For the past many years, Plácido Domingo and Renée Fleming have been an unbeatable Otello and Desdemona. In fact, this has been one of the outstanding pairings in opera. (Another, I might say, is the Samson and Delilah of Domingo and Olga Borodina.) But Domingo was absent from the recent revival of Otello at the Metropolitan Opera; instead, Fleming was paired with the big South African tenor, Johan Botha. And that proved a potent pairing, too.

The character of Otello, you will recall, begins with a bang: “Esultate!” he hollers, at the beginning of the opera. Only he must not holler: The cry must be huge but musical. And this, Botha accomplished. He was admirable in the rest of the opera, too, mighty and resplendent. He was also sensitive, when Verdi called for that. Botha faltered now and then, but this is a big and challenging part, and Botha handled it manfully. He was the blend of power and beauty that we want in this role.

I thought of something Robert Merrill once said, when recalling a particular performance with Richard Tucker. (I believe he was speaking of a duet at a gala, and I believe the duet was from La forza del destino.) Tucker was on fire, he said, “really booming it out there.” And that’s what Botha did, in this Otello: boom it out there.

Some critics, you might agree, make all too much of the question of looks in opera: Does the soprano look the part? Does the tenor? Other critics may make too little of looks—and I probably fall into the latter camp. I am hesitant even to raise the question of Johan Botha’s size. But it is often on people’s minds, and lips, and there is no disputing that, when you get Botha, you get his girth. Nor is he anything like the actor Domingo is (few are). But he is one of the most remarkable tenors going. And opera is primarily a musical event.

I might also point out that the world is not exactly overrun today with Otellos (or with Walthers in Meistersinger). Let us be grateful for the South African.

Now to the question of Fleming: If I said that she was herself, in this Otello, would you know what I meant? Surely. She was utterly Flemingesque, including “achingly lyrical,” to use a cliché. Intelligently, she varied the width of her voice—the width of its “ribbon,” unspooling from her mouth. She sang easily, as if she were merely saying hello. And let it be remembered that she is more than lush and creamy—more than a provider of velvet. She can hurl sound, when she wishes (and when Verdi wishes).

Of course, there were some mannerisms. For example, Fleming’s Willow Song was a little gulpy and impure. But I never tire of saying that one man’s mannerisms are another man’s endearing characteristics. And the Willow Song was perfectly respectable, if idiosyncratic. And the following Ave Maria was sublime.

It has been an exceptionally good season for Renée Fleming, “America’s Sweetheart,” I have called her. I caught her one evening (or was it afternoon?) in La traviata. She was so good as to be utterly devastating. Her singing and acting were impeccably fused, resulting in a once-a-decade experience. (I am merely estimating.) And the Metropolitan Opera is according her a big honor next season, devoting its opening gala to her: She will sing excerpts from three of her most celebrated roles: Violetta, Manon (Massenet), and the Strauss Countess (meaning, Capriccio).

But back to the Otello in question: Iago was the Italian baritone Carlo Guelfi, a standout in this part. He is smooth, insinuating, and so, so villainous. Guelfi has an attractive voice, which he deploys artfully. He suffered from a few wobbles, but no more than a few. The technique is solid: Guelfi even stands in a way that tells you he will sing well.

And not to be neglected is the man in the pit, Semyon Bychkov. He is a Russian—or Russian American—who has had a many-citied career. That career includes Grand Rapids, Michigan. And I had never heard him so impressive as in Otello. From the beginning, he was fully engaged, directing that storm with passion and sense, and the entire rest of the opera the same way. Otello had urgency, tension, and horror. Bychkov did nothing extreme, but he never did anything too cautious either. The drama flowed through his baton. And the Met orchestra seemed to enjoy playing for him—a commendation.

There are some operas that are unwatchable. What I mean is, if they’re done right, you can’t watch them, they are so awful. One of them is Otello. Another is Traviata. Another is Butterfly, and another is Wozzeck. When they are performed to maximum effect, you can’t stand it, and you long to bolt the house. So it was with this Otello at the Met.

A quick shift of gears, to discuss the Kronos Quartet. You know this group: avant-garde, radical, experimental. Those are the words typically applied to them. They like to champion new music, and the more political the better, it seems. They are the type to exalt the writings of Noam Chomsky. And they are a worthy group of musicians, whatever they choose to play.

Allow me a brief story. A dozen years ago, I reviewed the Kronos’s latest album, Howl, U.S.A. It was filled with political pieces, using tapes of J. Edgar Hoover, I. F. Stone, and—as you would guess from the album title—Allen Ginsberg. In my review, I talked about how the Kronos loved to fuse music and politics; I, on the other hand, was a strict-separation man. I think that art should be free from politics—or relatively free—especially given that politics gobbles up so much of the rest of life. As a rule, I don’t bring politics into music; I comment on it when others do the bringing, or intruding.

My review of Howl, U.S.A. began, “If you happen to be hungry for the Stalin-era spirit expressed in music, you have to turn to the Kronos Quartet and its latest recording …” And it concluded,

it’s a pity that the Kronos Quartet should descend into the fever swamp, because it plays extraordinarily well, and while the world has more than enough political ideologues, it does not suffer from a surfeit of first-rate chamber groups. If the Kronos-ers were merely a bunch of radicalized mediocrities, coasting on the arts dole, their obsessions would be simply risible—instead of sharply disappointing.
Well, a young journalist read that review, and attacked its author for being obsessed with politics—for refusing to separate the musical and the political! He even said that my thrust was Stalinist! Of course, this was exactly backwards: I was advocating resistance to the politicization of music. The young journalist committed maybe the most spectacular misreading I know of. And where is he today? He is the editor—the editor—of one of the most important intellectual magazines in America.

That’s our system for you—a lovely meritocracy, no?

At any rate, the Kronos Quartet played at Zankel Hall, the downstairs venue at Carnegie Hall. The Carnegie Hall people want Zankel to be a home of the funky, and the Kronos surely qualified. They had mood lighting, microphones, speakers: the accoutrements of a rock concert. They also came out in cool-kid clothing, reassuring the audience, “This is not the Guarneri Quartet.” We knew.

They began with a piece of peculiar origin. “Night of the Vampire” is a song recorded by the Moontrekkers, a British band, in the early 1960s. It has been arranged for the Kronos by Harry Whitney, a student at the San Francisco Conservatory. The music sounds like something for a horror movie, or for Halloween. It is simple, repetitive—and not unpleasant. Not so horrifying. As they played, the Kronos-ers had their funky lighting going on. They have more in common with Virgil Fox—the flashy mid-century organist—than they may care to admit. This string quartet is showbiz.

By the way, the evening’s program notes had a word about the record producer for the Moontrekkers: Joe Meek. We learned that he “committed suicide by shooting himself and his landlady.” That’s an interesting way to put it—nothing about murder.

The second piece on the program was a suite from a movie score. In 2000, Clift Mansell wrote the score to Requiem for a Dream; some years later, David Lang arranged the suite for the Kronos. Lang is a co-founder of Bang on a Can, very much a Kronos-like organization. The suite, like the Moontrekker bit, is simple and repetitive. It is also earnest, pretentious, and dull—at least in my judgment. I thought of kids in a garage, smoking dope, playing around: thinking they were cool and deep. The third movement of the suite is called Lux Aeterna, and it strains for spirituality. It does not quite get there. But it is pleasant, innocuous—kind of bubblegum.

Next we had a piece by Fernando Otero, a composer born in Argentina, now living in New York. This was El Cerezo, or The Cherry Tree. It is tango-y, infectious—not a masterpiece, but a piece with something to say, something to offer. And it does not overstay its welcome.

We then had a three-movement work called Widows & Lovers, by Aviya Kopelman, who began life in Russia and immigrated to Israel. The outer movements of her work are White Widow and Black Widow. The first refers to a kind of marijuana (perfect), and the second to the spider. In between, Kopelman places her Lovers. The work shows skill, with its alternation between disquiet and peace. It deserves a second hearing.

After intermission, a new work by John Adams, maybe the most honored classical composer in the world today. Commissioned by the Kronos, this was Fellow Traveler, which Adams dedicated to Peter Sellars, the radical stage director. Like El Cerezo, it is a brief work, and it is also Adamsesque—thoroughly. It is colorful, playful, jazzy. And druggy, driven, busy. A melody wants to peep out, midst the churning below. The piece has a little engine, a motor, that keeps going and going. This is an Adams characteristic.

From Iran came a lullaby, or rather an arrangement of a lullaby: by Jacob Garchik, an American trombonist and composer (not the most usual of combinations). The lullaby is marked by Old World wailing, tolerable for a minute or two. And the program notes are worth quoting a little. They complained that the Iranian government gets a bad rap, in part because “the West’s political agenda and media portrayal … are preoccupied with fundamentalist mullahs, oil reserves, and nuclear proliferation.” Yes, the thought of Armageddon—promised Armageddon—will preoccupy you a bit. Those notes continued,

It’s true that when the Islamic Revolution swept away the Shah’s regime in 1979, in an excess of fundamentalist zeal, strict restrictions were placed on music. But apart from a ban on Westernized pop music, these restrictions were swiftly dropped. It’s often forgotten that the Iranian Revolution was as much about reclaiming traditional Persian culture as espousing an Islamist agenda. Indeed, the long-term musical effect of the revolution has been a revival of Persian classical music, which had suffered in the face of heavy Westernization during the Shah’s regime.

Folk music in Iran is a strong living tradition and has probably also been boosted by the “back-to-roots” aspects of the revolution …

This is a stunning apologia for the Iranian regime, and a dubious one, especially where the revolutionaries’ regard for “traditional Persian culture” is concerned. It proves the old point that anything will be defended, as long as it’s anti-Western. Consider just one practice of the Iranian regime: It stones to death young girls for the crime of having been gang-raped. And, incidentally, the Kronos Quartet—and its composer friends —would not last three days in Iran.

The program closed with … hold me, neighbor, in this storm … by Aleksandra Vrebalov, who comes from the former Yugoslavia. This is one of those pieces that seek to depict the Balkan conflict. (Another is Christos Hatzis’s String Quartet No. 2, called “The Gathering.” It was reviewed in these pages three years ago.) In Vrebalov’s piece, we hear church bells and Muslim calls to prayer. We also hear drums and grunts—I thought of Robert Bly and the men’s movement. We hear music that may remind you of Fiddler on the Roof, and I believe I heard a Romanian Rhapsody (Enescu). The work is a little long, and maybe a tad kitschy—but it holds interest, which is something.

And whether the music was bad or worthwhile, the Kronos Quartet played very well, as usual. This is a talented group of musicians who have charted their own course and been handsomely rewarded for it. You think they realize how lucky they are to live and work in America?

Finally, move upstairs from Zankel Hall into the Carnegie building’s main auditorium: There, the Vienna Philharmonic made its annual three-concert stand. The VPO has no permanent conductor, as you recall. Instead, it has a never-ending series of guests. And, for these concerts, the orchestra’s guest was Valery Gergiev, the mercurial Russian conductor. (If I had a nickel for every time I’ve called Gergiev “mercurial,” I’d have maybe twenty bucks.) The mercurial Russian and the venerable Austrian orchestra make a striking pair.

Two of the three concerts were all- orchestral, meaning that they had no soloist—which is unusual. The first concert consisted of Berlioz, Wagner, and Debussy, ending with La Mer. Gergiev’s account of this work was not especially French. It had aspects of Russian Romanticism, and strong, virile Russian Romanticism at that: Gergiev would conduct a Rimsky-Korsakov showpiece little differently. But, whatever the case, La Mer in these hands was awfully exciting.

The second concert began with another Debussy masterpiece, this one the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. The Vienna Philharmonic made its characteristic sounds, or some of them. This orchestra is impossibly beautiful, elegant, magical. It is always kissing your ears, and, indeed, you sometimes want it more assaultive (in a Shostakovich symphony, for example). We would expect the VPO to have a master flute, and so it does. And the Prélude could certainly use one.

Overall, Gergiev’s reading was warm and sensitive, but it was not quite scintillating. Indeed, the music was sometimes labored, unflowing, taking place line by line, rather than in a totality. (You know what I mean, I trust.) This is not very much like Gergiev. And the closing pizzicatos were not together—which is not very much like the VPO.

The one concerto soloist of the three concerts was Yefim Bronfman. And he played a little-known work by a well-known composer: the Piano Concerto No. 2 in G minor by Prokofiev. We know the Concerto No. 1, a popular, freewheeling effort. We know the Concerto No. 3, his most popular, and one of the most popular of all concertos. The Fourth is not very often played: It is one of the left-hand concertos commissioned by Paul Wittgenstein. And the Fifth, like the Second, is hardly known at all.

Sticking with the Second, why is it so infrequently played? Is it because the music is deemed unworthy? Or is it because the concerto is monstrously hard, accessible to only a few pianists? I suspect the latter is the case.

Nothing is inaccessible to Yefim Bronfman: He has one of the most accomplished techniques in the world, to go with a deep musicianship. The last time I had heard this concerto, it was played by Bronfman—with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Mariss Jansons. In Carnegie Hall. And I will never forget his traversal of another Concerto No. 2—Bartók’s. Bronfman dispatched it with a facility that I would have thought impossible. Furthermore, I might mention the recital that Bronfman gave in Carnegie Hall earlier this season. He chose for it just about the hardest music extant: Gaspard de la nuit, Islamey … And yet technical considerations were always secondary to musical ones. The rarity of this cannot be overstressed.

With Gergiev and the VPO, he did for Prokofiev’s Second all that one could. He was propulsive, athletic, commanding. He was brittle, in the way that Prokofiev demands—but not too much so. He was sassy, petulant, arrogant. Arrogance is one of Prokofiev’s trademark musical qualities. In fact, few composers inject it as much as he does. In all, Bronfman wrestled with this concerto as a man would a great, ferocious beast—and he prevailed (Bronfman, that is). Gergiev was right with him, leading the VPO electrically. The orchestra did not exactly kiss our ears in this music; but it might be incapable of real, rude brashness.

Bronfman played an encore for the audience (semi-delirious), and what did he choose? A Scarlatti sonata—the one in C minor, K. 11. He of course had to do this: to prove that he was more than a keyboard-burner. And to add musical contrast, of course. He played with the refinement we can expect of him. And standing to the side of the stage, with his arms folded, was Gergiev. I had never seen this before: a conductor present for a concerto soloist’s encore. Except for once: when Simon Rattle sat in the back of the orchestra to listen to Lang Lang.

I think Gergiev merely wanted to hear Bronfman play some more—and I don’t blame him.

He ended this concert with a Tchaikovsky symphony, the last one, No. 6 in B minor, called the “Pathétique.” This was an overwhelmingly good performance. The VPO put a little Russian grain in its sound. And the orchestra was in best form, tonally and otherwise. Gergiev was in best form, too: judging the music superbly, allowing it huge drama—but never being histrionic. The second movement, that swirling dance, was fast, but not rushed. And it avoided all airy-fairiness. The third movement, that kind of march, was appropriately jolting and noisy—but not bombastic. And the Finale, with that perfect marking, “Adagio lamentoso,” was duly affecting.

My colleague Fred Kirshnit refers to this symphony as “the longest suicide note in history.” There is a case.

For an encore, Gergiev and the VPO played more Tchaikovsky: the Panorama from Sleeping Beauty: smooth, effortless, natural. Unimprovable on. I had a thought during this encore—a thought I had had before when listening to the VPO, and also to the Berlin Philharmonic, for that matter: They are not overrated. They are coasting on neither past performance nor hype.

Before leaving this concert, a brief word on concert etiquette: All through the “Pathétique,” the man in front and to the right of me tapped on his BlackBerry (or whatever his handheld device was) with a stylus. I am unusually tolerant when it comes to concert-hall and opera-house behavior. I am not a scold or a cop. But this, we can agree, is intolerable.

The final Gergiev/VPO concert began with three quick knocks at the door. What do I mean? This was Verdi’s overture to La forza del destino. And not only were those knocks quick, the entire overture was: and tight (in the good sense), bristling, and thrilling. Gergiev was in one of those electric moods. Actually, it was continuing, from the previous two concerts. Then came Les Préludes (Liszt), one of my least favorite pieces in the standard orchestral repertory. Why am I mentioning this? Who cares what I like and like less? I mention it because I never appreciated Les Préludes so much as I did on this Sunday afternoon. Gergiev and the VPO were incisive, tight (again), and bouncing. They were colorful, undawdling, and fresh.

When this conductor gets wizardly, look out—and he had an orchestra that could follow his every tic and flutter.

The concert, and the VPO stand, ended with another Tchaikovsky symphony. It could not have been the last, because that had been done; instead, it was the second-to-the-last, No. 5. I would have ended the stand with the Sixth, putting the Fifth in the middle. But Gergiev, or whoever was responsible, had other ideas. And the mercurial maestro from Russia tore up the Fifth. What I mean is, the work was extraordinarily intense, with a current always running through it. I will offer just one detail: Seldom has the underpinning of the Waltz sounded so scurrying or interesting.

And, as I listened, a thought occurred, very strongly: Gergiev was reveling in this, reveling in the opportunity to conduct this orchestra, this fabulous machine in front of him. Everything technical was in the bag; the VPO was not going to make any mistakes. Gergiev could just do his wizard thing, and the performance would be immaculate. It is not so with his Kirov Orchestra, or with his other orchestras. No offense to them: It’s just that the VPO is something else.

What an inspired combination, don’t you think? Gergiev’s wizardry, electricity, and imagination; the VPO’s elegance, good sense, and technical proficiency.

There was something wrong with the Tchaikovsky Fifth, however: the last movement. It was so fast, there was no room for its majesty and regality. Debussy’s Prélude had been subpar, too. But the three concerts, altogether, were of such high quality, one could hardly complain. And the last concert was graced by two finely played encores: Josef Strauss’s “Libelle” polka, full of class; and another polka by the same Strauss, “Ohne Sorgen!” This one took off like a bullet—kind of a wacky Viennese bullet—and never lost its energy.

In the course of these concerts, I thought of a couple of things that Gergiev said to me during a public interview in Salzburg last summer. (I keep talking about thoughts.) He said that the biggest sin a conductor can commit is to be boring—which is also the second- and third-biggest sins. He also talked about how people—stupid ones—mock and belittle Tchaikovsky: and Puccini, and even Wagner, and even Mozart. Of course, you can perform these composers in an insipid way. But that’s your fault, not theirs. And that is so very true.

I find myself with a new conclusion about Gergiev. I’m not sure whether he has changed or I have—I suspect the former, because all performers grow (at least the good ones do). For years, I thought of Gergiev as an interesting conductor, and of course a mercurial one. Very uneven. One of every five concerts—or one of every five opera performances—would be great. The others would be mediocre or duds. Now I think of Gergiev as more like a great conductor who has an off night every few concerts or so. And that is much better.

And I will leave you with a little story—one that underlines the power of music. To the second VPO/Gergiev concert, I took a teenager, who had not heard many concerts. After the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, she turned to me and said—with a look of absolute conviction on her face—“That is the most wonderful thing I have ever heard.” Yes, it is wonderful, isn’t it? And that reminded me of an event many years before: I took a friend to The Marriage of Figaro. I don’t think he had heard classical music of any kind. After the overture, he turned to me and said, “That’s the single greatest thing I have ever heard in my life.” And he would be hard pressed to improve on it.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 8, on page 52
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