This month, I have vocal music, and vocal music alone, for you. But there is plenty of variety within this vocalism. We’ll begin with a recital, which took place, appropriately, in Weill Recital Hall. (This is the pretty little annex upstairs in the Carnegie complex.) The singer was Kate Aldrich, a mezzo-soprano from Maine. She is not quite famous, but she has something of a cult following: Those who know her tend to adore her. Aldrich has a big, rich voice, and a certain flair. She’s also a beauty. This does no harm in music, as in life. It is particularly unharmful in opera and related fields.
At Weill, Aldrich presented a well-balanced program, beginning with Mozart. Mozart is the true test for a singer, and probably for any musician. If you can sing, play, or conduct Mozart, the whole musical world is your oyster. What Aldrich sang was the concert aria “Ch’io mi scordi di te? … Non temer, amato bene.” She revealed that big, rich instrument, which seemed especially big and rich in the intimacy of Weill. Hers was gutsy, unshy Mozart, a long way from the drawing room, which was swell. But it was not especially pure or refined Mozart.
Accompanying her was Israel Gursky, a pianist from the country after which he is named. (Not Gursky.) He would be well advised not to thump in Mozart—little will kill Mozart more quickly than thumping.
Aldrich and Gursky next turned to Richard Strauss, performing six of his greatest hits. They began with “Zueignung,” which so often serves as an encore. Aldrich’s voice has a nice weight and width for Strauss, and she will surely exploit him all career long. “Zueignung” was not effective, however. The singer was too emotional early on, saving nothing for the rest of the song. And the pianist was lacking in the necessary flow.
Then came “Hat gesagt—bleibt’s nicht dabei,” a fun, playful song. Aldrich certainly looked fun and playful while singing it. But she didn’t sound that way. It is more important, of course, to sing a song’s qualities than to look them. The vocal world has quite enough of pantomime artists. “Cäcilie” is a bursting, rhapsodic song (and, like “Zueignung,” a popular encore). Aldrich sang it rather flatly and awkwardly.
In due course came “Befreit,” and Aldrich was admirably unafraid in it. She virtually attacked it, boldly. (She had done something similar in her Mozart.) Many singers approach “Befreit” tremulously, or tentatively, awed by its profundity. From Aldrich, it was a song. Yet you might have liked a little more transcendency.
The Strauss group ended with “Heimliche Aufforderung” (“Secret Invitation”), which Aldrich sang invitingly indeed. As with “Cäcilie,” the song could have used more rapture—that Straussian rapture that makes one dizzy—but it found its mark.
The recital would get wonderfully better. Strauss was followed by Chausson, his “Chanson perpétuelle,” which uses a sad, sweet text by Charles Cros. (A girl loses her love and so kills herself—ho-hum.) For this piece, Aldrich had a small posse around her, a string quartet. And she proved herself a very good French singer. She sang the “Chanson perpétuelle” exquisitely—you have to have exquisiteness in Chausson—but also with her boldness. And she was utterly engaged by the piece, making you, in the audience, engaged as well.
After intermission, she continued with French music, this time Berlioz, beginning with “La Mort d’Ophélie.” Here Aldrich shone as a communicator, relating this tragic tale vividly. The mood lightened with “Zaïde,” wherein Berlioz gives us some Spanish music (or rather, Spanish-inflected music, a specialty of French composers). Aldrich sang saucily, gaily—totally winningly. Shortly after this recital, she appeared as Carmen at City Opera, and you could tell, from “Zaïde,” that she would be good. Even smashing.
Something completely different? Aldrich presented a little-known work by Britten: A Charm of Lullabies. In 1947, the composer set five texts, including one by Blake and Burns. From the latter we have “The Highland Balou,” in Scottish dialect. Another lullaby uses words by Thomas Randolph, and it’s not exactly traditional: “Quiet!/ Sleep! or I will make/ Erinnys whip thee with a snake,/ And cruel Rhadamanthus take/ Thy body to the boiling lake.” That’ll get the little bugger to sleep, eh? “The Nurse’s Song” (text by John Phillip) is crafted with incredible charm, showing Britten at his Englishest.
Kate Aldrich was pretty English herself. She displayed an obvious affinity for the music, and she conveyed it all with clear and enjoyable diction. Her program ended with Dvořák’s Gypsy Songs. I did not stay to hear them. Perhaps those lullabies had made me too sleepy.
You have never witnessed a master class like the one Thomas Quasthoff gave in this same hall, Weill. He was theatrical, outrageous, hilarious. He was mean, coarse, profane. He was probing, enlightening, wise. It was an amazing show, and Quasthoff put on two of them—two master classes—in this particular week. He concluded his stay at Carnegie with a performance of Schubert’s Schöne Müllerin, with the pianist Justus Zeyen (who also participated, tangentially, in the master classes).
Quasthoff, as you know, is a German bass-baritone, and his English is totally idiomatic (and totally American). He began the master class I attended this way: “Who wants to go to hell first?” Quasthoff gave all the students hell, but very helpful hell. One of the best things about his teaching was that he wouldn’t let anyone sing. That is, he broke in constantly, recognizing that a master class is not a string of performances, with a little commentary after each one. He wasted no time.
When he broke in, he’d say, “Excuse me, but … ,” or, “I’m sorry, but …” He would not let anyone proceed in error. And his bluntness was astounding: “If you cover like that, you will lose your range. I’m sorry, I don’t know who taught you to do that, but it’s wrong. How old are you?” “Twenty-nine.” “Your voice sounds much older than that, and it’s not necessary.” And Quasthoff made wonderful and persistent use of sarcasm: “Excuse me, but you are describing a tree”—this when a student had made too much of innocuous lines. He later told a pianist, “Don’t hide—help her.” And when that pianist was playing too softly, Quasthoff yelled at the keyboard, “Hello? Hello?”
Quasthoff showed himself to be a first-rate mimic, or caricaturist (and, obviously, such artistry can be stinging). I wish you could have seen him imitate a soprano being too dainty in a lied. And he has an enviable knack for picking the right language to communicate a point. To one singer, about one phrase, he said, “Less Boris Karloff, more Stephen King.” Trust me, it was perfect in the context.
He did a lot of demonstrating, to the point of showing off. But he has a great deal to show off. He simply kept singing “Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen”—the immortal Mahler song—because it would have been cruel to stop. Quasthoff is a complicated man, and he reveals a lot about himself in a master class—probably more than he realizes. He might do well to censor himself, just a bit. He declared that anyone believing in the Virgin Birth was “crazy.” Okay—but is that what you have to tell a master-class audience?
I was not charmed by every moment of this class, but I would have stayed the rest of the afternoon, and on into the night, for as long as Quasthoff wanted to keep performing (in multiple senses). And that traversal of Die schöne Müllerin? Supreme. (Justus Zeyen was excellent in that work as well.) Thomas Quasthoff is simply a phenom, and if you put him on television—or on talk radio—you’d probably make a fortune.
Very different from a Quasthoff master class was a concert in St. Ignatius Loyola Church—except that it was tremendously musical and wise. Called “Music of the Spirit,” the program brought the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir and its conductor, Paul Hillier. What is this Englishman doing as conductor of this Baltic choir? It makes perfect sense, really: Hillier is one of the most renowned choral conductors in the world, and the EPCC is one of the most renowned choirs (and was before Hillier got a hold of it in 2001). A natural and fortunate fit.
And both choir and conductor were true to their reputations on this Sunday afternoon in the church. The program was dominated by the music of Arvo Pärt, Estonia’s noblest musical son, and one of the finest and most moving composers working. He is known as a “holy minimalist,” although that designation is too glib and limited to do justice to Pärt. As you might guess, the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir has been a champion of Pärt’s music, and Paul Hillier has been a particular champion: not only conducting him, but writing about him, and generally evangelizing.
The concert opened with a Pärt work written in 2001–2002, Salve Regina. The piece is very open (compositionally) and very appealing. It has just a bit of stringency, to cut the narcotic of diatonicism. The EPCC sang the piece from the organ loft, way above and in back of the audience. The sound simply washed over one, transformingly. The choir was pure and seamless, but not without some bite, either. Preciousness is an enemy of Pärt, and of sacred music generally (and of other music).
Once in the standard position, at the front of the church, the choir sang Pärt’s Littlemore Tractus, from 2000. The words are taken from a sermon by John Henry Newman. Angelic peace pervades the music, and the EPCC conveyed exactly that peace.
They concluded the first half of the program with Rachmaninoff’s All-Night Vigil, more commonly known as the Vespers. They did not sing the entire work, which is a concert unto itself; they sang excerpts, and did so with true skill and understanding. Technically, they were unimpeachable. They lacked nothing in precision, unity, balance. But, even more important, they had a grasp on the spirit. Rachmaninoff’s music—his treatment of the old Russian forms—is endlessly gratifying and comforting. You could even call it loving. The Vespers possesses a healing power, and we heard some of that on this occasion.
The second half of the program began with more Pärt: Dopo la vittoria, composed in 1996–1997 for the 1,600th anniversary of the death of St. Ambrose, the great Church figure in Milan. Can you imagine Italianate Pärt? Yes, indeed: Dopo la vittoria is authentically Pärt, but it has a special merriment, clarity, and sparkle. The notes utterly match the Italian text.
Later in the program, the choir showed off some of its native music. They sang Five Religious Songs by Cyrillus Kreek, who lived from 1889 to 1962. The afternoon’s program notes told an interesting story:
[Kreek] was an Estonian composer from the generation of Arvo Pärt’s teacher, Heino Eller. He was an ethnomusicologist, the first to use a phonograph in Estonia; he recorded thousands of melodies and made arrangements of many of them, especially for chorus. His religious folk songs and psalm settings were particularly important and were widely performed during Estonia’s first independence (1920–40); banned during the Soviet period, they have enjoyed a comeback in recent years …
Well, thank goodness for that. Since the early 1990s, we have heard a lot of music—including in St. Ignatius Loyola Church, from Russian choirs—banned during those long decades of Soviet Communism. It is always especially touching to hear, given the previous suppression. Those Kreek songs are far from immortal, but that’s not the point (or at least mine): They are breathing free air, and they express a certain national pride. And it’s always good to hear a choir—as with a person—sing in its own language.
The concert closed with two more works of Pärt—the Anthem of St. John the Baptist (2004) and Nunc dimittis (2001)—both of which show him to be the master he is. Pärt is lucky to have the EPCC to showcase his work; and the EPCC is lucky to have his work to showcase.
Move, now, to the opera house—specifically to the Metropolitan. The Met did Verdi’s Luisa Miller, not that composer’s greatest work (to put it mildly), but enjoyed by many. The Met’s production is by Elijah Moshinsky, and it bowed in 2001. Like anything by Moshinsky, it is interesting, appropriate, and effective.
As for the Met’s cast, they were like players in a medical drama. Barbara Frittoli was scheduled to sing the title role. But she fell ill, giving way to Veronica Villarroel. Later, she fell ill, giving way to Karen Slack, a young American. Forced to withdraw from the first performance was the Rodolfo, Neil Shicoff. He was replaced by Eduardo Villa.
I’ll give you the rundown on the night I attended: Slack is in the title role. The bass scheduled to sing Wurm is out: Instead of Phillip Ens, we have Stephen West. Shicoff is back, in a role he loves and excels in. But he comes with a warning: Before the curtain rises, the Met’s general manager, Joseph Volpe, comes out to announce that the tenor has been recovering from “a bout of tracheitis.” We all must understand.
Shicoff is a gamer, and he sang gamely on this occasion. At his best, he gives you heroic lyricism, and he provided some of that. He had his bobbles, to be sure—but our expectations had been lowered. Karen Slack started out very tentatively, and one had to ask whether she was really ready. But she grew in confidence—and other good things—as the evening wore on. Irina Mishura was Federica, all Russian mezzoness, as usual. And Stephen West, singing Wurm? (By the way, that’s one of the great villain names in all of opera. What good do you expect from a Wurm?) He was a bit blustery, but more than adequate.
Verdi loves fathers—he stocks his operas with them, giving them notable, usually touching arias—and Luisa Miller has two of them. One is Luisa’s father (who is simply called Miller); and the other is Rodolfo’s, Count Walter. In the former role was the Spanish baritone Carlos Alvarez, a genuine Verdian, with a resplendent, beautiful, Italianate voice. He was possibly the standout of the evening. And Walter was sung by James Morris, the veteran and rugged bass. He had no top notes whatsoever. But it’s strange how little that mattered. Morris’s extreme operatic authority carried the day.
The conductor, Maurizio Benini, was as lively and energetic as possible. Though I am no anti-Verdian—indeed, I am an anti-anti-Verdian—I must say that Luisa Miller could use it. They can’t all be Traviata, can they?
We will end in the opera house, this time the New York State Theater, home of City Opera. This company staged Mark Adamo’s Lysistrata, or, The Nude Goddess, commissioned by the Houston Grand Opera in 1999. (HGO is a tireless progenitor of American opera.) Adamo had created a hit for HGO with Little Women. And he turned from Louisa May Alcott to Aristophanes for his second opera. Like Wagner and other figures you could name, Adamo is both composer and librettist.
A refresher on Lysistrata: It tells the story of a group of women—Athenian and Spartan—who deny their husbands sex, so they will stop making war. In an essay on his opera, Adamo calls the play “one of the West’s indispensable pacifist texts.” Adamo makes sure his own text is good and “relevant,” including such words as “terrorist.” We get the clear impression that the composer-librettist considers any reason for war pretty silly—you know, “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” That sort of thing.
The women in the play march around with several signs, one of which says “Peace Now.” It occurred to me that that movement is utterly destroyed in Israel; Arafat and his intifadas saw to that. But the familiar slogan lives on in this opera!
Politics aside, Adamo’s libretto is a smart, engaging thing. It rhymes, and often does so delightfully. Less delightful is the accent that Adamo imposes on the Spartans: They speak a kind of Central European Elmer Fudd, if you can imagine. This is entertaining for a few lines, but grows tiresome, in a full-length opera.
And how about what matters most: the music? The overture is jazzy, restless—extremely American. You hear some Gershwin, you hear some Bernstein, you hear some of the rest of the boys. The overture may well serve as a standalone piece. And American traditions don’t stop there: They flow through the veins of the entire score. In my opinion, the score is at its best when it is jokey, bawdy, light. It is less successful when it is serious and point-making.
The denouement of the opera is much too long, becoming insipid and boring (as well as too preachy). In this way, the opera is misshapen. With a briefer denouement, the work would be in better balance, and pack a greater punch. It’s as though Adamo had been slightly afraid to write a comedy. He had to say, “I’m an awfully serious and thoughtful guy, you know. I don’t just do fart jokes” (and there is some of that in Act I). In any case, Lysistrata is worth hearing and seeing, so that one may judge for oneself.
You could not have asked for a better cast than the one City Opera had assembled. In the title role was the American soprano Emily Pulley, and I keep asking: Why isn’t she more famous? But then, I am perpetually at a loss to explain the music biz. An American mezzo, Jennifer Rivera, was Myrrhine, and she too was superb. Adamo gives this character a wonderful bluesy, torchy aria. In fact, Lysistrata is very much musical-theater-like opera, or a classicized musical. If Adamo is not much of a boundary-respecter, opera isn’t either, and never has been, since its birth in—what? 1600? That’s as good a date as any.