closing in, stuck in the clothes that you picked: fancy and trim, collectible, nonsensical.
Tiny terrors, they tiptoe, slippers so soft and silent, there’s secrets that they hold. Iterations, imagined irony, worthless wishes would wipe who’s holding me.
No giving up, pour that good shit in this tiny cup. Trapped in the dollhouse, good luck gettin’ out.
Phony fantasies fall further from morality, making moves to tip you towards temporality.
Chorus
Drink the poison so you don’t notice the warping in the ballroom floor.
Chorus fingertips
I still smell our morning on my bed spread, even taste your perfume on my tongue, wonder if you left it with intention to make me think of you when you’re gone.
I still feel your kisses in the evening, how you held me like we never stood a chance. Mark me and behold me. Don’t say sorry. You make feel so deeply
TEXTS
Chorus:
I’d slice my fingertips to bleed, to understand your thinking in the least. I’d do anything to please, to promise you I’d never want to leave.
I still hear your quiet affirmations, even though you wouldn’t even sigh. Listen when I tell you I’m decided. I don’t mean to cry when you’re gone.
I still feel the pressure in my shoulders, but you’re working out what’s held there nonetheless. Honey-sweetened traces down my forehead, you make me feel so deeply.
Chorus heartbreaker
You broke the heartbreaker, I know. Shot down the messenger, letters all afloat. Feathers scattered for the better, bettering yourself for you, don’t forget her. I don’t know how you’re so hot-headed, but your heart is still so cold.
Your sorries don’t cover for the noise. It wasn’t my choice to fall for you.
I’ve stopped lying 'cause your crying left me all alone, blind in trying to recover letters scattered by your own…
Apologies, fretless, you adore the poor fractured breakage to fall for you
TEXTS
rudimentary tools
We’re using crayons to sketch out blueprints and tracing silly bands while rulers prove they’re worthless. Can we go back to when grass was only plains and not a patch? And if I asked you for a lighter, It was only for a sparkler.
We’re using playdough To sculpt the wrinkles in their brains. Throw tomatoes. Play pretend or go insane.
Rudimentary, Rudimentary tools, Rudimentary tools aren’t working. They’re full of greed, and have the cutting edge. They’re full of greed. They’re full.
Can we go back to when crack would only break your momma’s back, and when I asked you for a fire, you’d ask…
What’s it for?
TEXTS
emerald
From ruby into emerald, I’m watching the stoplights in the rain. The beauty, though ephemeral, this moment won’t reappear again.
I wanna write you the songs to capture moments so fleeting. I want a mold of your mind the seconds right after leaving I wanna flip through the pages of the times you thought you knew me. Do I want them back? Should I crave the past? Would it even last?
My duty: capture several reflections and ripples in the pond. The beauty is essential. How worthy am I to write these songs?
I wanna write you the songs to capture moments so fleeting. I want a bottle of memories we found so amusing. I wanna hold on a journal where our lives are wholly written.
How can I recall? Where’s a bigger vault? Can I keep it all?
What to do, what to do with all this time? What to do, what to do with so little time?
I leave you secrets to find between the lyrics you’re reading. I give up hours of time until my fingers are bleeding. Wish I could give you the answers, but I lack the understanding.
From emerald into sapphire, disbanding, I’m straying from the trail. Parental worry, it might backfire. I promise, I’m chasing something real.
TEXTS
Softly (Despite the Fog)
Softly, gently, he spoke constantly.
He savored moments just looking in her eyes, The cradled nonsense enfolded in her mind.
He searched to find her. He holds on. He never lost her in the fog, in the fog.
Hidden on the walls Sacred, protect her Call out for me gone not entirely
Kindly, he fell blindly, absent— mindedly.
Unwavering, tender, engulfed her in his arms, he softly rocked her to prove she has his heart.
He spoiled her rotten, still he stays, in part forgotten in the fog, in the fog.
Picnic
Let’s lay down a blanket. Here’s the fuzz that I’ve procured. A checkerboard of fungi overlays the sandwich board, but I never said,
I’ve been growing mushrooms Out my eyes, my mouth, and ears. We could have a picnic
With the mold spores I grow here, and I’m asking you:
“Would you like to come over? What if we threw a party? And nobody came.”
TEXTS
Rotten apples littered. Only earwigs get a say. Pigs won’t even visit, If I asked for one to stay ‘cause I didn’t know
Picnics are for givers, and the apples choke and die: Suffocated, strangled. How can decomposers lie?
Set me free
I won’t ask. Please don’t tell. If I wished you as well, would you still wanna see? If your pinky was broken, would you then start hoping the same thing would happen to me?
Would you like to come over?
What if we threw a party?
I’d love to invite you. The sludge is for dinner. If we had a picnic, Would you be disappointed, If nobody came?
Solo Samba
Don’t tell me, “Baby, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” She lingers on my lips, on my hands, my hands.
I’m giving up on dancing the samba solo when she's looking and I’m weaker by her demand.
I feel her when we’re close and we dance, we dance. Her breath and her scent has me in a trance.
Oh, she was dancing the samba solo, and I fell in her hands.
Dancing on moonlight, she fits right, fits right in my hands. I can’t stand
Wasting the night.
Let’s make it, make it worth the time.
I’ll give her mine.
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