Spyres Shines in Vienna's Austere But Perfect Palestrina

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Hans Pfitzner's Palestrina has never taken hold in the repertoire of any house. Arguments can be (and are) made it doesn't warrant being produced, and yet I can only argue that each time I hear it - and both productions I've seen (alas, only on video) Pfitzner's score sublimates my spirit and reaches beyond my understanding into something I feel . . . . something I can barely identify.

Vienna's revival which aired last night goes beyond even that. Having spent the last few days with Parsifal, Die Frau Ohne Schatten, and now, Palestrina, I feel I've somehow tuned into some level of highest, holiest German art.  I'm not complaining.

While the score continues to mostly gather dust, Christian Thielemann has championed Palestrina, spurred on by a critic who called it a nationalist piece of crap . . . a shitty piece.  This prompting the then young Thielemann to schedule for his first new production when he took over .Staatstheater Nürnberg in the 1980's.  He went on to lead performances elsewhere including London, Berlin, and now Vienna. From the first note to last, it is immediately apparent how dearly he loves this score, and he infuses that love and excitement throughout his cast, the orchestra and ultimately and the entire audience.  I can hardly recall a more rapturous ovation to the close of a first act than what I witnessed from the Viennese for this Palestrina. It was stupendous, really.  

The production by the late Herbert Wernicke is (from what I understand) being seen for the first time in 25 years - since it's 1999 premiere. Interestingly enough, Wernicke, also directed the Met's current Die Frau Ohne Schatten, dying in 2002, only months after its rapturous reception in New York.  His is a deceptive fairly bare bones looking set. In fact, when the curtain rose I thought for a moment the nearly bare stage was the actual stage of the Staatsoper. But looks are deceiving, and Wernicke's updated retelling of the great composer's tale takes place on the stage of a modern concert hall complee with risers for singers and musicians. There is also a composition desk where Palestrina spends almost all of his onstage time. 

It may look dull, but there are countless moments that bring Pfitzner's rapturous score to light and life.  The long sequence ending the first act, is sheer magic. As in the darkness, Palestrina listens to the masters, composing - inspired without even looking at his manuscript, then three angels appear, along with the spirit of his dead wife, as the rear wall opens to reveal a chorus of angels singing his mass before disappearing, leaving Palestrina at his desk in a rapturous awe. The effect is overwhelming, the pit raising the decibel level with its mighty orchestral heft and bells and drums. A truly spectacular gooseflesh inducing finale.

The second act can be overwhelming in a different way, as we prepare for the Council of Trent, with Bishops, Archbishops, Cardinals, politicians, royal agents, and servants argue politics, religion, the decision of Palestrina's fate for refusing to cooperate,with Rome, and more. It's all capped by the rising of the organ's pipe organs revealing the entry of the Council, more arguing, then an outbreak of violence, gunfire and confusion. Lots of things come to mind here: the end of Act Two of Der Rosenkavalier, Meistersinger's riot, and toss in some Carmina Burana.  

The final act returns us to the home of Palestrina, now old and weary (achieved not by makeup or wigs, but solely by movement) where for years he's been under house arrest. His son, Ighino, however has surreptitiously given this father's score of the mass to church authorities, and its eventual performance pleased Pope Pius IV, who appears unexpectedly to invite the aged composer spend the rest of his days leading the Sistine Chapel Choir.

Palestrina's nemesis, Cardinal Borromeo who had him imprisoned, realizes his greatness begs forgiveness, as voices from outside are heard praising Palestrina, the saviour of music.As all depart (in this staging) Ighino begins to play the organ as Palestrina lifts his baton toward the heavens and the opera closes on a single organ note.  It's kind of breathtaking. 

Palestrina requires an enormous cast - 42 roles in all, and Vienna did an outstanding job with nary a weak link among them.  In one of the greatest examples of luxury casting I've ever seen, Günther Groissböck appeared, magnificently, as Pope Pius IV for all of his three minutes. The man of the night, however, was, beyond any doubt, Michael Spyres who, as Palestrina, easily gives one of the best performances I've heard from him. The voice is big, warm, bright and cuts easily through Pfitzner's dense orchestration and choral forces with astonishing clarity and beauty. While the end was indeed moving, I still get the shivers thinking of what he did both musically and dramatically at the end of the first. 

In a cast of marvelous singers, I must also mention Michael Nagy,  Wolfgang Koch, and especially soprano Kathrin Zukowski, whose touching presence and gleaming voice made something very special of Ighino

The Viennese went gaga at the end of each act, with especially rapturous ovations for Mister Spyres and Maestro Thielemann. 

Palestrina is one of those big 20th century operas, like Messiaen's Saint François d'Assise, Enescu's Œdipe, or Szymanowsk's Krol Roger that could work spectacularly with the Met's resources, but none of whic will likely (or most likely) never be seen there just seems to be no audience for these works in New York.  That's not just a pity, it's a tragedy.  

But this Palestrina is a cause for celebration, so get to Vienna while you can folks, 'cause this is nothing but glorious. 

Wozzeck: The Perfect Opera Movie

Okay, let's talk about Wozzeck and video (Berg's opera, not the play or its other adaptations). In the category of as good as it gets, allow me to put in a plug for a unique Wozzeck, which just may be the finest treatment of an opera committed to film:  Rolf Liebermann’s 1970 Wozzeck made for German television.  

Yes, ideally Wozzeck (and pretty much every other opera) is best experienced in the house, where its 3-dimensional brutality packs a visceral punch, Liebermann has populated his film with true singing actors (or vice versa) who live, breathe and become these characters down to their very marrow.  For this director, there is no separation of the music from its drama, nor any from its characters,not of the scenery or indeed, of any element of it whatsoever. Liebermann presents us with something truly extraordinary . . . as close to a complete embracing of the gesamtkunstwerk ideology as exists in film.  

Musically it’s in equally find hands in an almost outsized reading of Berg's score by the Hamburg Opera foces, led by Bruno Maderna. While clearly not film score music, Maderna matches Liebermann's vision through sound in a perfect wedding of both.  

Instead of a studio soundstage, Liebermann takes his cast and places them in and around an abandoned, ancient German castle or fortress (take your pick). It's yet another stroke of genius in creating a world both familiar and alien, and it works magnificently. 

Marie is performed by one of the most graceful interpreters of Strauss and Mozart of all time; Sena Jurinac.  Jurinac's Marie is sung with uncommon lusciousness and beauty of voice, which brought to mind the beautiful sounds of Eileen Farrell in the legendary Columbia recording with Mack Harrell, and Mitropoulos.  Jurinac takes the palm, however, both in musicianship (spot on) and in her sense of drama.  She looks lovely, and there is an incredible naturalness to her acting that one is actually able to feel her fear, and sense both her weary desperation and strained hope as she sings to her child. Jurinac lends a real you and me against the world  quality that, for my money has been matched only by Hildegard Behrens' take on the role .

With a perfect everyman hangdog quality about him, Toni Blankenheim quite simply is Wozzeck.  Through his interactions and reactions to the horrifying world around him and those in it, Blankenheim reveals a man whose pitiable sense of aloneness and repression feels like an open apology to the universe for his very existence.  He is a perfect Wozzeck and his is a performance both harrowing and heartbreaking. 

Liebermann  ingeniously uses Berg’s magnificent interludes as intended . . . stitching the entirety of the tale together, yet also bringing to its severe linear structure, something rather intangible but entirely profound (in the best sense). We become aware of art and beauty in an otherwise artless world. How they fit here with Maderna's pacing of the interludes provide us with moments to reflect on all we’ve just heard and seen, as its propulsive quality rushes, hurtling us forward to the inexorable, tragic conclusion.

I can’t think of a better made operatic film, nor one that offers the abundance of rewards as does this Wozzeck.  For those of us who enjoy filmed opera, it truly doesn’t come much better than this. And for those of you who don’t love it, well you just might be surprised by this one.

And the Lady Makes It Complete. Boston’s Magnificent Lady Macbeth Of Mtsensk.

 

Andris Nelsons ambitious Shostakovich Cycle with the Boston Symphony Orchestra reached its climax Thursday night with one of the composer’s earliest major works, an eagerly anticipated Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, which may be considered the crown jewel of the project. The seemingly endless ovation at night’s end was like a collective explosion of joy.  

The fact Shostakovich began composing this masterpiece of mayhem before his 24th birthday – completing it at age 26, is significant. Already behind him were three symphonies, four film scores, a slew of chamber music, orchestral suites, a piano concerto, incidental music for a half dozen plays (including Shakespeare’s Hamlet), and two other operas, leaving no doubt this was one of the most significant, prolific and gifted composers the 20th century would see.  

Lady’s score is as sui generis as it gets, calling for an orchestra of immense size; full strings, winds, alto flute, extra brass – including four tubas (forced into a side aisle owing to limitations of the stage) and an enormous battery of percussion including celeste and a whip. Shostakovich uses them – and the chorus – like an assault on the senses, reaching a fever pitch loudness, creating a cacophony of sensational beautiful noise that is, quite simply, overwhelming. The genius is that, with those same forces, the composer gives us moments of such transparent delicacy, such beauty they cause the heart to ache with their tenderness, their ineffable sadness.  

Driving in from Portland, we arrived early at Symphony Hall and already there was a sense of occasion – a crackle in the air, if you will.  Eventually musicians began entering the stage, warming up, tuning, bits and blurts of the score repeated loudly, softly, filling the house along with increasing conversation as the audience steamed in taking their seats. That buzz. Nothing like it.

Maestro Nelsons, then Christine Opolais – looking all the world more movie star than singer, in a stunning gown of white, entered the stage to hearty applause and then we were on. (For the second half, Opolais appeared in an equally stunning gown, black, that would not have been out of place for Anna Bolena).  The opera begins, with a melancholic aria for Katerina, a childless young woman, trapped in an abusive marriage living on her in-law’s farm. Opolais conveyed this beautifully and one was immediately, as we need to be, in her corner.  Her overall performance was magnificent, even if the voice at times failed to register – or indeed, in large orchestral moments, even be heard. It was not uncommon during these moments to see her mouth wide open – screaming – but little or indeed, no sound at all. Fortunately, such moments are few and even then, the characterization of the bored, unloved beauty Katerina came through with (almost) full force. 

Tenor Brenden Gunnell was terrific as Sergei, the sturdy new laborer who seduces Katerina and sends the story into a tailspin, relishing the bawdiness of the terrific libretto – jointly written by Alexander Preys and Shostakovich himself. The consummation scene – even with the lovers on opposite sides of the podium – was what I’d call sinsational. His feckless betrayal of Katerina on the road to hell, I mean Siberia, came as natural as his declarations of love. (In my fantasies, it is always HE I want to see Katerina throw into the icy waters.)

As father-in-law Boris, Günther Groissböck was, as ever, at the top of his game. His experience in the role going back a few years proved to be the kind of asset one longs for in an opera like this (an opera like this?); still handsome, youthful, but with that rich, venerous sound that crosses over into lechery, he was . . . brilliant. Commanding. Sleazy and needed killing.  The mushroom/murder scene played out showing Shostakovich’s strength combining  humor with horror, and Groissböck and Opolais made a meal out of it. (I couldn’t resist.)

Peter Hoare’s Zinovy also proved to be another bit of excellent casting. The relatively small role is nonetheless the obvious lynchpin. Hoare’s sound carried perfectly while creating a genuine milquetoast character under his oppressive father’s cruel thumb. I almost felt bad for the guy when he met his end. Almost. 

The rest of the enormous cast larger roles and small ones – were all committed to putting their characters across in the strongest fashion, their quick entrances and exits enhancing the frenzy of the tale. Standouts included Alexander Kravets’ Shabby Peasant (Shostakovich’s nod to Boris Godunov), who held the distinction of being the only rumpled, dirty character of the evening, stumbling drunkenly, face contorted perfectly, and nicely exposed gut.  Marvelous really.  

Goran Jurić was excellent as The Priest, repeating the role of his Met debut several years ago. Dmitri Belosselskiy stepped in as the last-minute replacement for Paata Burchuladze’s Old Convict. My disappointment at not hearing the great Georgian basso was instantly relieved to hear the depth of pathos and beautiful sound Belosselskiy brought to the opera’s final scene.

As Anatoli Sivko’s Chief of Police entered for his first scene. His corrupt, exploitive character was immediately on display as Sivko, in tight pants, patent leather shoes, earrings and buttons all sparkling into the house, one could not resist a smile.  The handsome devil had the air of a model, dancer . . . or hustler. His sound – deep and rich projected the sleazy confidence to perfection. Patrick Guetti was imposing in every way as the Sentry, the voice, easily the biggest of the evening, sounded as though he had a microphone built into this larynx. I look forward to hearing much more from all of these.

The real star of the evening is, of course, Shostakovich himself, so, by default, Andris Nelsons who had every detail of the score well in hand.  Dmitri’s sprawling score seemingly covers everything, from folk music, jazz and showtunes to Mahler-esque Ländler-like dances, the chaotically comical Keystone Kop music and the Wozzeck-like Passacaglia, and through it all, the Bostonians made it come alive with vivid clarity and dramatic punch. Equal to that task was the singing of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus who delivered the right mood every time in splendor from the merry toast making of the wedding to the devastating final chorus. 

As the final chord faded, the house burst into an ovation finding most immediately on their feet, roaring as one in a collective explosion of joy. That ovation was one of the longest I can recall anywhere, the cast and conductor returning several times to the deafening applause and cheers. Though diminished, it was steady and loud enough that Günther Groissböck, clearly moved and buoyed by the enthusiasm, led the cast out for one last round of love from the house. 

Seeing mics throughout the house, a mixing board behind the first section of orchestra seats, confirmed hope these performances are being recorded by Deutsche Grammophon for release alongside the rest of the Shostakovich Project. Happy news indeed. 

There is another performance at 7 p.m. tonight being broadcast live on WCRB, and then a performance at Carnegie Hall next Tuesday, the 30th.  It should not be missed.

Dialogues des Carmélites: Some Thoughts

Listening to the Met's broadcast of Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites, last night did what it always does: makes me think . . . and write, too much. I remembered numerous conversations and arguments about the opera, and one in particular.

Roughly twenty years ago I was embroiled in a conversation with a group who made known their very strong feelings about this opera. More simply put:  they hated it.

One wrote that Poulenc's opera is only for "religious nuts," adding "I can see how someone who wasn't religious at all would be totally put off  by this . . .  plus the misogynism and rejection of sexuality put me off too ... there are a lot of things in this opera that you have to overlook just to enjoy the music."

This sentiment was followed by a strong pronouncement that condemned Poulenc as "completely irresponsible" in his selection for his largest work, "particularly doing so after the murder of millions of Jews and others at his doorstep . . . . how dare he trivialize that with his little antique tragedy when the whole world was still reeling, and just beginning to recover and understand what had taken place."

Wow.  I argued how I believed the very removal of the then immediate present (the end of WWII), as well as the timelessness (or, at least, of a time far removed) of the 1789 Carmelites incident, actually spoke far better to the ideas of senseless death, war and the human condition.  Not only that, but it could do so in a far more contemplative and profound manner than any "Anti-Nazi Opera," possibly could.  Further to that is, Poulenc's unique compositional style is immediately recognizable as more prone towards intimate storytelling rather than grand pageantry and war scenes, or their aftermath.

Instead, he presents us with a group of women at another perilous time in human history, joined together ,yes,by religion, but also something much more than that.  The sense of community is unique among cloistered people, and Poulenc delves into that life with details raning from the mundane to the extraordinary.

Early on, Sister Constance speaks of dying in place of another, which we know as "the transference of grace."  This echoes a sentiment that seemed to speak to Poulenc in more ways than one, and the culmination of it, I believe, is reached with the final chop of the guillotine: this sisterhood has, as their Saviour, gone to slaughter, willingly accepting martyrdom.

There are so many ideas Poulenc presents in this opera, and I believe one of the reasons his insistence that it be translated, sung and understood in the vernacular of its audience is his precision in setting the text, the attention to the tale's intimate so that every part of it could be understood, even if we don't agree on what it is we're understanding.

One need not be a Catholic or religious at all to understand that a strong belief of all faiths is that of unity: the many becoming part of the one.  In such communities we take on and share the burden of another.  I also believe It's why we as a species have created Saints. We pray to now divine beings who once were human.  They "know"  better than purely celestial creatures such as God, or the angels, the profound depth of human suffering.

Returning to the Transference of Grace, who knows if my suffering - or even my death  - can in some way have an effect, or possibly even alleviate completely the pain and suffering of another?  I have always held that Madame de Croissy's agonizing death, wracked with terrors of doubt and fear, of the end of all these women believed, was, unknowingly, her gift to the perpetually anxious and terror-stricken Blanche, who, when the time comes, can now accept her death with peace and in the company of her sisters.  Regardless of what "I" personally believe - that's some pretty powerful stuff!

We know Poulenc was an often conflicted soul - not in the "spiritual suffering" way, but like many of us, trying to find some sort of balance between the spiritual and the secular.  A worldly man he was nonetheless, prone towards "bouts" of the spiritual.  Years ago I was moved when learning how, following the tragic death of his close friend, Pierre-Octave Ferroud, Poulenc decided to make a pilgrimage, far out into the countryside where he prayed and meditated at the Chapel of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour.  If I recall, he described the experience on his way home as an epiphany, and penned, almost immediately, his Litanies a la Vierge noir.  It's among, the finest of his smaller choral works, and every bar is filled with a genuine sense of spiritual mystery.

I used to joke that no French composer was capable of truly separating the sacred and profane, but look at the popular operas of Saint Saens; Massenet; Gounod, and there is something there!  But, I believe Poulenc's opera addresses many issues

Universally, and despite the very specificity of its French Revolution setting, it is ultimately a story that could take place at nearly any given time in any part of the world.

I've always held this opera close to my heart, yet also know people who genuinely despise it on many grounds.

Personally, since first hearing it as a boy, and then in my teens experiencing the amazing, John Dexter production it has, despite affected me on myriad levels, not the least of which is spiritually, which is an odd thing coming from a non-believer. In this sense it stands alongside Bach's Matthäus-Passion, and Wagner's Parsifal.  Not bad company to be in.

Opera Maine Takes on Poe and Glass

 

Despite the issues surrounding the performing arts in this country, Opera Maine is offering a most ambitious season with a pair of big deals.  Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman which opens next month, and Philip Glass’ The Fall of the House of Usher, given last night at the Westbrook Performing Arts Center. 

Richard Gammon’s production is stark, sparse, but effective.  A table, chairs, a bed, bottles everywhere, and a screen projecting live film of the grounds, etc., along with static images of the characters ranging from nearly beatific to demonic, including a jarring set quickly alternating between their normal faces with blood-drenched ones straight from a nightmare.  All set the mood and spurred a tale where not much happens, moving it forward almost breathlessly. 

Updated to the present, we see William, after Roderick’s letter of despair, driving to the haunted mansion, facing us, driving while the road is in the opposite direction, subtly registering his fearful dread.

Another element I found of particular interest was everyone being barefoot.  The symbolism of bare feet is powerful with myriad meanings:  innocence, death, aimlessness, separation from earthly things and entrance into holy spaces.  Subtle, and often unnoticed it adds an element that registers directly into the psyche of a work as evidenced here. 

Contemporary costumes worked, including Madeline’s short sparkling black dress – which quickly disappeared revealing a camisole and boy shorts, all helping define the characters.  William’s tee-shirt emblazoned with a skeleton surrounded by the sun, was perfection.    

Poe’s ambiguous tale has been open to myriad interpretations over a century.  Fueled by mystery, drug and alcohol induced madness, homosexuality, the implication of murder, incest, and most horrifically, vivisepulture, it is a juicy tale of madness.  Glass’ score achieves its desired result beautifully. 

The trio of William, Roderick and the wordless – but hardly voiceless Madeline – declaim, shout, and sing beautifully throughout in wonderful vocal lines Glass carefully wedded to the libretto.  The sense of these people knowing, each other, in love with each other, repulsed and horrified by each other came through in every gesture and movement. 

As Roderick, Joseph Tancredi offered clarion tenor tone while wavering between desperation and madness. One felt for the guy whilst simultaneously uncomfortable with this fellow clearly on the brink.  Gabrielle Clutter’s Madeline was lovely and, likewise, spooky.  With a voice of surprising size and beauty, though, Madeline’s wordless vocalises did at several times overpower Roderick and William’s narrative.  Appearing as William, Marcel Sokalski rendered a beautiful baritone, while exhibiting completely the man’s nervous sincerity as well as sense of morbid curiosity and innocence tying the story together perfectly. 

The small roles of Servant and Physician were well served by Miguel Pedroza and Joseph Sacchi.

Jackson McKinnon led the ensemble of about a dozen in an energetic and mesmerizing reading, the pacing, pauses and synchronicity between stage, screen and pit often exquisite. 

Overheard from a visiting couple behind me, “Well, we wouldn’t be seeing this in Arkansas.”  More’s the pity.  There’s another performance on Friday, July 1^st.  Go.

Wozzeck: Berg Triumphant in Boston

 

Saturday, three Mainers made the trek to Boston in unanticipated ice, snow and wind for the Boston Symphony Orchestra's concert performance of Alban Berg's WOZZECK.  Despite the treachery of the roads, and taking about twice as long as usual to get there, it was worth every minute, every slip and slide to be part of this magnificent evening.

Andris Nelsons began the performance with a little bit of concern as one saw audience members looking at each other with puzzled faces, as the conductor simply had the orchestra overpowering Wozzeck and the Captain.  As Wozzeck, Bo Skovhus fared a bit better than poor Toby Spence who could barely be heard in the scene. At one point Spence's jaw was moving, his lips forming words, but one had to take it on faith he was singing.  Collectively, the audience seemed to will Nelsons to reign it in a bit, and somehow (though doubtful it was owing in any part to our "will") he did just that.  Balance was achieved for most of the rest of the night and everyone now being heard, things settled in brilliantly.  

Mr. Spence always seems a bit young for the roles he's been taking these days, Eschenbach, Vere, et al., but the beauty and shape of his voice, combined with terrific dramatic sense makes him a singing actor of the first order, and his Captain Saturday was both comical and troubling in all the right ways.

Mr. Skovhus has been thrilling audiences with his take on Berg's antihero for a quarter century now and the role rarely sounds as good as when Bo takes it on.  Indeed, the first reviews from his earliest performances in Hamburg had that "not since Fischer-Dieskau" moniker attached.  It held then, it holds now.  The tragic Everyman is a tightly wound ball of nerves, pathos, and despite his directness in almost all things, always misunderstood, increasing his desperate frustration.  Skovhus presents all of this in his hushed singing, spoken anxiety, cries and ragings against the world.  Wozzeck is pathetic in many ways, but Skovhus, without eschewing that quality, adds a nobility that makes it impossible to not root for him.  Each of his interactions - Captain, Doctor, Andres, and most importantly, Marie, reveals the myriad facets of this complex  tortured soul most (all?)  of us cn identify with.  Add to this Skovhus facial expressions and body language and the role is complete as it can be in every regard, fulfilling his description as a man "running through life like an open razor."  Indeed.

In her role debut with this run, Christine Goerke reveals a Marie equally as tragic, noble and heartbreakingly beautiful as her man.  And as complicated as well.  Like Wozzeck, Marie's character comes through with each of her own interactions - her child, Margaret, the Drum Major, and, of course, Wozzeck. Goerke was in magnificent voice all night; tender here with her son, bawdy girl talk with Margaret, touching and frightened by Wozzeck, all of the nuances of the role pouring out with plush, feminine sound.  Berg provides Marie with one moment that can stop the show; when the Drum Major goes beyond a mere seduction, Marie cries out "Do not touch me!" - and here, Goerke unleashed a tsunami of sound - "Rühr mich nicht an!"  - an explosion hanging in the otherwise silenced hall like a Walkyrian war cry.  It. Was. Thrilling.

Franz Hawalta's Doctor was appropriately slick and egotistical.  Renée Tatum made the most one can out of Margaret, with voice one hopes to hear in much roles.  Christopher Ventris still showed plenty of voice and stage presence as the Drum Major, while Mauro Peter ’provided a different, more delicate tenor as Wotan's comrade, Andres.  Zachary Altman and David Kravitz were terrific as the Apprentices, with Altman displaying a voice that immediately made me sit up and take notice of.  The :"Bar Singers" were as good as I've ever heard - better than most, in Berg's beautifully husehd pseudo-Palestrina.

With the least amount to sing, the children of the final scene, along with Marie's Child, made the ending as chillingly tragic as one could hope for - if "hope for" is even the right phrase to use here.

Nelson's reading of the score was crystal clear at every moment, amplifying Berg's nightmarish soundscape throughout, and all of its beauty with virtuoso displays from his players.  Of course it happens easily, expectedly in the big bits, but here, too, we were treated to memorable magic in those quiet sections.  A perfect example is the introduction of the celeste at the end of Marie's lullaby where the notes sparkle ;like stars in the darkness.  

Then there are the two biggest orchestral moments.  First, that twice repeated chord following Marie's murder, its crescendo swelling anjd puncutated by timpani like the definition of violence broken by the out-of-tune piano like a welcome to hell.  Then, the intermezzo before the final scene. Nelsons milked them for all they were worth and the effect was chilling.

As the final notes repeated, dissolving into nothingness, the audience held quiet, complete silence, not a rustle of programs, a cough . . . nothing, for perhaps 20 seconds - which felt like eternity, before the house erupted into a roar of cheers and bravi.  

If I were near New York, I'd be at the Carnegie Hall performance tomorrow night (March 15). Go! 

Wozzeck: Berg Triumphant in Boston

Saturday, three Mainers made the trek to Boston in unanticipated ice, snow and wind for the Boston Symphony Orchestra's concert performance of Alban Berg's WOZZECK.  Despite the treachery of the roads, and taking about twice as long as usual to get there, it was worth every minute, every slip and slide to be part of this magnificent evening.

Andris Nelsons began the performance with a little bit of concern as one saw audience members looking at each other with puzzled faces, as the conductor simply had the orchestra overpowering Wozzeck and the Captain.  As Wozzeck, Bo Skovhus fared a bit better than poor Toby Spence who could barely be heard in the scene. At one point Spence's jaw was moving, his lips forming words, but one had to take it on faith he was singing.  Collectively, the audience seemed to will Nelsons to reign it in a bit, and somehow (though doubtful it was owing in any part to our "will") he did just that.  Balance was achieved for most of the rest of the night and everyone now being heard, things settled in brilliantly.  

Mr. Spence always seems a bit young for the roles he's been taking these days, Eschenbach, Vere, et al., but the beauty and shape of his voice, combined with terrific dramatic sense makes him a singing actor of the first order, and his Captain Saturday was both comical and troubling in all the right ways.

Mr. Skovhus has been thrilling audiences with his take on Berg's antihero for a quarter century now and the role rarely sounds as good as when Bo takes it on.  Indeed, the first reviews from his earliest performances in Hamburg had that "not since Fischer-Dieskau" moniker attached.  It held then, it holds now.  The tragic Everyman is a tightly wound ball of nerves, pathos, and despite his directness in almost all things, always misunderstood, increasing his desperate frustration.  Skovhus presents all of this in his hushed singing, spoken anxiety, cries and ragings against the world.  Wozzeck is pathetic in many ways, but Skovhus, without eschewing that quality, adds a nobility that makes it impossible to not root for him.  Each of his interactions - Captain, Doctor, Andres, and most importantly, Marie, reveals the myriad facets of this complex  tortured soul most (all?)  of us cn identify with.  Add to this Skovhus facial expressions and body language and the role is complete as it can be in every regard, fulfilling his description as a man "running through life like an open razor."  Indeed.

In her role debut with this run, Christine Goerke reveals a Marie equally as tragic, noble and heartbreakingly beautiful as her man.  And as complicated as well.  Like Wozzeck, Marie's character comes through with each of her own interactions - her child, Margaret, the Drum Major, and, of course, Wozzeck. Goerke was in magnificent voice all night; tender here with her son, bawdy girl talk with Margaret, touching and frightened by Wozzeck, all of the nuances of the role pouring out with plush, feminine sound.  Berg provides Marie with one moment that can stop the show; when the Drum Major goes beyond a mere seduction, Marie cries out "Do not touch me!" - and here, Goerke unleashed a tsunami of sound - "Rühr mich nicht an!"  - an explosion hanging in the otherwise silenced hall like a Walkyrian war cry.  It. Was. Thrilling.

Franz Hawalta's Doctor was appropriately slick and egotistical.  Renée Tatum made the most one can out of Margaret, with voice one hopes to hear in much roles.  Christopher Ventris still showed plenty of voice and stage presence as the Drum Major, while Mauro Peter ’provided a different, more delicate tenor as Wotan's comrade, Andres.  Zachary Altman and David Kravitz were terrific as the Apprentices, with Altman displaying a voice that immediately made me sit up and take notice of.  The :"Bar Singers" were as good as I've ever heard - better than most, in Berg's beautifully husehd pseudo-Palestrina.

With the least amount to sing, the children of the final scene, along with Marie's Child, made the ending as chillingly tragic as one could hope for - if "hope for" is even the right phrase to use here.

Nelson's reading of the score was crystal clear at every moment, amplifying Berg's nightmarish soundscape throughout, and all of its beauty with virtuoso displays from his players.  Of course it happens easily, expectedly in the big bits, but here, too, we were treated to memorable magic in those quiet sections.  A perfect example is the introduction of the celeste at the end of Marie's lullaby where the notes sparkle ;like stars in the darkness.  

Then there are the two biggest orchestral moments.  First, that twice repeated chord following Marie's murder, its crescendo swelling anjd puncutated by timpani like the definition of violence broken by the out-of-tune piano like a welcome to hell.  Then, the intermezzo before the final scene. Nelsons milked them for all they were worth and the effect was chilling.

As the final notes repeated, dissolving into nothingness, the audience held quiet, complete silence, not a rustle of programs, a cough . . . nothing, for perhaps 20 seconds - which felt like eternity, before the house erupted into a roar of cheers and bravi.  

If I were near New York, I'd be at the Carnegie Hall performance tomorrow night (March 15). Go!

Peter Grimes: Bayerische Staatsoper - 6 March 2022

I just finished Stefan Herheim's production of PEER GRIMES for Bayerische Staatsoper. Britten's opera is one of those that, as many times as I've seen it, I don't think I can recall ever sitting through a production that didn't work - at least on some level.  Most have actually been excellent, and I'll even stand up for the mostly deplored Doyle production for the Met that still sets tongues wagging at its mere mention (and won't be surprised if it's derided here).  Herheim's however, worked on a dozen different levels, unfolding the drama like a sort of operatic equivalent of a Wes Anderson movie (most specifically, I found myself thinking of MOONRISE KINGDOM).  

Set in an auditorium that was either in a high school, or, as I saw it, a municipal auditorium once often found in small villages.  At least, living in a fishing town in New England, that's how I saw it.  

The tragedy of Grimes was both witnessed  and acted out, by the citizens of the Borough  its participants retelling a tale at once familiar yet being told and lived anew by its participants. While much of the story took place on the auditorium floor, each time the curtains parted we found ourselves on a different level of theatre filled with spectacle, violent waves, oceans filled with fish, an ancient "budget wave" with attached boat, etc.  We seemed to be evenly split between the reality of "now," and the uncertain ritualized memory of "then."  

PETER GRIMES is one of those operas that allows a community to be made up of as many characters as there are choristers., allowing a rich individuality not frequently employed in most operas and, quite frankly, not needed in most operas.  GRIMES is a different beast.

The chorus pulled out all the stops vocally and theatrically creating a town of like-minded individuals, moralistic and superior on the surface, but cruel, petty, and ugly underneath.  

The named cast could hardly be improved upon, starting with Stuart Skelton, recognized as one of the leading interpreters of the title fisherman in the world today.  He is all the things I want in a Grimes: nervous, mildly belligerent when pushed, hard on the surface, but loving beneath it and tired of being misunderstood, never heard or seen as anything other than the ultimate outsider  . . societal outcast. His Peter is sung with bright, peeling tones, beautiful when need be, but never afraid to reveal the cracking frustration as his story moves forward.  In this production he seems mildly removed from Ellen, which I found odd and bothered me initially.  As it went on, however, I tended to see Grimes as one already gone, more apparition than living being.  This was confirmed in my eyes (and maybe mine alone) by his physical relationship to his apprentice, John.  There was more father/son in this pair than I've ever encountered before, and, indeed, in Herheim's hands John was more of a presence than I ever recall elsewhere.  The pair of them felt like ghosts, haunting the auditorium.  

Rachel Willis-Sørensen was a perfect match to Skelton's antihero.  Noble, touching, a genuinely warm and very human woman.  Her Embroidery aria seguing into her scene with Balstrude wsa lovely, but much more than that.  We could hear her own escape from a world of cruelty that she wanted to change, making the scenes between her, Peter and John feel more connected and familial.  Her final "No!" was shouted where generally it feels more like a quiet gasp.  Again,  this made her actions feel more remembered and embellished.  She appears ready willing and able to plunge to her death in the sea, but is prevented.  Very powerful image there. 

Balstrude, Auntie, Ned, Mrs. Sedley, Auntie and the Nieces were all well thought by Herheim and executed nicely by Iain Peterson, Claudia Mahnke, Brindley Sherratt, Jennifer Johnson, Lindsay Ohse, and Emily Pogorelc.

In the pit, Edward Gardner led a richly nuanced account of the score, wide of dynamics and well balanced, while coaxing a dramatic sense of foreboding, doom and hope during the famous sea interludes.

Today's prima should be available already on the BSO TV website.  I highly recommend it.  . 

Peter Grimes: The Incredible 1969 Film

It has . . . embarrassingly . . .been just shy of ten years since I watched the 1969 film of "Peter Grimes," but with all of this list discussion on the opera, I remedied that error this afternoon. Just as the last time, as it began I recalled Natalie Dessay’s introduction to the Met’s HD cinecast as with wide, wild eyes she lugubriously invited us in to experience “the sad, horrible story of Peter Grimes.”

I have always been intrigued by the physical production of this “Grimes” filmed for the BBC not in a London studio, but rather in a converted barn at Britten’s home in Snape Maltings. David Myerscough-Jones’ brilliant, realistic sets were built in London, then trucked in and assembled onto a makeshift soundstage in the barn. The tight fitting of its overly cramped stage works perfectly in creating the claustrophobic world of the burrough. The planks, catwalks and breakwater with its jagged wooden pilings . . . the sea roaring and crashing on a rear projection screen . . . all of it work in concert in something of a theatrical miracle to create this all too believable stifling microcosm.

I too often forget what a truly amazing conductor Britten - something not every composer can claim, and his now 25 year old score it’s safe to say, no one knew - or possibly ever shall - know how better to put across this amazing music better than its creator. Every nuance, every secret thing is mined in this reading making the score into a living organism, propelled by its own volition, inexorably, to a conclusion that can be imagined in no other way. From its opening notes, Britten’s invisible hand guides us over the next several hours which fly by as if in dream time.

Peter Pears at 59 was not the same singer - neither physically nor vocally, that he was at 35 when he created the role, however, like his partner, having lived with this music inside of him for a quarter century, he brings to it something unique, infuses it with a similar animalistic wildness Vickers would later bring, yet also a vulneribility, a tenderness which was never part of Vickers' Grimes - or any other role he took on. It was sometimes said, Vickers' Grimes was like a bear fighting to get out of a trap, while Pears was like a kind, gay uncle (or worse, "auntie") pouring tea. Nothing could be further from the truth . . . or more offensive. Watch him and you'll see.

Heather Harper is Ellen Orford right down to her boot laces. Theatrically, Harper is tremendous, investing Ellen with an intriguing mix of young, idealistic widow, with an old soul while.  Still in her 30's she is visually striking while as soars through Ellen’s music with a limpid beauty as though it were Mozart or Puccini, and convinces that in matters operatic, Britten is their equal.

Bryon Drake offers a stolid Balstrode with the right amount of gruffness and sensitivity, loyal to Peter, while fully aware of where this story must go.

Amidst all this bleakery, it was great fun to discover a voluptuous Elizabeth Bainbridge strutting her stuff as a most intriguing Auntie, the one outsider who knows her way in. She is simply terrific.

Aside from the magnificence of the score, the acting in this film is about as good as it ever gets in opera, and this must be attributed not only to a fine, handpicked cast, but to the direction of Joan Cross - the original Ellen Orford. This outstanding level of acting extends to every role large or small as well as to every single member of the chorus - all who create a believable, terrified and blood thirsty mob, yet who are also capable of singing with a sweet earnestness in their church scene. Their hunting down of Grimes is here, perhaps the most chilling I can recall and Brian Large’s camera work - weaving through the tight configurations of the masses magnifies this to terrifying proportions.

The chemistry throughout the cast presents the best of all possible worlds from cinema and opera, offering 100 percent believability and a naturalness of movement.from old and young alike.

Despite having studied and knowing this opera fairly intimately, countless remain the number of moments (both visually and musically) that elicited gasps from me, or caused me to shrink into the back of my couch in terror . . . or just let the tears flow: Ellen’s reappearance after the storm, holding John, as the door to the tavern bursts open, or Peter’s striking Ellen (in what appears to be a punch in the face) to name but two.

It was wonderful, too, seeing Jill Gomez, Anne Pashley and Robert Tear in supporting roles early in their careers.

The opera's penultimate scene is as absorbing, as profoundly moving as anything that exists in the operatic canon. How Britten achieved this employing such economically musical means is nearly incomprehensible and yet works as if by magic, standing both as great music and great theatre. An a cappella mad scene, punctuated only by the offstage cries of “Grimes” and a few distant fog horns . . . well, there is, for me, no more hopeless nor bleaker picture in all of opera than this.

Just shy of 60, Pears still tears into this scene like a man possessed, pouring every last ounce of himself into it. His cries of “Come home! Come home!” terrifying . . . his utterance “Turn the skies back and begin again,” cutting straight to the heart. It is, I believe, impossible not to have one's heart broken by this man, as this character, in this moment. Ms. Harper's Ellen watches on, heartbroken as Balstrode gives Peter instruction on what happens next. Often her "No!" is shouted as though she could stop it, but Harper whispers it in a near gasp, an automatic reaction at the horror of it all.  

Mr. Cross stages the final moment with a true director's insight. After Peter disappears, Ellen stands near the pilings, watching the sea, as the villagers sing on. Then she moves down the pier until she disappears, and we are eerily left with the same people the first act began with . . . without Peter, without Ellen, without John. It is chilling.

If I have one criticism (and clearly I do), it is the costumes. While they are marvelous in detail of the period and each helps identify its character, they still look a bit too . . . new and clean, as if straight from the costume department without having made (most of them) appear to have ever truly been lived in. Nonetheless, once gotten used to this fact, it's no longer even a "thing" to be concerned about as everything else more than compensates.

This is filmed opera at its very best and if you are a fan of this amazing opera and have never seen this . . . well, you should fix that immediately. The entire film is available on youtube right here:

Glorious and Tragic: ENO's Death In Venice

I could not listen to the Met’s “The Merry Widow” last night (or most nights) so to escape the brutal New England chill, I decided to watch the 2012 revival of Deborah Warner’s production of Britten’s “Death in Venice” for the English National Opera. I have loved this work since my high school days, and my appreciation of it has only grown to a point where I’m beginning to think – despite Grimes/Budd/Gloriana/War Requiem all being at the top of the heap - it may be one of Britten’s most ingenious scores.

Several weeks ago there was a discussion here about this opera being "dull" and/or "uninspired." I couldn't disagree more if I wanted to. My dear, long-missed friend and one time frequently marvelous list member, Ann Purtil credited the Met’s production as being responsible for pulling her back into the world of opera. So there’s that.


Even having only seen it on video, Warner’s is one of the most innovative, creative, seamless productions I’ve seen in some time. The integration of dance, movement, lighting and acting are wed to Britten’s most unusual score in a manner that feels completely organic. There is nothing extraneous, nothing that does not serve and move forward this beautiful tragedy to its heartbreaking conclusion.

As much as I loved the Aschenbach’s of Peter Pears and Robert Tear, John Graham-Hall doesn’t portray the tortured “hero” so much as inhabit him entirely. I felt I was witnessing the disintegration of this character so intimately it bordered on voyeurism. Onstage nearly throughout, Graham-Hall sings with the required refined elegance Britten demands here, but it is his integration of myriad facial expressions, reaching gestures of limbs combined with that voice that reflects Aschenbach discomfort with life. When he speaks of his dead wife and recently married daughter, it is shot through with an inherent sadness I’ve never before noticed – or at least paid much attention to. Graham-Hall elevates this brief moment to the point where it feels like the raison d'être for all that transpires from start-to-finish. Here is an artist at the height of his powers delivering a performance that will haunt me to the grave.

Aschenbach being onstage nearly throughout and having the lion’s share of the text, “Death in Venice” is oft-dismissed as a one-man show, which is about as far from the mark as it gets. This performance gives us Andrew Shore – who, within minutes – made mincemeat of my initial reservations. He brings to brilliant life all of the disparate characters, tying each to the other with the genius of a master storyteller. Ultimately, his is the sinister, guiding hand on the complex, confusing, road to hell.

Tim Mead makes a chillingly handsome appearance as Apollo singing in what could easily be called “heldencounter.”

Former Royal Danish Ballet dancer (and current Boston resident) Sam Zaldivar is perfectly cast as Tadzio making not only plausible, but understandable Aschenbach’s obsession. He is appealing in his naturalness and his execution of the difficult, at times wildly acrobatic choreography of Kim Brandstrup. Brandstrup’s dance and movement charge this difficult work with a fluidity that ripples throughout and he and Warner manage to magically
maneuver a large company of chorus, actors, dancers and principals through the opera’s many scenes and locales in an almost dizzying fashion.

Edward Gardner leads the ENO forces through this amazing score with a master’s hand, ever a judicious balancing act of percussive, piano, orchestra and wordless chorus who in concert create a painting for our eyes and ears. This is the first time I’ve experienced this opera where I felt it almost springing directly over centuries from Monteverdi to right now. The-house audience remain rapt and silent for close to a minute as all of us watch Tadzio elegantly pirouetting into the blinding sun as Aschenbach slumps into his final sleep.

For those unfamiliar with this opera, I can’t think of a more appealing way to remedy that situation. For fans, you owe yourselves the opportunity to experience this one. It is magnificent. It is available on DVD, or "for free" for Amazon Prime members.

I recently learned Warner’s production was slated for New York City Opera, but was ultimately nixed. That would have been something.

Pelléas et Mélisande : Faith Esham and Jerry Hadley - Wow!

I’ve been listening to a fascinating performance of Pelléas et Mélisande from 1992. Lyric Opera of Chicago with Faith Esham, Jerry Hadley and Victor Braun. Teresa Stratas was taking over the role for Frederica von Stade, but cancelled the first two performances so Faith Esham made her Lyric Opera debut. Pelleas is among my favorite operas, so I’ve heard many pairings over my lifetime (so far) and, fan of both Ms. Esham and Mr. Hadley that I am, was not quite prepared for the performance they presented on opening night. I generally prefer a tenor in the role (Richard Stilwell, Simon Keenlyside, taking top honors for baritones) and Hadley does not disappoint in that regard. He and Esham both had very bright sounding voices which sounds so “right” in French, their diction crisp yet fluid – perfect for Debussy’s “problem” opera. The scenes between Esham and Braun’s Golaud have a depth and bite that could convince even non-fans this is a drama more than about “nothing.”

At the start, Braun seems a tad less gruff than many a Golaud, but he gradually sinks into a sort of cruelty - a violence that ever grows in its intensity until it becomes downright horrifying, even before his ultimate crime.

My favorite tenor Pelleas has, for a time, been Richard Croft and Hadley’s performance here does not take him down from the shelf, but boy, is he terrific in his own way. Croft has an elegance that fits in with Debussy’s soundscape – just about perfectly. Hadley, on the other hand, does not skimp on matters musical – and in certain moments (notably in the Tower scene) brings his own brand of elegance. More often than not, however, there is a slight “roughness” (not the sound itself, but the way he handles the role) that is unusual yet perfectly in tune with his and Esham's take on the lovers.

Esham’s first of several utterances of “Pelleas” in the Tower scene is sparked with an undeniable eroticism that shocks . While many Melisandes retain an aloofness throughout the role, Esham makes her seem almost familiar, yet somehow just as puzzling and troubled. In the middle of a scene she may add a touch of nervousness to her sound emphasizing the girlishness which, along with that brightness and ease of the language (her best roles truly were Manon, Juliette, Leila, Marguerite . . . ) makes this a special performance. Also, like a tenor Pelleas, a soprano (as opposed to mezzo) Melisande really changes the tone of the opera.

The great Act IV love scene drips with passion and Esham and Hadley sound as if they can barely contain themselves – and then when Hadley’s Pelleas reaches, “Et maintenant je t'ai trouvee. . . je ne crois pas qui'il . . . ait sur la terre un femme plus belle!" they – and we – realize they cannot. Breathless passion mounts into a sudden, slow ecstasy, each singer now sounding, somehow, a bit older, as if the realization of this love has aged them. It's almost more like they're playing "grown up,” which makes Golaud’s sudden appearance and slaughter of Pelleas more unbearably than it already is, Melisande's final cry adding an extra punctuation mark of horror.

Yvonne Minton, turns in her customary excellence in the fairly ungrateful role of Genevieve, and Dimitri Kavrakos is touching as Arkel. Soprano, Lucy Tamez Creech has a very boyish voice, though it appears she sang Yniold from the pit while child actor Joel Eng pantomimed onstage.

James Conlon, like every conductor of this opera, has a passion for it that comes out through his masterful reading of it. He brings out the sonic wonderment of the score, while keeping everything and everyone in near perfect balance. I would have liked a bit more “oomph” and drive at the beginning of the love scene, but this approach and gradual build up certainly makes good dramatic sense. The “special effects” of the percussion section – bells, etc., absolutely sparkle and shine. During the first intermission of the broadcast, he is interviewed and offers terrific insights into Debussy’s masterpiece and the characters who populate it. He draws an interesting parallel between Arkel and Pelleas that I’d never really thought about before. I love when someone sheds new light on something that can, at times, seem almost overly familiar. It puts things back into the right perspective and makes me, as here, love that thing all the more.

Since recently moving, and giving away/selling many of my recordings I’m not certain how many of “Pelleas” I still own, but this would have been, according to my estimation, the 32nd in my collection. I think that qualifies me as a Pelleas obsessive, oui?

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Patricia Racette Storms through Shostakovich's "Lady"

I knew I'd not be able to attend, but wondered why I hadn't heard much on U.S. soil of Patricia Racette's turn as Katerina in Stalin's favorite opera (joking!) Shostakovich's "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk." All that changed with a simple google search and reviews and photographs were turning up everywhere calling her performance - and the production, overall, a triumph for English National Opera.

Not all of the reviews were raves - but most were - and there were tons . . . the production (and Ms. Racette) garnering the kind of excitement for an operatic event we all too rarely see or hear of here in the States.

"Patricia Racette charts Katerina’s transformation from bored, resentful chattel to emancipated woman with steely control, and unswerving musical authority;"
Andrew Clements - The Guardian

"...Patricia Racette looked remarkably close to Leskov’s original description of his girl from Kursk, small, dark-eyed and with “a high white forehead, and black, almost blue-black hair”. Her performance tended to be understated, and may not match everyone’s idea of Katerina. . . . yet Racette’s voice and presence grew as the horrors of the plot unfolded"
Fiona Maddox - The Guardian

Patricia Racette’s Katerina holds a glittering concentrate of fury in her dark eyes and her finely tempered voice. a central performance of immaculate control and engagement."
Anna Piccard "The Spectator"

"Patricia Racette, singing with sometimes raw intensity, played this repressed Katerina with impressive authority, her very stillness a window on the emotions locked within."
Richard Fairman - The Financial Times

"Patricia Racette makes us believe in her utterly as she veers between the desperation of being downtrodden in a loveless marriage to the triumph of controlling her own destiny back to the twin despairs of imprisonment and sexual betrayal, making Katerina’s extreme actions seem inevitable to us in the audience."
David Karlin - Bachtrack

"American soprano Patricia Racette ... brings authority and intensity to the title role . . . Thanks to Wigglesworth’s empowered conducting, a superb performance from ENO’s orchestra, and Racette’s consistent strength, the opera hits hard."
George Hall - The Stage

"Patricia Racette smoulders as Katerina, and John Daszak brings a fine heroic tenor to the repulsive lover Sergei . . . Mark Wigglesworth . . . brings a detailed and illuminating reading to the score. Not to be missed."
Clare Colvin - Express

"Heady stuff with great musical punch, led by Patricia Racette’s sympathetic and attractively strong Katerina, and the powerfully hedonistic Sergei of John Daszak. Her restrained movements at the start become more fluid and dramatic as she emerges from her cocoon, and his swagger and natural stage presence personify an opportunist who can’t resist her."
Mark Ronand - Theatre Review


Brava, Pat!