Susan Gerstein's Blog - Posts Tagged "james-levine"
A Musical Farewell to 2016
So one last attempt to see out the year with a note of joy and some hope. It is not about books; as I indicated in my last post, I am deeply immersed in Anthony Powell’s “Dance to the Music of Time”, re-reading it with great pleasure, and will perhaps write about the experience sometime next year. This post has to do with two musical performances: one witnessed in person, and the other one first heard on radio and then seen on yet another technological miracle of the age: Youtube.
The first was a revival of the Metropolitan’s ten-year-old production of Verdi’s early opera Nabucco. It is a work full of melodies that are on the borderline of the bel canto style, one that Verdi was soon to abandon. It is a passionate story based on the legend of the Jewish exile in Babylon during the cruel reign of King Nebuchadnezzar, aka “Nabucco”. It has one of the most difficult soprano roles in the fictional person of Abigaille, the king’s “false” daughter and nemesis. Having seen the opera over the years several times, at first my inclination was to give it a pass this season. However, when word was out that it was to be conducted by James Levine and the baritone role of Nabucco was to be sung by Placido Domingo, one of the greatest tenors of many decades who, in his seventies, had begun to sing baritone roles, the temptation to see these two old friends pull off a potentially rousing performance proved to be too great: it promised to be an event that had to be seen.
And a most rewarding evening it had proven to be. That James Levine, 73 years old, the beloved music director of the Metropolitan for the past four decades, had been extremely ill for several years was well known; but that Placido Domingo, at the age of 76 when most singers had long stopped singing even if in excellent health, had also been through grueling illnesses recently was not known by the public generally, certainly not by me. There were, among the critics during the past couple of years, some reluctant suggestions that it was, perhaps, time to retire. Performances conducted by Levine or sung by Domingo were occasionally, gently, said to be, well, less than perfect. But neither of these musicians had shown any willingness to heed such advice; and here they both were, together as so many times in the past, putting on a show.
And what a show! James Levine, conducting from an elevated wheel-chair-like contraption, exuded all the musical energy we had associated with him in all the past years. There was not a shadow of waning powers: this was the James Levine we had known and loved for decades. Placido Domingo was, well, himself: the unmistakable tenor sound, now deepened slightly, rang out, with perhaps the slight wariness, entirely appropriate to the role, of an aging king in decline. The audience roared for both men, the ovation went on and on, for both are clearly beloved, perhaps most especially in New York where both had begun their parallel epic careers, and where both seem to be determined to end it. But not yet.
The focus, both sentimental and musical, was on Levine and Domingo. But the singers surrounding them were uniformly excellent: the Ukranian soprano Ludmilla Monastyrska was perhaps the greatest Abigaille I have ever heard, Russell Thomas’ Ismele, Jamie Barton’s Fenena, Dmitry Belloselskiy (another Ukranian) was a magnificent bass as Zaccaria. They were all simply superb, and they all clearly felt the occasion to be special. It was a privilege to be present at the event; may there be many more to come?
*
My other musical experience involves a confession, and a conversion. It is about the Bach B-Minor Mass, and it has to do with differences in the concept of the performance of a composition that can wholly change the appreciation, or lack of it, for the listener; in this instance, myself.
I have listened to classical music since childhood, and, other than opera, which is a genre all by itself, I had always tended toward chamber music, and to smaller-scale works. Large nineteenth and twentieth century symphonic music was not my first choice, and large scale choral works, while I appreciated some, did not usually make it onto the list of my personal favorites. This – here comes the confession – pertained even to Handel’s “Messiah”, which I first heard when my father took me to a concert with a chorus of hundreds singing in a huge auditorium in Budapest. I was bored and restless. The years went by and I heard many “Messiah”s, some in concert halls, some in churches, some sing-along. I fully realized that this was a great work, perhaps one of the greatest ever composed; and yet I did not warm up to it. Until one day about twenty years ago, I accidentally happened on a radio program, and heard the most heavenly music, music it took me a few minutes to identify, so different was it from what I had heard up to that point. It was the “Messiah”, performed by the Brandenburg Consort, the Chorus of King’s College, Cambridge, and conducted by Stephen Cleobury. Done on the smallest possible scale, with a chorus of some twenty singers, an orchestra of chamber proportions, and soloists right out of heaven. I was riveted, just sat and listened to the whole thing, and then I ran out and bought the CD. I have listened to it and loved it ever since. In my mind, it bears little resemblance to the versions most often heard, with an overwhelming chorus and orchestra. That might be more majestic but I prefer the intimacy and immediacy of the small; the less-is-more.
A similar experience happened to me within the past few weeks. – The Bach B-Minor Mass had been an Achilles heel of mine, an embarrassment almost. Just like the “Messiah” of my early years, I had never been able to truly love it. I am married to one of the most musically knowledgeable people I have ever met, a man who passionately loves the B-Minor Mass, and who listens to it in concerts, on CDs, wherever and whenever he can and who could never quite grasp my resistance to it. I had always known, intellectually, that this was one of the great achievements of humankind; that, when examples of such achievements, “calling cards to the Universe”, were sent into space, the score of the B-Minor Mass was included. And yet, it did not speak to me the way much other music, including other Bach compositions, did.
And then, lightening struck again. I turned on the radio the other night, and there it was, mid-performance: unmistakably the B-Minor Mass, but transformed into an intimate, delicate, contemplative sound that I found riveting. Just like before, with the “chamber” version of the Messiah, it was transformed for me into the otherworldly, transcendental sound that devotees have always heard but I did not. It was performed by the Bach Collegium of Japan, under the direction of Masaaki Suzuki. There was a chorus of perhaps 22-23 singers. The soloists were embedded in the chorus, emerged from it to sing their arias and duets and returned to their seats among the chorus. There was a small chamber orchestra, from which the instrumental soloists, again, emerged, came up front and center stage to play their part, and returned to their seats. The sound they made was, indeed, otherworldly, beautiful beyond belief. So here I am, finally, understanding what others had always known: that this is a sublime achievement; it is what makes being human possibly worth while.
After I heard this performance on the radio, I went to my computer hoping to find more information about it; and what I found was that the entire performance of the B Minor Mass by the Bach Collegium of Japan could be seen on – Youtube! So after first listening to it, I could actually watch it. The visual effects of the beautifully choreographed performance, taking place in Tokyo, in a beautiful concert hall in front of a Japanese audience, is an added bonus. That this magnificent group of musicians was mainly Japanese, with a mere sprinkling of Westerners among them and that the cultures of East and West could merge to this degree is, over and above the purely musical pleasure, perhaps a hopeful sign for the world.
The first was a revival of the Metropolitan’s ten-year-old production of Verdi’s early opera Nabucco. It is a work full of melodies that are on the borderline of the bel canto style, one that Verdi was soon to abandon. It is a passionate story based on the legend of the Jewish exile in Babylon during the cruel reign of King Nebuchadnezzar, aka “Nabucco”. It has one of the most difficult soprano roles in the fictional person of Abigaille, the king’s “false” daughter and nemesis. Having seen the opera over the years several times, at first my inclination was to give it a pass this season. However, when word was out that it was to be conducted by James Levine and the baritone role of Nabucco was to be sung by Placido Domingo, one of the greatest tenors of many decades who, in his seventies, had begun to sing baritone roles, the temptation to see these two old friends pull off a potentially rousing performance proved to be too great: it promised to be an event that had to be seen.
And a most rewarding evening it had proven to be. That James Levine, 73 years old, the beloved music director of the Metropolitan for the past four decades, had been extremely ill for several years was well known; but that Placido Domingo, at the age of 76 when most singers had long stopped singing even if in excellent health, had also been through grueling illnesses recently was not known by the public generally, certainly not by me. There were, among the critics during the past couple of years, some reluctant suggestions that it was, perhaps, time to retire. Performances conducted by Levine or sung by Domingo were occasionally, gently, said to be, well, less than perfect. But neither of these musicians had shown any willingness to heed such advice; and here they both were, together as so many times in the past, putting on a show.
And what a show! James Levine, conducting from an elevated wheel-chair-like contraption, exuded all the musical energy we had associated with him in all the past years. There was not a shadow of waning powers: this was the James Levine we had known and loved for decades. Placido Domingo was, well, himself: the unmistakable tenor sound, now deepened slightly, rang out, with perhaps the slight wariness, entirely appropriate to the role, of an aging king in decline. The audience roared for both men, the ovation went on and on, for both are clearly beloved, perhaps most especially in New York where both had begun their parallel epic careers, and where both seem to be determined to end it. But not yet.
The focus, both sentimental and musical, was on Levine and Domingo. But the singers surrounding them were uniformly excellent: the Ukranian soprano Ludmilla Monastyrska was perhaps the greatest Abigaille I have ever heard, Russell Thomas’ Ismele, Jamie Barton’s Fenena, Dmitry Belloselskiy (another Ukranian) was a magnificent bass as Zaccaria. They were all simply superb, and they all clearly felt the occasion to be special. It was a privilege to be present at the event; may there be many more to come?
*
My other musical experience involves a confession, and a conversion. It is about the Bach B-Minor Mass, and it has to do with differences in the concept of the performance of a composition that can wholly change the appreciation, or lack of it, for the listener; in this instance, myself.
I have listened to classical music since childhood, and, other than opera, which is a genre all by itself, I had always tended toward chamber music, and to smaller-scale works. Large nineteenth and twentieth century symphonic music was not my first choice, and large scale choral works, while I appreciated some, did not usually make it onto the list of my personal favorites. This – here comes the confession – pertained even to Handel’s “Messiah”, which I first heard when my father took me to a concert with a chorus of hundreds singing in a huge auditorium in Budapest. I was bored and restless. The years went by and I heard many “Messiah”s, some in concert halls, some in churches, some sing-along. I fully realized that this was a great work, perhaps one of the greatest ever composed; and yet I did not warm up to it. Until one day about twenty years ago, I accidentally happened on a radio program, and heard the most heavenly music, music it took me a few minutes to identify, so different was it from what I had heard up to that point. It was the “Messiah”, performed by the Brandenburg Consort, the Chorus of King’s College, Cambridge, and conducted by Stephen Cleobury. Done on the smallest possible scale, with a chorus of some twenty singers, an orchestra of chamber proportions, and soloists right out of heaven. I was riveted, just sat and listened to the whole thing, and then I ran out and bought the CD. I have listened to it and loved it ever since. In my mind, it bears little resemblance to the versions most often heard, with an overwhelming chorus and orchestra. That might be more majestic but I prefer the intimacy and immediacy of the small; the less-is-more.
A similar experience happened to me within the past few weeks. – The Bach B-Minor Mass had been an Achilles heel of mine, an embarrassment almost. Just like the “Messiah” of my early years, I had never been able to truly love it. I am married to one of the most musically knowledgeable people I have ever met, a man who passionately loves the B-Minor Mass, and who listens to it in concerts, on CDs, wherever and whenever he can and who could never quite grasp my resistance to it. I had always known, intellectually, that this was one of the great achievements of humankind; that, when examples of such achievements, “calling cards to the Universe”, were sent into space, the score of the B-Minor Mass was included. And yet, it did not speak to me the way much other music, including other Bach compositions, did.
And then, lightening struck again. I turned on the radio the other night, and there it was, mid-performance: unmistakably the B-Minor Mass, but transformed into an intimate, delicate, contemplative sound that I found riveting. Just like before, with the “chamber” version of the Messiah, it was transformed for me into the otherworldly, transcendental sound that devotees have always heard but I did not. It was performed by the Bach Collegium of Japan, under the direction of Masaaki Suzuki. There was a chorus of perhaps 22-23 singers. The soloists were embedded in the chorus, emerged from it to sing their arias and duets and returned to their seats among the chorus. There was a small chamber orchestra, from which the instrumental soloists, again, emerged, came up front and center stage to play their part, and returned to their seats. The sound they made was, indeed, otherworldly, beautiful beyond belief. So here I am, finally, understanding what others had always known: that this is a sublime achievement; it is what makes being human possibly worth while.
After I heard this performance on the radio, I went to my computer hoping to find more information about it; and what I found was that the entire performance of the B Minor Mass by the Bach Collegium of Japan could be seen on – Youtube! So after first listening to it, I could actually watch it. The visual effects of the beautifully choreographed performance, taking place in Tokyo, in a beautiful concert hall in front of a Japanese audience, is an added bonus. That this magnificent group of musicians was mainly Japanese, with a mere sprinkling of Westerners among them and that the cultures of East and West could merge to this degree is, over and above the purely musical pleasure, perhaps a hopeful sign for the world.
