Let's recap the career of André Previn, just briefly: Born in Berlin (name: Priwin). Fled with his family to L.A. Worked in the movies, developing himself as a pianist, conductor, arranger, composer, etc. Won a slew of Oscars by an early age. Became a symphonic conductor, while continuing to play the piano, and compose, and generally dazzle. Got to be something of a celebrity, marrying Mia Farrow, for example. (He is now—yes—Woody Allen's father-in-law.) On top of everything, he writes well—I mean, he writes English prose extremely well. In fact, his writing is like his playing, or conducting: clear, graceful, tidy, musical. This is an able guy, André Previn.

Five years ago, I wrote a piece saying that he was maybe—just maybe—"the great man of music in the world today." A musician should compose, really, that activity being the most important of all musical activities. Daniel Barenboim, a pianist and conductor, is a great man of music, whatever our particular complaints about him—but he does not compose (so far as we know). James Levine is a great man of music—a pianist and conductor—but he has not yet produced a minuet (again, as far as we know). Previn, however, seems never to be far from his manuscript paper.

Lately, his muse has been Anne-Sophie Mutter, the celebrated German violinist who is his wife. He has given her, for example, a concerto, which—through various means—explores his own childhood in Germany. Previn's life has come full circle, you might say: After roaming the world, conquering it, he lives in Munich, with a German wife. His has been an eye-rubbing odyssey.

The musician's latest activity has been to form a trio, known as the Mutter-Previn-Harrell Trio. That is an ordering worth contemplating. Some think the name of the pianist should come first, followed by that of the violinist, followed by that of the cellist (The cellist is always last, regardless.) We have a famous story involving Arthur Rubinstein and Jascha Heifetz. These greats were two-thirds of one of the best trios ever, with the cellist Emanuel Feuermann, and, after his death, Gregor Piatigorsky. But Heifetz's extreme ego and prickliness made chamber life difficult (and eventually, the trio had no choice but to disband). One objection was that Rubinstein's name came first. Rubinstein explained, exasperatedly, "Jascha, if God were the violinist, the bill would still read 'Rubinstein, God, Piatigorsky.'"

The cellist of the Previns' trio is Lynn Harrell, a man whose career seems quieter than it once was. This ensemble visited Carnegie Hall with a concert of three beloved early trios by three great composers: Beethoven's Piano Trio in C minor, Op. 1, No. 3; Brahms's Piano Trio No. 1 in B, Op. 8; and Mendelssohn's Piano Trio No. 1 in D minor, Op. 49. These were youthful flights of genius, and it was good to see them in a row (even if they were out of order—chronological order). An acquaintance of mine, hearing about this concert, rolled his eyes and said, "All standards." Yes, but they don't need to be played in an uninteresting or uninspired way.

And they weren't. Before describing the performances, however, I might comment on how our three musicians looked. Previn is seventy-five now, and he seems shorter than ever, especially in comparison with his wife. But there will always be something of the wunderkind about him, the eternally precocious all-purpose musician from Hollywood. Anne-Sophie Mutter, at forty, is more gorgeous than ever, stunning in her command of her instrument (most of the time) and of her person. Lynn Harrell is much changed from the smooth-faced young cellist we once knew. (He is the son of the fine American baritone Mack Harrell, by the way.) At sixty, Harrell is red-bearded and red-mustached, looking somewhat like a younger, trimmer Kris Kringle.

What does this have to do with music, properly speaking? Nothing—but it is a bit of reporting on three prominent musical personalities.

Beethoven's Op. 1, No. 3 is one of his many and great C-minor works, which also include the "Pathétique" piano sonata and the Fifth Symphony. The Mutter-Previn-Harrell Trio did well by it. Mutter considers herself a Beethovenist, having played and recorded all the sonatas, for example. But she is uneven in Beethoven, as she is in other composers. She can lay into him incisively and authoritatively, or she can be sloppy, distracted, annoying. On this occasion, she was authoritative. She was as alert, sensible, and musical as I have heard her in many a moon. As for Harrell, he has always been a rather emotional musician, playing quite Romantically, and sometimes bathetically. (He has this in common with his fellow cellist Yo-Yo Ma.) And, in the first movement of the Beethoven, he was indeed emotional—but not wrongly or unmusically so.

Previn? It seemed that he had been practicing. He exhibited a smooth, fluid pianism. Sometimes he was a little weak, or reticent, and some of his passagework was a bit sluggish. But he is clearly (still) a pianist—in jazz and in classical music—not merely a conductor and composer who plays a bit on the side.

In the Andante movement (which features variations), Mutter was astoundingly sweet-toned, and Harrell contributed handsomely too. The pianist demonstrated a beautiful singing line. Again, however, he tended to be mousy. Here and throughout the concert, he was more successful in slower, more reflective sections than in faster, more bravura ones.

In the third movement (a minuet), Mutter exploited her part brilliantly, and the Finale (Prestissimo) pulsed with passion, while being sufficiently nimble. The two stringed instruments threatened to overwhelm the piano, and Previn would have been wise to play out more, but he was ever elegant. This is a Previn hallmark, in whatever he does.

The Brahms Trio No. 1 is a youthful work, true, and yet it isn't: Brahms revised it significantly in his autumnal years, so that the work is a wonderful hybrid of early Brahms and late. It can be played aggressively, emotionally—almost purplely (to coin a word); or it can be played in a more intricate fashion. Where Previn had anything to do with it, of course, it was intricate.

This work features one of the most beautiful beginnings in all of music (Brahms was good at beginnings, and other things). Previn was a little retiring, but Harrell responded ardently (as he would), gobbing on the portamento. Mutter's phrasing was consistently natural, right-seeming. It was a pity that Previn could not produce enough sound, even though he had the piano's lid all the way up. His playing suggested that he, like the revising Brahms, is in autumnal mode, marriage to Anne-Sophie or not.

In the Scherzo, Harrell was crafty, and, together with Mutter, quite aggressive. Previn went his own way. Tempos in the second section of this movement were a little slow, but not saggy. The Adagio was exceptionally slow—and hushed, and moving. When Mutter and Harrell "sang" together, the effect was almost religious; something deep had been touched. The opening of the final movement (Allegro) billowed appropriately, but the group's energy rather ran out, and things got a little weary and plodding.

There had better not be anything weary or plodding about Mendelssohn's Piano Trio No. 1. The composer's youth, impetuosity, and felicity are all over it. Lynn Harrell began with a monster portamento, and we seemed to be in for a session of soupiness. But the first movement came to have fire and agitation (which was fortunate, because its marking is "Molto allegro ed agitato"). The music that begins the Andante, Previn rendered simply and beautifully. The Scherzo jumped, dove, and swam. The three were well coordinated, and they showed a fabulous lightness—a frothiness, really. The Finale was stirring and noble.

This was not a perfect concert—certainly not technically. But it was a touching concert, filled with musicality, with musical maturity. It was a good idea to form this trio, and its members seemed to enjoy belonging to it. There is a great repertory to play, for one thing. And André Previn never runs out of activity, seeming to need a multiplicity of pursuits like air. He has created and led a remarkable musical life. His parents named him after Beethoven: Andreas Ludwig Priwin. He has not had Beethoven's career, no. But it has been a rich career, and it forges ahead.

The big news at the Metropolitan Opera in the last part of the season was Wagner's Ring; the Met reprised the Otto Schenk production from the 1980s, and this was a huge success. But more about The Ring in a moment.

We had another Otto Schenk production as the season wound down: his Rusalka, a Dvořák opera from 1900. Dvořák's operas were once quite popular, Rusalka not the least. But these works have fallen out of favor. Musical fashion, like other fashion, is a bit of a mystery. Currently, the operas of Janá?ek are very much in style: We see Jen?fa, Katya Kabanova, The Cunning Little Vixen, and The Makropulos Affair relatively frequently. Almost certainly, Dvořák will again have his day, in the opera house. On his symphonies and chamber music, the sun has never set!

Rusalka is called a "lyric fairy tale," and though it is a fairy tale, it is not ridiculous: It is, in fact, thought-provoking and true-to-life, telling the story of a water nymph—Rusalka—who falls in love with a human being (a prince, no less) and longs to become human, to unite with him. Courtesy of a witch, she achieves her goal, but the bargain is hard: She will be mute in the human world, and should the prince reject her, it will mean hell (literally) for her, and for him. Oh, well.

This opera is known primarily for one aria, the "Song to the Moon," beloved by sopranos ever since its composition. It has been included in countless opera-aria albums, and in many movies and TV shows. Overall, Rusalka is watery—borrowing from Wagner's Rheingold and Götterdämmerung, speaking of The Ring—sensuous, and enchanting. It is not without nationalist and modern-sounding touches. Its orchestration is a typical Dvořák one, producing those unmistakable textures. This is a powerful work.

It opens with three Wood Sprites, frolicking about. We think—we must think—of the three Rhinemaidens who open The Ring. Just as Wagner's three tease the slimy Alberich, Dvořák's three tease the slimy Water Gnome. All the while, the Sprites sing "ho, ho, ho"—not quite "hojotoho" (the Valkyries' exclamation), but close.

Soon Rusalka appears, and this is a dreamy role in a dreamy opera: Who better to fill it than Renée Fleming, the dreamiest soprano—the dreamiest singer—now going? She makes, indeed, a consummate Rusalka. In this production, she first sang up in a tree, a bored teenager who wants to switch "racesâ";the grass is always greener, perhaps especially at that age. Fleming showed her superb control of breath, which, among other things, translates into superb control of dynamics. Her pushing out of her lower register often seems effortful, but listeners grow accustomed to that.

When it was time for the Song, themoon popped out, right on cue—very Hollywood. And if Renée is singing about the moon, shouldn't she also sing the word "June" Fleming's rendering of this aria was a little mannered, but, as I frequently point out—especially with regard to this singer—one man's mannerisms are another's endearing characteristics. The Song was slow and milked, but it nevertheless hit the mark. Fleming's A sharp at the end, held forever, was bold, electrifying, great.

Portraying the Water Gnome (Rusalka's father) was Willard White, the Jamaican-born bass. As outfitted in this Schenk production, he looked not at all unlike Alberich and Alberich's equally slimy brother, Mime. White has a sepulchral voice, and we are not always sure where the note is, but he is sturdy and worthy. So he was on this occasion. He grasped the role, too, putting across both the lechery—he goes for those Wood Sprites—and the protectiveness toward his doomed daughter.

The witch who helps—but does not help—Rusalka is Ježibaba, and she was sung by Dolora Zajick, the veteran mezzo who owns one of the biggest voices in all of mezzodom. In fact, she and Stephanie Blythe can fight for it. But Zajick is far more than a big-voiced singer: She is smart, musically, and convincing, making her a leading Azucena—or Amneris, or Eboli—of our time. As Ježibaba, she sang terrifically, and she acted the same way. When she hollered eternal damnation, she meant it.

Our tenor, portraying the Prince, was a Russian, Oleg Kulko, who is little known on these shores. He started tightly, and his intonation was suspect, but he soon settled in, sounding heroic. When the Prince finally hooks up with Rusalka, she, of course, is voiceless, which is an absurd condition for Renée Fleming, in particular. This meant, however, that this opera singer—Fleming—had to become pure actress. Which she in fact did, underlining just how valuable she is as a performer.

At the end of Act I, frogs and other forest critters came out, all part of the extraordinary imagination of Otto Schenk.

Act II features a foreign princess—who wrenches the Prince from Rusalka—and this role was filled by a woman who, as far as I could tell, was the only actual Czech in the cast. A critic friend of mine remarked, "How ironic"—meaning that the sole Czech was singing the Foreign Princess! I wondered whether the soprano, Eva Urbanov , was putting on some kind of accent. I was hardly competent to judge. In any case, Urbanov was as she usually is, dark, cutting, formidable. Among her roles is Tosca, and even as she was singing the Foreign Princess, one could just hear her declare, "O Scarpia, avanti a Dio!"

In Act III, Oleg Kulko was free and easy, vocally, and Fleming, her speech restored, was deeply affecting, heartbreaking. Dvořák Wagner-influenced music—ably conducted by Andrew Davis—entranced. One left the opera house kind of woozy and sad.

And now for the Main Event: The Ring is arguably the glory of the entire Met repertory. The company's music director, James Levine, loves the Schenk production, and it loves him. The conductor is the most important figure in The Ring—no matter who the Brünnhilde, or the Wotan, or the Siegfried—and Levine is the best Wagner conductor in the world, but we will save him for last.

It may not be possible to assemble a finer cast for The Ring than the one assembled by the Met for its 2004 performances. I mean, of course, that the Met probably hired as good a cast as possible in the present day (which is not necessarily a great one for Wagner singing). Alberich was Richard Paul Fink, who was compelling both physically and vocally. Wotan was James Morris, who is now inseparable from this role. He sang with the expected beauty and authority. When he got to the Farewell, in Die Walküre, his voice was shot, but this made him all the more poignant: a father delivering a wrenching goodbye to his daughter—a daughter whom he has wronged.

The find of this Ring, at least as far as New York was concerned, was Yvonne Naef, the Swiss mezzo-soprano making her Met debut. She was Fricka, a Norn, and Waltraute, all three. Naef has a rugged voice, but one blessed with a lyrical streak. Above all, she is an even, sure-footed, self-possessed singer. Waltraute's narration, she unfolded with a tragic majesty.

Scoring a huge hit as Mime was Gerhard Siegel, a German tenor. It was hard to imagine that one could do more with that part. So excellent was he in Siegfried, you might have called that opera Mime. Singing Erda (as well as a Norn) was Elena Zaremba, the Russian mezzo with the shockingly big voice. (In fact, she is in the Zajick and Blythe league.) And if I may, she made a palpably sexy—an earthily sexy—Erda. This was entirely appropriate.

Die Walküre meant Deborah Voigt as Sieglinde and Plácido Domingo as Siegmund. This is one of the great pairings in all of opera. Voigt was her refulgent, musically rapturous self. Rarely have we witnessed such a combination of vocal beauty and vocal power. Domingo, too, was himself, despite his senior status. His cries of "Notung!" were not as ringing as they once were, but he exploits the resources still available to him, and those resources are considerable. His aria, "Winterstürme," was shaped with beauty and intelligence.

Brünnhilde? That was Jane Eaglen, the most celebrated Brünnhilde in the world today. (She was also the most celebrated Isolde, until Debbie Voigt began singing the part, which she did last season, in Vienna.) Eaglen can be a dull singer, but she had many lively moments in The Ring, and those moments were gratifying. Her Immolation Scene was strangely subdued, but not a dud.

Our Siegfried was Jon Fredric West, an American tenor who has a bigger career in Europe than in his home country. He was not an ideal Siegfried, no—Lauritz Melchior is indisposed—but you're lucky to have any Siegfried at all, and West makes a competent one. A more than competent one, truthfully. He was ever game in this notoriously punishing role. The bravos he received were unquestionably earned.

Matti Salminen, the venerable Finnish bass, took care of a couple of roles in this Ring: that of the dragon (which is the giant Fafner in disguise) and that of Hagen. Salminen was booming and accurate, as usual, and he has a particular fix on the twisted role of Hagen. In all, he is one of the canniest performers in the business.

And now to Maestro Levine. Little can be said that has not already been said, but I will say that he is, in fact, George Szell's heir. (Levine apprenticed under the great man in Cleveland.) His Wagner is clear, disciplined, sort of Classical. It is well paced, well imagined, well felt. It pays attention to detail, and accords with the big picture.

Before Act III of Götterdämmerung, I said to the critic sitting next to me, "So, what should we look forward to?" He said, "Well, for one thing, Levine is the best Siegfried's Funeral Music conductor since Furtwängler." Indeed, he is possibly the best Ring conductor, tout court, since Furtwängler. The Met audience, happily—and amazingly—seems to recognize it. They screamed their heads off every time he came out for an act, and when he took his bow at the end of an opera. As I was leaving Das Rheingold—just the first installment of the tetralogy—a woman behind me, a complete stranger, said to me, "We just witnessed something historic, didn't we?" She had it right.

There has been talk that Levine is diminished, by a mysterious neurological illness. If he is diminished, every conductor should be so diminished. True, he has some disappointing nights. I have described these nights as "listless," ";sluggish,""indifferent." I don't know whether this problem should be attributed to anything physical, but this season Levine has given many alive performances: in Tristan, in The Marriage of Figaro, and especially in this Ring. He has lived with this cycle for a long time now, and he has only increased in wisdom and command. The Rheingold I heard was so much better than Levine's recording (1988), it's not even funny.

I said that the final word would be devoted to Levine, but let's give it to Schenk instead. His production is called "traditional" (and that word is usually uttered with a sneer). I would say that it is not traditional, but rather right—right for these operas, which make up one of the greatest works of art in the history of man.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 10, on page 48
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