The story of Leon Fleisher is familiar, but must be recapped. He was one of the most successful pianists in the world when, during the 1964–65 season, he contracted a disorder affecting his right hand. From that time on, he taught, conducted, and played a lot of literature for the left hand alone. Much of that music was commissioned by the pianist Paul Wittgenstein, who lost an arm in World War I. Slowly—particularly in the mid-1990s—Fleisher began to return to some two-handed work. And through it all, he has been, as ever, Fleisher: bold and brave.
He recently joined the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center for a most appealing concert. It was, as is true of any chamber event, an occasion for ensemble, but Fleisher was unmistakably at the center of things. He first took the stage for the Brahms Piano Quartet in C Minor, Op. 60 (a work, of course, requiring all ten fingers). I should note that Fleisher, astonishingly, looks pretty much as he did all those years ago, with those prominent glasses, that prominent jaw, and that prominent hair—so much of it. He plays pretty much like himself, too. He has that grand, masculine tone. He emits an aura of command. He brings a dramatic intensity. Obviously, he is playing without his full technical capability, and this was not a performance that you would necessarily want to preserve on CD —but it was stirring and admirable. The cellist, Gary Hoffman, contributed a fetching solo in the Andante.
On the second half of the program was the Suite for Two Violins, Cello, and Piano (Left Hand) of Erich Wolfgang Korngold. This was a Wittgenstein commission, and it represents Korngold in his exciting pre-Hollywood days. (Korngold was among those who had to flee as the Nazi night fell.) He was an ingenious composer, and he figured out how to employ the left hand alone to best effect. (Korngold also gave Wittgenstein a concerto.) The suite is a pleasant and clever work, which deserves to be better known.
In it, Fleisher was masterly, providing virtuosic, intelligent, and musical playing. Korngold’s modernized Viennese waltz was melting. The section entitled “Lied” brought to mind the cliché “ravishing beauty.” Throughout the work, the playing of the entire group was Romantic, whim- sical, and winning. You could tell that Fleisher—even one-handed, even in an offbeat work—was an important pianist. That is, you could have told that if you had walked in off the street, not knowing anything about the man at the bench. His right hand was free for turning the pages. A brilliant, painful, and necessarily unusual career, Fleisher’s—and it’s not yet over.
Kurt Masur is in his last days as music director of the New York Philharmonic, a tenure that began eleven years ago. Soon he will give way to Lorin Maazel. Masur’s valedictory programs have been interesting and engaging, and none more so than the program offering the cantata from Prokofiev’s Alexander Nevsky and the Mozart Requiem. Masur seems to have programmed music he loves and does well, which is rarely a bad idea.
Prokofiev, of course, teamed with Sergei Eisenstein to make Alexander Nevsky in 1938. Stalin was wary of Germany and decided that it was better to be Russian rather than Soviet for a while. The film tells the tale of an ancient and epic battle between Russians and Germans. When Stalin made his alliance with Hitler, Alexander Nevsky, needless to say, was shelved. It was taken off when Hitler turned on his ally.
The composer fashioned from his score a cantata for mezzo-soprano, chorus, and orchestra, which the Philharmonic performed with the New York Choral Artists (Joseph Flummerfelt, director). Masur was at the top of his game. He drew from the orchestra a certain bleakness of sound, to go with a roughness of sound, appropriate to the work. He was rhythmically incisive, exacting, exciting. In his hands, the music wasn’t too heavy, but rather had about it a buoyancy and light-footedness. This Nevsky felt at times like a true cantata, not an extravaganza (and it is both). It had some of the fleetness and zaniness of Lieutenant Kijé, as well as some of the romance and lift of Romeo and Juliet (and why not, seeing that they all came from the same pen?). Tempos were sensible, neither dragging nor rushing.
The soloist was Nancy Maultsby, a mezzo who is most closely associated with the Lyric Opera of Chicago. From her throat comes a dark, husky, and wondrous sound. Often the singer in this cantata reminds you of “The Field of the Dead”—the “snow-clad field”—of which she sings: cold, icy, barely human. Maultsby did not give that impression, but she brought passion and force, which were also welcome. She is a musician of clear intelligence and conviction.
Every aspect of this somewhat unwieldy score, Masur handled deftly, superbly. He had not been back very long following an extended absence for surgery, yet he was pulsating with vigor, barely able to contain himself on the podium. It would be hard to ask for conducting more savvy or spirit-filled. The question ran through my mind: “Why, again, are they getting rid of him?”
The earlier work—the earlier and greater work—was performed second, as really had to be the case. One does not follow the Mozart Requiem with anything. The Philharmonic’s was not a scaled-down “originalist” performance, of course, and neither was it an overlarge one. It was in between, a good place to be.
In the vocal quartet, there was one rather unknown quantity, the bass Nathan Berg, who contributed some distinguished singing. Admirably, he could be heard even on his lowest notes. The soprano was the veteran Edith Wiens, always competent. And Maultsby returned, as powerful and persuasive in the Mozart as she had been in the Prokofiev. She is the kind of singer who makes you, the listener, pay attention.
Our tenor was Stanford Olsen, who often seems to be walking a tightrope. He is a cracker—one who cracks—and if he doesn’t crack, he is always in danger of cracking, which makes an audience rather nervous. Yet he possesses a truly beautiful voice—light, high, and sweet—and to hear him is worth the anxiety. Still, it is to be hoped that, before he is through, he works out the technical glitches, which may—not to put the poor man on the couch—relate as much to the mind as to technique, strictly speaking.
This Requiem, almost needless to say, was perfectly adequate. There was nothing overtly wrong with it. But it lacked ethereality. Much of it was more pleasant than profound. The Recordare, for example, was routine, and the Lacrimosa, though it was balanced and dignified, was far from heartrending. The osannas at the end of the Sanctus, it’s true, were thrilling. But this was a rather normal Requiem—an everyday one—that failed to scale the heights. That may seem like too much to ask, height-scaling: but I am one critic who expects and fairly demands great things from the next music director of the Orchestre National de France.
If the Metropolitan Opera has a dominant star—memo to Mr. Pavarotti: I’m not saying it does—it is Plácido Domingo, who has sung (and occasionally conducted) with the house for about thirty-five years. Apparently, what Plácido wants, Plácido pretty much gets, and this season he wanted a production of Sly in which to star. This is the opera by Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari that Domingo’s wife, Marta, had produced in Washington with the Third Tenor, José Carreras, in the title role. That production was transferred wholesale to the Met.
Wolf-Ferrari is barely known now, but he enjoyed a reputation throughout Europe in his day (mainly, the first three decades of the last century). Elisabeth Schwarzkopf used to sing Italian songs of his arrangement as encores for her Italian audiences. Until the recent rise of Sly, Wolf-Ferrari’s best-known (though, again, barely known) opera was Il Segreto di Susanna. (Her secret? She smokes.)
Sly opens in a tavern, and it reminds many people of Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann. Domingo, according to a consensus, is the ultimate Hoffmann. He does well in operas that have the smell of ale. How many times have we seen him jump up onto a tavern table to sing (usually with raised glass in hand)? While its first act is merry and raucous—though tinged with foreboding—Sly, in its final two acts, turns gut-wrenching and tragic, embodying sheer verismo.
The evening’s soprano, singing Dolly, was the Russian Maria Guleghina, who caused a near sensation last season at the Met as Abigaille in Verdi’s Nabucco. She is a battleship of a soprano, ready for anything, willing even to sound ugly for the sake of some dramatic or musical effect. At the beginning of Sly, Guleghina did a little bellowing—a little shrieking—and she had trouble finding her pitch. But she always carries herself and sings like an opera singer, a diva, for which there is surely place in an opera house. I should point out that Guleghina is not always a battleship: in the Act II love duet, she showed tenderness and beauty.
Taking the role of the Count of Westmoreland—as he had in Washington for Mrs. Domingo—was the veteran Spanish baritone Juan Pons. He sang solidly and conveyed the right malice.
About our star, there is by now little left to say. Words fails, or rather, they are the same: resplendent, gleaming, animated, commanding, consummate. It seems that no one has told Domingo that, in his sixties, he must be in decline. Not only is he sounding better than in years past, he is looking better, too: trimmer, fitter, more capable. And he seems to be shedding (vocal) mannerisms, whereas musicians, as they age, usually increase them. To hear and watch him is to acknowledge that you, too, would give him his own show. If Domingo is the “ultimate” Hoffmann, he is the ultimate Sly as well. It would be nice if he recorded the opera, though with one recording of the work already (headed by Carreras), perhaps the world—which is to say, the market—has enough.
In the pit was the Italian conductor Marco Armiliato, who handled his duties well. Sly, incidentally, is no joke of a score; it is interesting, varied, and accomplished. It certainly deserves its moment in the Met sun, particularly given that some lesser operas have been permitted to bask in that sun. Far from a curiosity or a sop to a star, this production was moving, even memorable.
Anne Sofie von Otter has one of the most interesting careers in singing, and also one of the widest repertories—these two facts must be related. The Swedish mezzo-soprano is often found off the beaten track, for example making a recording with Elvis Costello. She likes to showcase deserving but overlooked composers, such as Scandinavians not named Grieg or Nielsen, and the aforementioned Erich Wolfgang Korngold (who wrote some exquisite songs). Her latest recording is devoted to the lady composer Cécile Chaminade.
At Alice Tully Hall, von Otter appeared with Les Musiciens du Louvre, a “period” group with which she both concertizes and records. (Its founder and conductor is Marc Minkowski.) The program opened with Bach’s cantata “Ich habe genug,” one of his greatest works, and therefore one of music’s. It is usually sung by a bass or baritone; in fact, it would be sung by Thomas Quasthoff in Carnegie Hall with the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra a few weeks later. But von Otter has every right to assume this music, as no singer, whatever the voice, should have to pass it up.
Her approach to the first aria was surprisingly operatic, or, let’s say, large and forward. Others have been more introspective in this music, more aware of the holy. But von Otter gave evidence of her many virtues, including intonation that would survive a hurricane—nothing can blow her off. Her phrasing is intelligent, and the voice is a pleasure: meaty low notes, reliable (if not spine-tingling) high notes. She is the sort of singer who “hugs the line,” who is always solid. Her recitative singing, in the cantata, was exemplary.
In the second aria—the divine, cradling “Schlummert ein, ihr matten Augen”—the orchestra was something of a distraction, playing in a detached manner, without the proper flow. But von Otter managed to do some beautiful things in this section. The third and closing aria—“Ich freue mich auf meinen Tod”—was fast, bordering on rushed, and von Otter did not seem her most secure self in it. In addition, the orchestra—or Les Musiciens, we should say—sometimes overwhelmed her, especially when she was in her lower register.
The singer returned for three arias of Handel, beginning with “Resign Thy Club” from Hercules (which she has recorded with Minkowski and this group—that is, they have recorded the complete opera). She was peppy and slightly hammy—with liberal portamento—but also somewhat unprojected. The second and third arias were from Ariodante, beginning with the difficult “Scherzo infida,” which was very slow and very noble: there was that customary von Otter feeling of substance. But as the aria progressed, she became so slow and “subjective”—overdramatic, to put it negatively—the music almost ceased to be itself. Even so, this was an impressive performance, as von Otter’s ability wins out.
Ending the set was “Dopo notte,” which was sprightly, but, again, slightly underpowered, even in a chamber hall, even with that ensemble. I should note that von Otter can move her voice through passagework with almost unseemly ease. Her musical tastefulness is often remarked, but it must be said, too, that she has technique to spare. And though we may cavil here or there, she is a singer who always satisfies, than which it’s hard to say more.
This year includes milestones for two major musicians: Seiji Ozawa, who is finishing his tenure with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, after almost thirty years, and Mstislav Rostropovich, who is celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday. The two of them—or the three of them, including the orchestra —visited Carnegie Hall, with a new cello concerto by a young French composer, written for Rostropovich, and the Dvorak concerto. The series of concerts—including with the Boston—that Rostropovich gave in celebration of his sixtieth birthday were fantastic; a performance of Prokofiev’s Symphonie concertante (also written for him), in Boston, stands out in the memory. No one can play that work like Rostropovich, and, of course, no one can play like Rostropovich.
The Carnegie concert began, however, with a piece composed in honor of Ozawa’s twenty-fifth anniversary with the orchestra by John Williams: it is called for Seiji! and it is a little showpiece, in which the BSO virtuosi have a chance to dazzle. This is not immortal music, but it has some very nice bars in it. Elements of the film Williams can be heard in this work, along with elements of the concert-music Williams (and they can seem to be two separate composers, with the advantage belonging to the film Williams). When it comes to showing off, almost everyone in the orchestra has a turn, even the harpist. The BSO is obviously a first-rate band that should flourish under a first-rate conductor, James Levine, who is set to join them full-time in 2004. As for Ozawa, he was, in this piece, “dynamic,” to use one of the (positive) words most often applied to him.
That new concerto is by Eric Tanguy, born in 1968. It is his Cello Concerto No. 2, indicating that he was in the business even before the world’s most important cellist asked him for a fresh piece. The concerto for Rostropovich is well constructed and color-filled; it is also very French, for all its rough and “international” modernism. It is not without tedium—possibly, it is a little long for what it has to offer. How many hearings it receives after the great man is through with it is an open question. But Tanguy—beaming and giddy after the performance, as he should have been—is lucky as well as gifted, and he surely knows it.
The second half of the program went to the Dvorak, the dominant work in this repertory (with apologies to Haydn and other worthies). How many times has Rostropovich sat down to play this work? How many times has he rehearsed it, conducted it, accompanied it on the piano, taught it, commented on it, thought about it? It has served him well, and he has served it well. Some people maintain that his recording of the Dvorak with Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic is “the most perfect recording ever made.” (They used to say the same thing about John McCormack’s “Comfort ye,” in the early days.) Indeed, I might argue that Rostropovich’s account of the Bach suites is the most perfect recording ever made—but that’s another essay, in addition to a parlor game.
By this time, the reader will want to know how Rostropovich played. In the new concerto, he was splendid, quite Rostropovich-like. His sound is unmistakable, both in its tone and in the way it moves. It is as familiar as one’s own voice, or Callas’s. As for his technique, very few musicians in history have been so secure on their instruments as Rostropovich. When he is at his best—which is the way he has been for most of his life—he has utter control over his body, his instrument, and his mind. Furthermore, what is in that mind is powerful.
The Dvorák did not find him at his best. This was an odd performance, in that it was very, very slow. Some critics, wanting to be complimentary, might write “daringly slow.” I would say that it verged on experimentally slow—as though the cellist wanted to find some (not very happy) limit. Conductor, orchestra, and soloist had a hard time playing together, and there were moments of turgidity. Still, this was Rostropovich, something to be thankful for.
After much applause, Ozawa launched the BSO into “Happy Birthday,” taken at a decent, singable tempo.