As I’ve noted before in these pages—regrettably too many times—this is an excellent age for singing. As I have also noted, it is a less excellent age for tenors in particular. Sopranos, mezzo-sopranos, baritones, basses—we have a thousand of them. We are even loaded with countertenors, a species barely thought of ten years ago. Contraltos, it is true, are a bit thin on the ground: but with Ewa Podleś, you don’t need too many others.
Still, tenors could be more abundant. Plácido Domingo can’t go on forever, although sometimes—indeed, almost every time he sings—he makes you think otherwise. But I am slowly getting to my point: We are not without tenors altogether, and in fact we have some first-rate ones. It so happened that three of them appeared at the Metropolitan Opera in short succession—four, if you count Domingo, which we should.
Roberto Alagna is seldom given his due, probably because he is one half of “The Love Couple,” a pair whom critics and other journalists love to mock. (The other half is his wife, the soprano Angela Gheorghiu.) Alagna has made a big career for himself, and he deserves one. In certain roles, he is hardly equaled (I mean, by his peers today). I think of his Faust, and also of his Nemorino. An Elixir of Love at the Met—starring both Alagnas—is a highlight of my memory. It had skill, flair, and musicality. These are not just personalities, Mr. and Mrs. A. (although what’s wrong with a little personality in the opera?). These are formidable singers.
And Alagna was indeed formidable in a recent Met Werther. This Massenet opera can be a sleepy and not quite convincing affair, but it was alive and engrossing on this occasion. This was chiefly thanks to the performance of Alagna in the title role. The voice was radiant. It was lyrical, powerful, secure. When he’s on form, he sings with extraordinary freedom. He might as well be strolling in the park. There is nothing uptight about him. And he takes pleasure in his singing, as well he might. His pleasure allows others to experience it, too.
I will note a few particulars: In this Werther, Alagna’s technique was such that he could do what he wished with dynamics. This is outside a singer’s control, if he does not have a handle on his technique. And Alagna showed an uncanny ability to sing sustained notes evenly—that is, he allowed no dipping of tone, no wavering of any kind. And even when his voice was on fire, it retained its creamy loveliness. Fire and cream: not a bad combination, especially for a tenor, especially for a tenor in a French role.
And you can attend Werthers for many a moon and not hear a more effective “Pourquoi me réveiller” (the hit aria of the opera, and one of the hit arias in all of opera).
More? Alagna proved that he is not merely a good-enough-for-opera actor. He died a death that most any actor would be proud of (if I may). Indeed, he rather gave the Met audience a fright.
My second tenor is Juan Diego Flórez, being touted as the King of Bel Canto. It is not just hype: This is one of the best bel canto tenors—certainly tenori di grazia—we have ever had. He is considered the successor to the late Alfredo Kraus, but I hazard to say that he is an improvement on Kraus. No living—or, better, active—singer is supposed to be preferred to a non-active (e.g., deceased) one. It’s just not fittin’. Besides which, comparison is overdone in criticism. But in my judgment Flórez has at least as much technique as Kraus (who had plenty) and a much—an infinitely—more beautiful instrument.
This instrument and all that technique were on display in a Met Barber of Seville. A thrilling Barber it was. Flórez creates excitement when he is onstage, because you don’t know what he’s going to do next. Or rather, you do: You know that he’s going to execute the most difficult passages with astounding ease and accuracy. But it’s a kick to see him do so. Governing it all is a natural musicality that only enhances what that freakish vocal apparatus can do. Tenore di grazia is rather too dainty a term for Flórez: He is a pyrotechnician of the bel canto tenor voice, and a jewel in the crown of the opera world today.
The third tenor is Frank Lopardo, who gets less press than the other two. In fact, he might be dismissed as a journeyman—except that he can light up a house with excellent singing. He had a fabulous outing in a Met Rigoletto one night. The tenor role, the Duke of Mantua, requires exceptional skill and stamina, and Lopardo was up to all challenges.
Among his qualities were lyricism, nimbleness, and what you might call vocal “pow.” In the first of his three big arias—“Questa o quella”—Lopardo was a little dark. Or if “dark” is not the right word, then “burnished.” This aria likes a trumpet, and Lopardo had more of a cornet. Also, it lacked a certain bounce (which was at least as much the fault of the conductor, Marco Armiliato). But “Questa o quella” was certainly respectably rendered.
Really impressive was Lopardo’s singing in the love duet with Gilda (portrayed by the Hungarian Andrea Rost). He was graceful in cavatina and smoothly deft in passagework. And his singing of the second big aria—“Parmi veder le lagrime”—was exemplary. He was surefooted and elegant, under no strain whatever.
The final big aria, of course, is one of the best-known arias in opera: “La donna è mobile.” From this tenor, it was a bit more subtle than it usually is. Less of an organ grinder’s tune. And Frank Lopardo had shown himself to be far more than a journeyman. A house doesn’t have to settle for him—it should be proud to have him.
Plácido Domingo? He showed up at the Met for Ghermann in The Queen of Spades. This is one of his best roles, Russian though it is, and it is especially good for him now, because it’s low-lying. But shame on me: I should make no allowances for Domingo, who has just turned sixty-three. He is singing resplendently, with the top notes ringing, the middle ones solid, and the lower ones juicy. He was a thoroughly commanding Ghermann, not just holding his own with the younger folk around him, but surpassing them. The rest of us make a big deal of Domingo’s longevity. A key to his success, I suspect, is that he does not. He doesn’t know how old he is, or doesn’t hold it against himself: He just wakes up and sings (and works like a dog, to be sure).
I should mention some other singers in the above-cited operas. Portraying Charlotte in Werther was Vesselina Kasarova, the Bulgarian mezzo sensation. Hers is a dark, dark voice for Charlotte, and for the French rep generally. But she did some welcome things with that voice. For instance, she projected startling power, and for once Act III had real blood. It wasn’t merely pretty.
In The Barber of Seville, Dwayne Croft was superb, carrying out the title role with assurance and style. Because he is so consistent, his worth can be overlooked. He now has Figaro in his bones, and he makes the part fun without over-hamming, and his technique is truly Rossinian. (He did not look clumsy next to Juan Diego Flórez.) Theodora Hanslowe made a smashing Rosina, Paata Burchuladze made an amusing—if slightly lugubrious—Don Basilio, and Jennifer Check, a young soprano, on this occasion singing Berta, remains one to keep an eye on.
In Rigoletto, Juan Pons was stalwart—as the hunchback, of course—and the aforementioned Miss Rost was a pleasing Gilda: capable and persuasive.
And in The Queen of Spades, Katarina Dalayman, a Swedish soprano, absolutely slew the part of Lisa, singing beautifully, dramatically, and excitingly. Also slaying her part was Felicity Palmer, as the Countess (this was a season after her awesome portrayal of Madame de Croissy in Les Dialogues des Carmélites). Also slaying her part—pardon the theme—was Elena Zaremba, as Pauline. Pauline can be a nothing role, but it jumped from this mezzo, whose ultra-Slavic instrument is hard to ignore.
Finally, amid all these singers, I should make a conductor note: Michel Plasson, the veteran French maestro, was supposed to lead that Werther. But in his place came a French-Canadian, Jacques Lacombe, who made one of the most successful Met debuts in recent memory. He had full control of that orchestra, and full control of the score, lending it intelligence and vibrancy. Nothing was frivolous or insipid about the music. It was the kind of performance that gives you a new appreciation of the work in question, so, hats off.
Oh, and I should really say a last word about tenors (back to them). The first of those Werther performances was dedicated to Franco Corelli, who had just died. And it was widely lamented that tenors had simply vanished with the wind. But Corelli was roundly criticized in his time, just as Roberto Alagna, come to think of it, is now. It is only human—and hardly detestable—to exalt the dead (or retired). But it should be possible to do so without (stupidly) slighting the living, and active.
Visiting Avery Fisher Hall were the London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus, under the great Sir Colin Davis. The highlight of their stay was a concert performance of Peter Grimes, Britten’s opera from 1945. This opera works well in concert, as the music contains all the drama necessary.
Sir Colin knows that drama, and he knows that music. Nearing eighty, he is more masterly than ever. He had every turn of the tale, and every shift of the sea, in his baton—and the orchestra and chorus responded magnificently. A listener’s attention could not wander. And I should note that the LSO made a warm and glowing sound, when it wanted to—in a hall alleged to be inhospitable to such sounds. Let the New York Philharmonic—and other bands —be shorn of their excuses!
A very fine cast was headed by Glenn Winslade, the Australian tenor in the title role. He was sweet but forceful in voice. It’s hard not to strain in this part, but Winslade did a minimum of it. And he clearly understood the character of Grimes. The bewildered honesty in the opera’s opening scene, for example, was deeply affecting.
Completely winning as Ellen Orford was the British soprano Janice Watson. Ellen is a good woman with a spine of steel—and Watson sang that way. She was clear, unquavering, and nearly heartbreaking.
Almost stealing the show—if Sir Colin hadn’t been there, she might have—was the American mezzo singing Auntie, good old Jill Grove. She was imperious, smoking, electric. Grove has an outstanding instrument, coupled with outstanding musical and theatrical sense. She had you straight in your chair, whenever she opened her mouth.
The British bass James Rutherford was Swallow, providing a burnished sound, and clear diction, and solid intonation. He was daunting in his inquisition of Grimes. Jonathan Lemalu—described in his bio as a “New Zealand-born Samoan”—was rich-voiced and wide-ranged as Hobson. And Anthony Michaels-Moore made an alert Balstrode.
The London Symphony Chorus was an imposing actor in this drama, singing with sincere emotion, in addition to musical and technical polish. Like the orchestra, they did all that Britten required of them, which was much. One example: In their expression of a mob mentality, they were alarming.
All told, this Grimes was a tour de force on the part of many, and will surely be remembered as a high point of the 2003– 2004 season.
Not a high point—but still creditable—was the Boris Godunov that the Metropolitan presented. Serving as conductor was Semyon Bychkov, who was competent, as usual. He understands that Boris Godunov—that quintessential Russian grand opera—is not all grand: It has moments—stretches, actually—of tenderness, intimacy, and other things. But those are part of grandeur, in a way.
In the Prologue and Act I, especially, the orchestra was not together, and Bychkov was not a good coordinator between pit and stage. That lack of coordination (obviously) robbed the opera of some of its effectiveness. So too, much of this Boris was oddly subdued. The conductor might have made more of the score, exploited it with more relish. But a subdued Boris, probably, is better than a histrionic one.
It would have been hard to ask anything more of James Morris, who sang the title role. In the last few seasons, he has proven a great Hans Sachs, and now a great Boris. On the night I heard him, he displayed extraordinary vocal beauty. Indeed, I believe he has experienced a kind of vocal renaissance of late—that is, in these last few seasons. Dramatically, he gave to Boris all he should have. When he was fatherly, I could not help thinking of Morris’s Wotan. I’m sure I was not alone. Morris, in the Mussorgsky role, embodied rage, guilt, confusion, virtue …
A great bass, whatever his nationality, ought to essay Boris Godunov, and Morris has done so triumphantly.
The Latvian tenor Sergej Larin sang Grigory, or the Pretender Dimitri, freshly and stirringly. Irina Mishura was Marina, bringing her big, bold mezzo to a juicy role. She is a solid singer, in whatever she tries. Speaking of solidity, Sergei Leiferkus was present, unbudgeable as always, reflecting his excellent training, filling the house beautifully. As Rangoni, he was the picture of clerical manipulation and corruption.
Lyubov Petrova sang Xenia, showing off her quicksilver soprano. (She had been Sophie in Werther, by the way—a bit forward and bright, but fine.) The reliable Jeffrey Wells did a nice turn as the Police Officer, and Jane Shaulis—savvy veteran—filled the bill as the Nurse.
Laudable in the poignant role of the Simpleton was Charles Reid. This man, far from a household name, owns a gorgeous tenor, not bad for a simpleton.
And this Boris wasn’t bad either, except that it was strange to leave the opera house, having heard that work—with a historic bass in the title role—and be so dissatisfied. Once again we see the supreme importance of leadership in the pit, singers be damned (so to speak).
On January 16, Marilyn Horne turned seventy, and the foundation she established—the Marilyn Horne Foundation—turned ten. All concerned celebrated with a five-day festival at Carnegie Hall. The festival included recitals, master classes, seminars, and a big gala concert. Sadly, all this was marred by the sudden death of Robert Harth, the executive and artistic director of Carnegie Hall. As Horne remarked, “he was just hitting his stride.” This is a bitter loss.
Those master classes were three in number, taught by the soprano Deborah Voigt, the baritone Thomas Hampson, and Horne herself. Each of the classes was first-rate, and in the space remaining, I will concentrate on Hampson’s.
He is known as an especially thoughtful and perceptive singer, and that reputation is justified. He is a memorable teacher, acknowledging that the enterprise is tantamount to warfare—“semantic warfare,” in which you search for the word or words that will allow a certain concept to click in a student’s head. (I have remarked on the similarities between singing and golf many, many times, and will spare you my ten-hour lecture on the subject.)
Hampson did some philosophizing, as you might expect. But he was laden with practical advice as well, tips for the student in the here and now. There wasn’t a student who didn’t improve conspicuously under his guidance. He doctored them, they got well—or better.
And Hampson was touchingly sympathetic with those students. Perhaps it was empathy. “They are in a tender, vulnerable position,” and one must be “incredibly brave” to assume it: “It’s like taking a shower in a glass cage.” The material at hand was by one composer—Mahler. As Hampson put it, his songs are not so much songs as “audible moments of life.” You call on your experience and understanding to “ignite” a song.
Some nitty-gritty: He told the first student, “When you feel like leaning forward, stand back.” In fact, “Stand back” was a theme of this class. And “stop nodding,” for heaven’s sake! Hampson noted that anchormen on television are always nodding, emphasizing their points. He corrected one student: “Pure Tom Brokaw.” He said to another, “Don’t do that! Can you stop? It not only looks bad, it’s bad for you from a physical and vocal point of view.”
Throughout the two hours or so, he dropped any number of pearls: “Nothing in singing is horizontal, it’s all vertical.” “Don’t lecture at an audience; just sing the song.” And “never try to sell a song! Just let it be.” “Taking a breath is not like gassing up a car: You gas up, you drive as far as you can go, then you refuel. No.” And “imagination is the most important part of singing. There have been great singers with mediocre voices who nonetheless had imagination. It has always been that way, and always will be.”
Thomas Hampson is an intellectual, yes, but he’s lavishly personable, and fall-down hilarious. His imitation of Birgitt Nilsson unable to control her volume is something I will not soon forget. Wish I had it on tape. And he can be delightfully—and appropriately—vulgar: “Why do men write poetry? Didn’t you see The Dead Poets Society? ‘To get laid!’” (This actually helps a student significantly in Mahler’s “Serenade.”) And “don’t stand so close to the piano. When I do, I feel like I have this huge ass.”
According to Hampson, two of the most stupid things ever said about singing are 1) Sing from the diaphragm, and 2) Project. “Voices don’t project; they resonate.” This reminds me of an old pro of mine who had a list of the Top Ten Dumbest Things Ever Said About the Golf Swing. The dumbest? “Keep your head down.”
But then I am off on my ten hours …
Jay Nordlinger is the managing editor of National Review.