Sarah Connolly

In the space of three days, New York heard recitals by two British mezzos. I can still say “British” because Scotland is not out of the Union (although separatists persist). On Friday night, Karen Cargill, the Scotswoman, sang in Weill Recital Hall. (For my review of that event, go here.) On Sunday afternoon, Sarah Connolly, an Englishwoman, sang in Alice Tully Hall.

Earlier on Sunday afternoon, Dorothea Röschmann, the German soprano, sang in Carnegie Hall. (My review here.) It was a banner weekend for singing. How was a guy supposed to watch Jordan Spieth win the Masters?

Sarah Connolly has the traits long associated with her breed, by which I mean, British mezzos. Among them are taste, dignity, and poise. The first half of her program was entirely in German, beginning with the three “Ellen” songs of Schubert. In general, she sang them confidently and richly, smoothly and movingly. There is something about her singing that makes you sit up straighter. There is a purity, an integrity, about her.

Many years ago, a critic described Kurt Masur’s conducting of something as “almost moral.” I can’t remember who the critic was, else I would name him. Nor can I remember the piece that Masur had conducted. But I thought the phrase “almost moral” was exactly right. And the phrase came to me as I heard Connolly sing.

The third of the “Ellen” songs is “Ave Maria,” maybe the most famous song in the world, along with “Happy Birthday” and a few others. I will tell you a secret: I find it trying to sit through “Ave Maria.” First, I have heard it too many times, and second, it’s so damn long. But it seemed new when Connolly sang it—not tired at all, and not too long. I sort of rediscovered its greatness.

Following the Schubert, Connolly sang the Rückert Lieder of Mahler, same as Karen Cargill had in Weill Recital Hall. Connolly did not put a foot wrong. She was elegant, strong, subtle, and touching. She demonstrated superb technical control. In her final song, “Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,” she took long, long breaths. Her singing of this song was utterly transporting.

As she sang, I somehow felt that she had her great predecessors, Ferrier and Baker, behind her. This heritage is both a burden, I imagine, and a help. Is that contradictory? Yes, but possibly true all the same.

The afternoon’s pianist was Joseph Middleton, who was a fitting partner for such a fine singer. He could be relied on to obey the musical line. And he was especially good at soft playing. He played the penultimate note of “Ich bin der Welt . . .” very, very softly. I figured he could not get under that—or that the last note would fail to sound. He did get under it, and it did sound.

For the second half of her recital, Connolly turned to her native language. She began with Copland’s Dickinson songs, or half of them—he wrote twelve, and she sang six. She did not include the song that may be the best of them: “Heart, we will forget him.”

And may I give you an irrelevant and snotty aside? Copland’s “There came a wind like a bugle” is not nearly as good as the song on the same text by my late friend Lee Hoiby.

At any rate, Connolly provided an example of good, honest singing. No note was false in this Copland group, in any sense. I thought of something I have often said about singing: “Beautiful or interesting voice; technical security; musical understanding; a dose of charisma—that’s pretty much the whole ballgame.” Connolly has the whole ballgame, pretty much.

And when she sang the Copland song about the organ—“I’ve heard an organ talk sometimes”—I again thought of that phrase “almost moral.”

Connolly finished her printed program with Elgar’s Sea Pictures. When she was young, did she listen to Dame Janet’s recording about a thousand times, same as the rest of us? Probably so. In any event, she sang the Pictures with utter trueness, soundness, and conviction. Is that because she’s English? Or because she’s a good singer?

For years, I have spoken against the concept of nationality as destiny. I must say, however, that being English could not have hurt this mezzo.

By the end of the Pictures, she was running out of gas, vocally, but she sang a couple of encores—the first being “Ombra mai fu,” from Handel’s Xerxes, or Serse. (Many know the tune as “Handel’s Largo.”) Being a mezzo, she does not sing the aria in its familiar key of G. To me, it always sounds wrong out of G. But there was nothing wrong with Connolly’s singing of it: She was neat, tender, and moving. The aria sounded almost like a hymn, “almost moral” indeed.

Never mind that the character in the opera is paying tribute to a tree . . .

Connolly bade farewell with a Baker number, “King David,” by Herbert Howells. I would have liked her to end on something less somber—maybe some version of “Pretty Ring Time” or even “Kitty My Love”? In any case, she sang “King David” honestly, movingly, righteously. There is no artifice or guile in this woman. Not a trace of falsity.

Perhaps I should now think of “King David” as a Connolly number.

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