The Cleveland Orchestra settled into Carnegie Hall for four separate concerts. At its helm was its new conductor, Franz Welser-Möst. Well, he ceded his duties for one concert to Mitsuko Uchida, the pianist, who served as both soloist and conductor. They all get the itch, don’t they? Even some singers eventually pick up the baton (e.g., Fischer-Dieskau, not to mention Plácido). Itzhak Perlman, by the way, has now started to conduct. He leads the Berlin Philharmonic in a new all-Mozart album from EMI. It’s a good recording, too.
Franz Welser-Möst is a still-young Austrian who has replaced Christoph von Dohnányi, who directed the Cleveland for just under twenty years. Dohnányi found an orchestra in subpar shape and restored it—almost—to the glory it had known under George Szell. Previously, Welser-Möst made his mark at the Zurich Opera and with the London Philharmonic. For almost fifteen years now, he has been an up-and-comer—and he’s still up-and-coming.
The first of the Cleveland’s concerts began with the Beethoven Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Op. 131. Hang on, though: Wasn’t this an orchestral concert? Yes, but the Cleveland offered the arrangement for string orchestra fashioned by Dimitri Mitropoulos, the late Greek conductor. Orchestras should not have to borrow from the quartets, as they have plenty of fine Beethoven of their own. But this arrangement is a worthy addition to the repertory, or, rather, a worthy supplement to it.
Under Welser-Möst’s baton, the first several movements went nicely, being well paced, well breathed, and uncluttered. Every voice was clear, and nothing was unduly heavy. The music had the feel of a string quartet. The mighty Clevelanders seemed to be operating as chamber players. But the performance broke down in the Presto movement, which was all too orchestral—and badly orchestral, at that. It was leadfooted and balky, instead of light and fleet. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, too. Overall, however, Welser-Möst and his band did admirably with Mitro’s little experiment.
Following intermission was Richard Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration. Here the ensembleship problems of the orchestra sadly worsened. Welser-Möst had a hard time keeping his forces together, with the harpist, in particular, uncertain as to the beat. The entire performance was rather stilted and unflowing. It was careful, planned: self-conscious. In all, this reading was so oddly shaped, I felt the urge to run home and bathe with the Szell recording of the work.
The concert ended with Strauss’s Four Last Songs, in which Dame Felicity Lott, the British soprano, was soloist. Dame Felicity is one of the outstanding Strauss singers of our time, and, on this occasion, she was her usual tasteful self. She was not much helped by the conductor and orchestra, however. Welser-Möst’s accompaniment was largely artless. As in the previous piece, the playing was often precious and awkward. In the final song, “Im Abendrot,” the orchestra was barely moving, barely breathing. This is not Strauss; it is not “Im Abendrot.” This is a manufactured profundity, trying to pass for a real one.
Once the music faded away, Welser-Möst held his hands in the air for a dramatically long time. In doing so, he was keeping the audience’s applause at bay. But he had not earned his silence, actually. Magical, transfiguring, dumbfounding moments happen naturally, or they don’t happen at all. If an audience is too rapt to applaud, they won’t—conductor’s hands in the air or no hands in the air. Richard Strauss has no need of gimmicks. (Neither does Felicity Lott, for that matter.)
The Cleveland Orchestra will probably always be under a microscope. Herr Welser-Möst will have to understand that, if some of us are extra-hard on him, it’s because we care so much about the orchestra whose leadership he has assumed. By now, surely—he has been on the job since the fall—he understands!
Those who care about opera—especially the big, heavy soprano parts—have followed the career of another British soprano very closely. Like the Cleveland Orchestra, Jane Eaglen is under a microscope. She appeared with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by its one-time music director Zubin Mehta. She sang both the Immolation Scene from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung and the Final Scene from Strauss’s Salome (known by some of us as “the mad Liebestod”).
Eaglen has suffered some vocal problems, and this particular outing was not reassuring. Not that she was a total flop. As the orchestra was finishing Siegfried’s Death and Funeral Music—which preceded the Immolation Scene—Eaglen walked purposefully to the front of the stage, like a general preparing for battle. Once she reached her position, she stood her ground. She was claiming her space. I remember that, in a master class years ago, Leontyne Price made an emphatic point of this: that a singer had to claim her space on the stage. Eaglen looked commanding and ready to sing.
When she did so, however, she was frequently off pitch, tending to the sharp side. Her sound was sometimes hooty, sometimes hooded. Many of her entrances were not clean. But it must be said that she evinces a certain visceral power, and the ability to portray Brünnhilde—particularly in the Ring’s fiery finale—goes beyond the mere vocal. In Salome’s Final Scene, Eaglen was adequate: but she did not exploit this music fully. She could have been more incisive, more imaginative—madder. Strangely, she felt the need to use a score. That was a sight, Salome calmly turning pages as she was losing her head (having cost someone else his)!
In the opera world today, there aren’t many who can sing Jane Eaglen’s Fach: Brünnhilde, Salome, and the rest of the leather-lunged gals. It’s encouraging, however, that the radiant Deborah Voigt is assaying her first complete Isolde this season. Still, we need Jane Eaglen healthy—“we,” the opera-going public, and, in particular, the Wagner-loving public.
Arcadi Volodos, the young Russian pianist, is universally regarded as a phenomenon. But he’s more than that, thankfully. Volodos is the rare chap who is both finger-freak and musician, both virtuoso and artist. He stopped by Carnegie Hall with James Levine and the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, in Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 3 in D Minor. This is a Volodos specialty, almost inevitably. In fact, he has recorded this work with Levine and the Berlin Philharmonic. It is a live recording. Volodos is one of the few who can record this piece without much studio touch-up.
The fluency of his technique borders on unbelievable. One has to rub one’s eyes, or check one’s ears. The speed, the volume, the accuracy: All these elements are somewhat historic. But they are all in the service of the music, fortunately. Volodos gave the Rach Third great character, not merely tossing it off (although he is capable of that). Afterward, the audience demanded an encore—at least one—and he obliged by giving them a saucy little transcription from Carmen. We need our pure-souled, poetic pianists, in the Dinu Lipatti mold—but it doesn’t hurt to have our Titans of the Keyboard, too. And when a pianist is all-capable: That is a pianist worthy of the name. Arcadi Volodos approaches that ideal.
Another important pianist, Radu Lupu, the seasoned Romanian, also performed recently. He played Beethoven’s Concerto in G Major, with Lorin Maazel and the New York Philharmonic. Lupu is known for cerebral, rather manly Beethoven, and this occasion was no exception. The concerto started promisingly: Lupu rendered the opening—which is so frequently botched—simply and effectively. But as the music proceeded, he failed to savor some of the juicier passages, and he did not sing out. This is not a smooth pianist, frankly. He is unbothered by choppy playing; he does not much prize beauty or “line.” Many of his ideas in the Beethoven were unconventional, veering toward eccentric. But, on the whole, this reading had solidity and command, which are Lupu hallmarks.
One final note on a pianist: Garrick Ohlsson did something out of the ordinary, constructing a series called Busoni at the Keyboard. These were three recitals exploring the works of Ferruccio Busoni, plus those of two other composers extremely important to him: Bach and Liszt. (The recitals took place in Alice Tully Hall.) We are used to seeing the name Busoni with a hyphen in front of it, as in “Bach-Busoni”—and Busoni was, indeed, a master transcriber. But he was also an energetic, highly intellectual, and ambitious composer in his own right. His works have more than a passing interest—if we can find a pianist who can play them.
Busoni was a great virtuoso, and he wrote for himself, in the grand tradition. Garrick Ohlsson is a pianist who can handle and perpetuate him. In the first of the recitals—the only one I was able to hear—Ohlsson was magisterial. His passagework was effortless; his tone was poetic and right; his phrasing was beautiful. He knows how to thunder without banging, retaining an essential musicality. He can take a messy, sprawling piece of music and impose order on it, both through his fingers and through his brain. When he is at his best—which he is not every time, of course—Ohlsson is a model of what a big, Romantic pianist should be. Busoni would have been pleased.
Now to a vocal recital—and, believe it or not, a tenor recital. It’s a mystery why these events are so rare. You can hear a soprano, a mezzo, or a baritone in recital practically any night of the week. (Basses, like tenors, are less common.) But the tenor seems virtually banned from the recital stage. Fritz Wunderlich and Peter Anders stand out because they are exceptions. And it has been a long, long while since either sang.
Several years ago, John Pfeiffer contributed liner notes for a reissued recital by Jussi Bjoerling, the historic Swedish tenor. Pfeiffer wrote, “The opera tenor who ventures onto the recital stage inevitably recalls Dr. Samuel Johnson’s observation about lady preachers: ‘Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.’”
Well, Stanford Olsen not only undertook a recital—in Weill Recital Hall—he executed it well. Olsen is a high, lyric tenor renowned for his appearances in bel canto opera. As it happened, it was a consistent pleasure to hear him in lieder and other songs. He devoted the first half of his program to six lieder of Schubert and six of Wolf. Olsen has a superbly beautiful voice, which he uses nimbly and expressively. Of note about this voice is that it’s just as lovely soft as it is loud. Its beauty does not depend on heft; neither is it reduced by heft.
Some might have complained that his traversal of the lieder was a bit superficial, not probing enough. But this critic, for one, appreciated the fact that Olsen didn’t “act” excessively in these songs, or smother them in (presumed) intellection. Too many singers—poor ones—think that, in offering lieder, they are presenting papers in psychology. Olsen never forgot that this was music, in addition to poetry and drama.
A particular treat on the second half of the program was a group of arie antiche—such as Alessandro Scarlatti’s “Violette”—but performed in old-fashioned transcriptions! This was a bold, audacious act. Before they began, the tenor’s accompanist, Douglas Fisher, issued a little apologia to the audience. He explained that recent researches into “period authenticity” had rendered these transcriptions obsolete and, in a way, verboten. But he and Olsen had grown up on these versions and loved them, so … they were going to indulge themselves, with the audience’s blessing. No apology need have been issued. Olsen sang these songs both beautifully and tastefully, and I dare say their composers would have approved.
The first encore was the most famous aria antica of all: “Caro mio ben.” Before singing it, Olsen offered the opinion that this particular transcription was really, frightfully over-the-top. Again, he needn’t have been so sheepish. Musically, the thing was guiltless. I considered it a sort of glorious “up yours” to the Period Polizei.
Finally, a trip to the opera—or rather, two trips. The Met unveiled a new production of Jenůfa, one of Leos Janaček’s masterly operas (joining The Cunning Little Vixen and The Makropoulos Affair). This was an unalloyed triumph. “Unalloyed triumph,” of course, is one of the tritest critic’s phrases in the lexicon—but it applies here.
Jenůfa is a rare tale in that it is both heartwarming and gripping. It involves the lovely and good Jenůfa, the two brothers who want her, and the two women who watch over her. It serves up jealousy, violence, betrayed hopes, murder (infanticide, no less), spiritual perseverance, and redemption. The title role is an extremely inviting one for a soprano, and, at the Met, it was handled superbly by Karita Mattila. Jenůfa is a character who is forced to grow, and Mattila grew right along with her. She showed that she understood the part, and she heaped plenty of vocal excellence on it. In addition, Mattila is an eminently likable singer. There is something in her manner. She wins an audience’s affection early, and keeps it. One simply roots for her.
A second leading role in this opera is that of the Kostelnička, Jenůfa’s stepmother. It was taken by Deborah Polaski, who is a sought-after Elektra (and who was powerful in that role earlier in the Met season). She made an imperious, cutting, unnerving Kostelnička, as she should have done. This is a singer who is not afraid to be raw, where the score and story demand it, or allow for it. Her Act II soliloquy was truly terrible, in the original sense: dread-inspiring. Polaski has a tendency toward stridency, but we could also call this operatic vitality, or urgency.
Last, what could be more fun than The Abduction from the Seraglio? This is Mozart’s “Turkish” opera, and it shows an amazing side of him: the ability to be jokey, silly, sublime, and divine, all at the same time. This gift is not conferred on every boy, and it is not even conferred once a century.
Starring as Osmin at the Met was the German bass Kurt Moll. He has been doing this for a long time: starring as Osmin at the Met (and elsewhere). The Met’s current production had its debut in 1979, and in the spotlight during that first run was, of course, Kurt Moll.
He has not lost a step. After his performance this January, it was hard to say which was better: his singing or his characterization. He is a marvelous Mozartean basso, and he is a brilliant comedic actor. That about does it, for Osmin. Moll’s voice is a single instrument, united from bottom to top (and there is a great distance between them). He has an uncanny ability to sing on pitch, hitting the center of virtually every note. He is a bass of real nimbleness and subtlety—he is not bluff, nor does he resort to bluffness. The lines out of his mouth are clean and musical.
Even if he were a much lesser singer, he would score as Osmin merely on the strength of his acting. He is unerringly comic without—astonishingly—being hammy.
In the part of Kostanze was Alexandra Deshorties, a soprano from Montreal. Much of her singing wasn’t pretty. She was harsh in her upper register, and overly contained elsewhere. But she did much that was admirable. She was accurate and assured, and she evinced dignity and—here’s a word that has gone out of style—womanliness. Her aria at the beginning of Act II was unusually expressive, with each word and note full of meaning. Shortly after came Kostanze’s killer aria, “Martern aller Arten,” on whose rack many a soprano has died. Not this one, however. She sang the aria bravely—and not unmusically—conveying the resolution and defiance that her character must have.
On the night I attended—the season premiere—we were treated, or rather, subjected, to a little opera within an opera. In the eleventh row, smack in the middle, sat a booer. He booed Alexandra Deshorties—loudly, hysterically, and not a little disconcertingly—almost every time she sang. You seldom hear this kind of thing in an American opera house. The man was not permitted to return for the third act; he later became a minor celebrity in the opera press. The truth is, Deshorties was not a perfect Kostanze—but she was a praiseworthy one. The only thing worse than a lout is a lout with bad judgment.