Teach Me To Love Parsifal

Some twenty years ago someone wrote me with a most unusual request. He’d read a lot of my postings in various groups over the years (from the old days of Prodigy, RecMusicOpera, Opera-L, etc.) and noticed my obsession with a few operas, but one in particular he was intrigued by, but could not get past a lot of his issues with it. Then he ended his request with the simple words: Teach me to love Parsifal.

Yeah, my head exploded. How does one begin to teach anyone anything, much less a complex, strange opera that so many have difficulty with? I began a series of posts and ramblings I feared would put him off, but it did the opposite. He became even more intrigued and gave in and went on the journey to Montsalvat willingly. I wish I kept the correspondence from him, but the email address I had is no longer active, and the only thing I remember is that his name was John. I wish I had his name because by asking that seemingly simple question, John got me to put down in words things about this opera I’d always felt, and frequently spoke of, but had never committed to paper (or rather the virtual equivalent of paper). Here is the first response of the several I’d sent him. I’ve fixed a few typographical errors and tenses, but essentially it’s unchanged from the original.

_________

Very interesting request, John. Parsifal is my favorite of all operas. It hit me early on as a boy without my even understanding “why.” I was made fun of through half my youth because Parsifal was, by nearly everyone I knew, considered a bore . . . even a joke: a long, boring opera with less action than Tristan. " As I've grown older, Parsifal seems to have caught on much more than when I was young (or, more likely, I’ve just been exposed to more folk like myself) and where it once seemed to be a rare bird to produce for most houses, it seems to pop up all over these days.

There are a handful of works which, from their very opening notes, seize my entire being, and the first Vorspiel to Parsifal is at the top of a very short list. As Wagner begins it - and he does more than any other composer I know - oh, so quietly, as though summoning us to the call, almost requiring us to lean forward in our seats in order just to even hear it. And . . . when we do, it feels as though we've entered into the middle of a thing that’s already begun.  There is a sense of aural mystery that begins here to weave itself and draw us into another realm. Then (for at least some of us) come the tears. Full confession: I've given up even trying to hold them back, as such a battle shifts my attention to a place - a self-awareness which means it takes me away from the music. I want to be completely . . . entirely absorbed by fascinating thing. And so, I cry.

Perhaps I'm not the proper one to respond to your request, since I'm often accused of being in the Cult of Parsifal (which is not nearly so offensive as being labeled a Callas Widow – though, either term is a bit ridiculous and gives me a dose of the creeps). But I do freely admit Parsifal is an obsession and, as with any marvelous obsession, I am eternally intrigued by every aspect of it: the more I think I know it, the more I realize how much more there is to discover.

The character of Parsifal himself undergoes one of the more amazing transformations in opera. Merely reading the libretto, or looking at it pragmatically (not recommended) or from a structurally analytical perspective, it can and does seem static, even a bit on the ridiculously simple side. In Parsifal nothing happens - and then everything changes to become . . . the same. But, if one exercises patience, takes the time to examine the development of not just Parsifal's character – but the manner in which Wagner has all of the characters evolve, one just may find himself (as I do still), astounded. Completely.

There have always been complaints regarding Parsifal: the music is overly long for the minimal amount of words carved into the libretto . . . not enough movement or action either onstage, or in the score itself. These are but two often lobbed at Wagner’s final work, and yet, if one allows themselves to take it all in - in its own time, there are countless discoveries to be made . . . endless subtleties to discover in Wagner’s musical treatment of his own text, and how precisely, how perfectly, he sets it.

When we first meet him, Parsifal's speech is almost a stammer; he is coltish, abrupt, one might even say, unmusical. And so it remains until, by the end of the Act, after the conclusion of the first Grail ceremony, he is subdued by what he’s witnessed, completely overwhelmed. He is, in fact, rendered speechless and by this we see his being simultaneously divided between being both perplexed, and awestruck. Gurnemanz, frustrated at this silence, misunderstands, and berates his stupidity – but then, a voice from above reiterates the prophecy we've previously heard heard several times earlier:

Durch Mitleid wissend, der reine Tor 

(the King (and thus, the realm) will be healed by an innocent fool made wise through compassion.)

In the second act, we again hear the stammer-like element of Parsifal's speech, but added to it now is a sense of awe, as understanding and comprehension become clear to the hero. Ever the dramatic genius, Wagner achieves this effect by having Parsifal repeating certain words: Die Wunde! Die Wunde! . . .  Kläge! Kläge! . . . Oh! Oh! . . . Hier - heir!, etc, Through this, he allows the singer an opportunity, with each reiteration, to increase the intensity of emotion. In doing this, Wagner amps up everything in a manner that transforms the youth from dullard to enlightenment before our very eyes . . . and by using our ears.
By the end of the act the all of the young knight’s experiences have led to a genuine epiphany, and Wagner has given us us a front row seat to witness this miracle of Parsifal's awakening.

With that awakening comes his ability to know, to comprehend, and fully grasp the tragedy that befell not only Amfortas, but the entire brotherhood of the Knights.

During the duet that anchors this act - an intense exchange between Kundry and Parsifal - something extraordinary happens. Something that I believe is musically and dramatically unique in the entirety of opera, for here there is an intimacy typically reserved for operas more romantic or carnal, and yet Wagner has now transferred those elements into the spiritual realm, which should not be confused with the religious. So, "Don’t do that!" we think, but we need to just give in to Wagner here, for if we allow ourselves to go there, we too are immediat ely caught up in what is so revelatory in this moment: Parsifal's discovery of understanding . . . of compassion,  And it is soul searing. Wagner has invited us to witness the emerging of this empathy which will redeem the fallen Amfortas, heal his wound, and restore order, bringing peace to the suffering community of the Knights of Montsalvat.

One can, of course, mine the work for its rich symbolism which lends itself to as many interpretations as there are people. One can't begin to count the number of  books or papers about those - and I've devoured many of them over the years. But let's stay here for a moment. As we begin the first transformation scene, Parsifal states:

Ich schreite kaum, doch wähn' ich mich schon weit

(I scarcely move, yet already seem to have travelled far.)

Well, if that doesn't just prompt Gurnemanz to utter what is, for me, the greatest single line in in all of opera:

Du siehst, mein Sohn, zum Raum wird hier die Zeit.

(You see my son, time here becomes space.)

By bringing in the time/space continuum, Wagner has opened up an entirely new can of worms. He has introduced another dimension to the experience, and now, an element of the transcendental has inextricably woven itself into the tale. And it blows my mind every single time, no matter how many times I watch and listen to this opera. 

Then there is the character of Kundry - Wagner's fascinating distillation of a handful of women from the various Grail legends. I have written a lot about Kundry (who I consider the most fascinating character Wagner ever created) but will spare you this at the moment. But be prepared, she is coming.

I haven’t even begun to go into the third act and, despite all these words  I've spilled onto the page, have truly barely touched the tip of the particular iceberg that is Parsifal.  Nonetheless I hope I've provided some semblance of why I love it so much, and why it’s been an obsession of mine since boyhood. 

I will end here by saying this: if we are willing to tune into Wagner's sensibilities, take them as is  on their own (or his own)  . . . if we allows the entirety of it to wash over us , so to speak, the rewards truly are truly endless,  And yes:  time here does indeed become space.

 

Remembering Tatiana.

Since childhood the voice of Tatiana Troyanos spoke - and speaks to me still in a way few other singers have. It's difficult to believe over 30 years have passed since her untimely death in 1993 which also saw the death of two other great artists -  Arleen Auger and Lucia Popp, each left an enormous loss in the world of opera, but each also left us a legacy that remains immense, a legacy ensuring they are still celebrated, still talked about, and most importantly . . . still listened to. 

Troyanos had a difficult childhood which appeared to have plagued her with the insecurities that remaind lifelong, yet somehow she would overcome and conquer them with something resembling superhuman power.  Home life was tough and unstable in the tenements (where West Side Story took place and where Lincoln Center now sits).  At 7 or 8 Tatiana was placed in The Brooklyn Home for Children, which she would later describe as a “bleak but marvelous” place.  It was there she began piano studies with Louis Petrini, then principal bassoonist for the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, who early on recognized the girl's gifts.

As a teenager Tatiana was moved to the Girls Service League, a home for disturbed girls on E. 19th Street. This whole chapter of her life sounds like one of those Dickensian horror stories of misplaced children slipping through the cracks . . . or worse. She would describe her experience as “[being there] I got disturbed. I felt there must be something wrong with me, too.” She had always found comfort in music and while at the Girls Service League she became obsessed with singing.

“I was attracted to the voice of Maria Callas and played her records all the time in my room. It was hypnotic . . . I always felt drawn, extremely drawn to music, and it has held me together. It spoke to my soul and spirit, the communication I had with it. I felt I was another person when involved with music. I didn’t know who I was . . . so I found identification in music, but there was difficulty in identification – my intensity comes from this. I figured if I worked hard and followed advice, it would work. It did, and it does.”

Eventually, Louis Petrini was able to arrange for a piano scholarship to the Brooklyn Music School, where she worked herself into a frenzy. “I put all my energies into music, which was healthy and positive. We also put on plays and I acted, danced and worked with costumes . . . took everything seriously, even ballet. I always won the prize for trying the hardest.”

It's neither surprise nor secret that Troyanos suffered from horrible stage fright, I remember reading from her cast mates in various operas that Tatiana was usually an emotional wreck behind the curtain,. Backstage one could hear her expressing incredible self doubt and unworthiness, and more than once the singer had to be physically pushed out onto the stage. And then magic would happen.  A magic that, for me, few others equalled.

I've always praised her Didon in the Met's Les Troyens, but noticed how in her first scene and aria she sounded nervous, and appeared somehow comfortable. Then something happened she became pure Wow!"

 In Tannhäuser her Venus for me - has no equal in more recent stagings, and Troyanos makes the Goddess of Love as alluring physically as she is vocally.

Posthumously I recall articles speaking about her possibly suffering from some sort of clinical depression, a disease more widespread than most people imagine, and true or not, it's understandable to go there when analyzing the woman and the artist. Whatever she suffered, makes her achievements and accomplishments all the more impressive to me and I'm ever grateful for all she did in making the world a little nicer place to hang out in. 

Musically, dramatically, there seemed to be nothing Tatiana Troyanos couldn't sing. The gamut of a great repertoire from Monteverdi, Purcell, and Handel, through Mozart, Rossini, Verdi and Berlioz. Let's not forget thrilling work in Verdi, Wagner, Strauss . . . and Philip Glass . . . even Penderecki. 

I frequently recall one of the greatest performances I've (yet) witnessed: Handel's Giulio Cesare with Troyanos in the title role (she'd previously sung, and recorded Cleopatra), supported by an excellent festival cast including the young June Anderson, along with Maureen Forrester, Susanne Marsee, Dominic Costa, Paul Eswood, and Mariana Busching, led by Stephen Simon The response after every aria was thunderous and by the end, was pure bedlam. 

The Washington Post wrote:

The imposing demeanor of the celebrated mezzo was always suitably Caesar-like . . . that left one unprepared -- perhaps by design -- for the most breathtaking moment of the performance . . . in the last act, when Caesar returns after all have assumed he was drowned in the sea by Ptolemy's men, he announces that he will free Cleopatra and Cornelia or die."Quel torrente, che cada dal monte" is one of the most intimidatingly difficult display pieces ever conceived. . . . [Troyanos] launched headlong into an incredible cascade of runs, ornaments, embellishments and adornments that left the listeners almost more breathless than she. The aria was superbly articulated and always right on the beat. Where, and why, has Troyanos been hiding this coloratura technique all these years? At the end, there was no question that she herself realized what she had done -- as she grinned broadly while the audience interrupted the opera with a tumultuous standing ovation.

Yes, we did. 

It was years after her death that I first heard about the final day of this amazing lady, and that story frequently haunts me and gets me right there. 

The afternoon of her death, Tatiana, got dressed, put on make-up, then rolled along with her I.V. pole into Lenox Hill Hospital's cancer ward waiting room, and there, for about half an hour, sang an impromptu a capella recital. After cheering her fellow patients and their visitors, Tatiana returned to her room and shortly therafter passed away. The tale always gives me chills.  What an amazing, beautiful gift Tatiana Troyanos was to this world, literally to her final moment in it . . . right up until the last, bringing joy, beauty and comfort to all those around her. Even in death she made something special, and selfless.

Thank you, Tatiana. are still so very loved . . . and missed. 

Opera Maine's Sweeney Todd: A Cut Above

For its 30th anniversary, Opera Maine broke new ground with a theatrically compelling, musically excellent production of Sondheim's Sweeney Todd. Guided by Artistic Director, Dona D. Vaughn, a superb cast moved thrillingly across the original 1980 tour sets (created for Angela Lansbury and George Hearn) offering cinematic sweep and operatic force. The audience responded throughout with audible gasps, laughter and long ovations punctuated by cheers. 

Commanding in voice and presence, Michael Mayes' Sweeney went from quiet brooding to malevolent rage with turn-on-a-dime precision. His revenge-obsessed barber reached fever pitch in a chilling Epiphany that stopped the show. As his partner-in-crime, Mela Sarajane Dailey's beautifully sung Mrs. Lovett, balanced Sweeney's darkness with impeccable comic timing, in a performance far more delicious than her legendary pies. 

As the Beggar Woman, Megan Marino drew uncomfortable laughter while simultaneously breaking our hearts. Todd's concluding explosion of grief was among the most wrenching I've seen. It was no surprise to learn Marino and Mayes are married in real life, adding a palpable frisson as he threw himself across her ragged, lifeless body.

Portraying the young lovers was yet another married couple; Michael Adams and Mary Feminear. They were a delight. Feminear easily sailed through Johanna's highflying music, while Adams' plush baritone added a welcome richness to Anthony, his big number, Johanna, bringing down the house. 

Oozing equal amounts of pomposity and sleaze, David Pittsinger and Nicholas Nestorak were perfectly despicable as Judge Turpin and Beadle Bamford, and made the quartet with Anthony and Johanna a highlight. 

As Adolfo Pirelli, Maxwell Levy was clearly having a grand time, hamming up every moment as the elixir selling faux Italian barber, with comically endless high notes adding to the fun.

David Marino’s touching voice and presence won all hearts as the simple Toby, his duet with Mrs. Lovet, Not While I'm Around, easily the most touching moment of the show. 

Sweeney, for me, recalls Britten's Peter Grimes - each relying heavily on its chorus to provide not only suitably grim Victorian atmosphere, but to move their stories forward. Opera Maine's Chorus delivered spectacularly, with two notable stand outs:  God, That's Good, where tricky rhythms and amusing word play garnered laughs, then, in City on Fire setting up the brutal, final sequence. Few directors move people across a stage as convincingly as Vaughn, and in Sweeney we were treated to some of the finest work in her thirty years of leading this company.

Conducting with precision and elan, Israel Gursky brought Sweeney's assorted motifs and themes to life, creating an atmospheric soundscape that perfectly matched what we saw onstage.  His broader tempo for My Friends evoked Debussy, adding even more layers to Sondheim's sophisticated score. I can't recall it more beautifully sung or played.

James Kennerley’s playing of the show’s ominous organ music on the mighty Kotzschmar, was an unexpected treat, and a deafening roar went up from the house as the backdrop of London lifted revealing organ and organist. No one seemed to want to leave. I certainly didn't.

(Photos from Opera Maine)