Pablo Larrain's MARIA: Great Callas' Ghost

Pablo Larrain's latest film, Maria,  begins at the very end of the sad life of legendary soprano, Maria Callas.  Through the long shot  of a camera we see Maria's doctor, butler, medics, and the police waiting for her body to be taken away.  All seem as if in prayer, as an actual prayer - or rather an operatic one - Desdemona's Ave Maria from Verdi's Otello - begins. I couldn't help but immediately think of one of Callas' most celebrated roles, Violetta, in Franco Zeffirelli's production for her of La Traviata. Both open with the heroine's death, then shifts between from past to present, as though in flashbacks. In Maria, it often happens without warning.  It felt - to me - a very Callas-like thing for Larrain to do, but I've not heard anyone else mention this, so perhaps I'm looking too deeply.  That's how I think. Sue me.  

Admittedly, being obsessed with this artist since boyhood, and having seen every bio documentary, read the conservatory programs from her Athens' girlhood, own the entire Juilliard masterclass collection, and more, I was both excited - and anxious for the arrival of Larrain's movie. It did not disappoint. 

Many critics are calling it a slog . . . tedious . . . endless, yet, apart from a single scene which I might have shaved a minute from, I found its pacing perfect . . . all of a piece.  Yes, it moves slowly, gently . . . almost dreamlike at times, but never a slot but rather always with determined purpose and, as it progressed, much like that Zeffirelli Traviata, I felt Maria to be a sort of ghost story, the title character's death bookending her tragedy. 

For the literal minded, I can see this movie as being wildly problematic. There is a 1970's foreign film/art house quality which puts us at a distance.  We become observers, rather than participants.  It feels somehow un-American, a dangerous thing to say these days! All of this is helped along by Steven Knight who adds to an already remarkable catalog of scripts.  Knight provides cues and clues that serve like a metaphysical roadmap as to which direction Larrain should take the story, moving it - and us - through a haze of events both real and illusory.  Near the beginning La Callas commands: Come with me said the diva, and there was really no need to ask,''where?"  Some will perceive this as a sort of haughtiness, but I believe it's actually more of an instruction - a key for us to let go of reason. This is reinforced later when Maria explains, point blank, In opera, there IS no reason.  So . .. that's going to be a big problem for a lot of audiences, but that's actually okay because this is not a movie for them (or you, if you're reading this and feel the same).  

Larrain lavishes everything he has to make his film look and feel both beautiful and liberating, yet also almost uncomfortably stifling and distant. He uses lightness and dark like colors, right down to his shifts between black and white, faded/muted hues, and a dreamlike autumnal wash colliding simultaneously between the outside world of reality, and Maria's drug fueled hallucinatory realm. Through all of this, Larrain and his team provide, unwaveringly, stunning details, from knick knacks on shelves, to housemaid Bruna's flipping of an omelet, or Callas' hiding of pills in pockets, all the way down to her beloved poodles dancing on their hind legs impatiently awaiting their supper.

And then there's Paris.  Looking like Maria's personal dreamscape, with its boulevards and Trocadero Square filled with orchestras and choruses, these fantasy sequences culminate in one of the film's most emotionally beautiful moments. During a rainstorm we see and hear, along with Maria, the Humming Chorus from Madama Butterfly as a kimono-clad Maria joins them in a shower of tears and rain. It took my breath away.  

Cinematographer, Ed Lachman's work here is about as beautiful as it gets, and reflective of his achievements. Seamlessly, he blends 35, 16, and 8 mm film stock - both color and black and white - to serve up Larrain's and Knight's vision. They are like the Holy Trinity on this project.  

None of this comes alive, however, without actors and here, Larrain's insistence and vision of Angelina Jolie pays off handsomely. Criticism of Jolie's portrayal had me worried going in, but all that was laid to rest - almost immediately.  It didn't bother me that Jolie is not a Callas clone - in fact, I'm glad they didn't go the fake nose or padded stockings angle to create a Madame Tussauds figure, but rather get beneath the skin of this Maria.  And by this Maria, I don't mean the actual Callas because - well, that's pretty much impossible, isn't it?  That said, while Jolie - especially when viewed head on - may not strongly resemble the real Maria, there are moments when the tilt of the head, or a glimpse reflected in a mirror, feel as though the ghost of Maria is present. Crazy? Absolutely. But, that's also the beauty and the magic of cinema; anything and everything is possible.  

There were a thousand versions of Maria in real life and now, dead for half a century, we have even more; more stories, more versions of them, more . . . everything. That girl from New York, Maria Anna Cecilia Sofia Kalogeropoúlos, turned into Maria Callas, and that Maria Callas has, in death, moved into another realm entirely: the mythological. 

Ms. Jolie's Maria is a magnificent creature. Proud, vain, broken, needy, and haunted.  The actor straddles both worlds - real and imagined - with a purposefully increasing difficulty before ultimately not seeming to care which one she's in. It is an almost soul searing thing watching someone giving up. Jolie reflects this in her gestures, her hands, her sad, beautiful face, and we hear it in her words.  At one point she tells someone, someone very important to her, I don't even know if you're real.  Suddenly, neither do we. From the film's earliest moments I sensed in Jolie a kinship and admiration for the woman she's portraying.  She believes in her, speaks like her, and ultimately moves through each scene like the ghost that this Maria is.

Supporting roles, too, are beautifully done, with Kodi Smit-McPhee  as Mandrax, the mysterious documentarian, Haluk Bilginer's oily, near grotesque Onassis, and Stephen Ashfield's supportive, if mildly pushy Jeffrey Tate. Pride of place however, goes to Pierfrancesco Favino's Ferruccio and Alba Rohrwacher's Bruna, Maria's butler and housemaid. Along with Maria, this trio have formed a comfortable, small misfit family.  The love between them can be sensed - even when Maria's seeming annoyance with them is on display. Those moments are beautiful, and provide the movie's (I almost said opera's) warmest and most amusing scenes.  

Since we are dealing strictly with the final week of Maria's life, much of the story is revealed through flashbacks of Maria's youth in Athens, her triumphs at La Scala, the re-imagined (and historically inaccurate) beginning of her affair with Onassis, and a private meeting with JFK. The musical excerpts are fairly glorious . . . until they progressively become sadder and more painful, on the ears yes, but even more so in the heart. 

I've always obsessed with the artistry of Callas, and hungry for everything I can find about her, on her . . . all of it.  But, I also firmly believe that, like all historical figures, their life stories cannot adequately be told in a so-called biopic. If we truly want to know them - at least as best as we are able, it is through documentaries, biographies, research, those who ay have known them, and yet, even those give only incomplete portraits.  But a film, a biopic is always going to be filtered through the lens of the artist making it - which then reflects only his or her  truth.  It is through taking the time to listen and explore the actual work of the artist we get to know what's most important about them. This is not to say that is all they were, for everything they went through personally and professionally is what delivered them to us in the first place. But we can't ever really know that.  Not really.     

So, with its imagined narrative Larrain's Maria does not even qualify as a biopic in any sense. It is more of a tone-poem for the senses where instead of facts or history, we enter a version - a vision, or a reverie if you will, based on the imagined final days of a legend . . . of this mythological Maria everyone thinks they know, but none of us do. Or can.  

Many lines remain with me, but none felt more true than Maria's admission  to Mandrake, I am afraid audiences expect miracles, and I no longer can perform miracles.  

If you can succumb to Mr. Larrain's style . . . the gift he and his formidable company of artists have created, and wrapped so beautifully for us, you may be moved just as much as I was. Am. 

Romanian Train Wreck

NOTE: I had not yet received the book when I created the following post. I realize I will never finish this book - it's not worth the the limited time allotted me. Nothing read, however, would appear to change what I put down below. gpp)

I have not yet read the book, but I do love me a good tale of delusion by an old-fashioned diva the likes of which we just don't get in the "real" world of music where diva defined the art: Opera.

In the October issue of "Opera News' Matthew Sigman reviews Angela Gheorghiu's memoirs: "A Life for Art," and I nearly fell off of my seat, as he tears into it - and the singer - with a delicious, devilish delight.

"After reading 'A Life for Art,' it will become painfully difficult to hear Gheorghiu's rapturous voice without hearing the human being behind it. Vain, trite, repetitive,, opportunistic, lacking insight and empathy . . .a self-indulgent tour de force that shatters any illusion of frailty, bravery or sensuality this gifted artist might hope to convey onstage. . . . deeply selfish . . . Solti weeps upon hearing her voice! Meryl Streep drops to her knees! Insults . . . meddles . . . loves seeing herself on film and shows gratitude to one one. So comically over-the-top . . . it borders on masterpiece. (it) could well be the standard by which narcissistic diva memoirs will be judged. Sadly, its author might consider that a compliment"

I generally steer clear from poison pen style posts, but this soprano - as much as I've loved her voice - has irked me almost from the beginning of her international career. Her self-indulgence is legendary. A critic friend (who adores her) was in Paris to interview her and she kept him waiting for hours in the hotel lobby. A maid or one of her assistants finally appearing to alert him that madame would be there shortly, but "in make-up." He couldn't resist adding the punch line, "all for a radio interview."

I can't wait to read this!

(Additional note: I CAN wait to read this . . . but likely never will. gpp.)

Magda the Magnificent. A Tribute to Magda Olivero

Like some of my favorite singers I've only heard on recordings, Magda Olivero, is one of those singers whose name alone can light up my
face. People ask where are singers like her today, and I suppose the simplest fact is that they simply don't exist. The fact is they barely existed in their own day. When someone complains "There's no Tebaldi today" they are, of course, right, but there was only ever ONE Tebaldi and she (like Callas, like Gencer, and Rysanek . . . ) are ALL sui generis. The world we live in has changed and so, necessarily, has the way we have to live in it. There was, and only ever will be, one Oliver, and how very lucky we were to have had her.

While lovers of conventionally pretty voice may not appreciate what she brought to the table, that is their great loss. Olivero was not just another singer, but an exceptional musician. For sheer diversity of the styles and types of roles she undertook I can think of few singers who can match her.


Of course, what else would one expect from a singer whose professional debut was as Mary Magdalene in Nino Cattozzo's wildly popular 'I Misteri Dolorosi" (kidding about the popular part). She was only 22, but the odd roles kept coming her way: Parodi's "Cleopatra" - Barbieri's "Alcassino e Nicoletta" - Rossellin's "La Guerra" - Carvalho's "Penelope" - the Rome premiere of Poulenc's "Dialogues of the Carmelites", an opera she would sing throughout much of her career, and in a variety of roles, - Langella's "Assunta Spina" - Gentilucci's "Don Ciccio." Quite simply just the names of these works make my ears prick up making me long for an era when there was a lot more going on in the major houses than standard rep and - hailed or failed - new works were prolific and singers such as Olivero singing as many of them as she could.



Magda was singing Monteverdi back when his works, as was most of the baroque repertoire, barely known to most opera lovers. She sang not only Poppea, but also in productions of the madrigal operas "Il Combattimento" and "Ballo delle Ingrate." In addition to her work in baroque music, Olivero frequently was singing music of her own time, by composers both known and (now, sadly) forgotten; Menotti, Wolf-Ferrari, Costagutta, Giordano, Mangiagalli, Honegger, Zandonai, to name but a few.

She clearly adored the music of often maligned Alfano appearing in four of his operas. "Cyrano Di Bergerac", "La Leggenda di Sakuntala," "Risurrezione," and "L'Ultimo Lord." "Sakuntala" found Olivero in both the title role and, nearer the end of the career, one of Sakuntala's maids. What I would have give to hear her in the title role of this beautiful (and rarely performed) opera. I think we can get some idea of it from her live recording of Katiusha in "Risurrezione," where she is simply remarkable - hair raising and heartbreaking.

Even Olivero's standard repertoire roles shows a wild diversity: Elsa, Poppea, both Manons, Gilda, Butterfly, Marguerites by Boito & Gounod, Violetta, Mimi, Zerlina, Nanetta, Liu, Maria in Mazzepa, Adriana, Minnie, all 3 Trittico heroines, La Voix Humaine . . . the list goes on. The very notion of Olivero as "That Brabant Girl" shivers me timbers.

While sung in Italian, snippets of her Manon reveals a voice most perfectly suited to Massenet's heroine, and imagining what her Manon must have been like in the theatre sends me into a swoon, which is a state I'd imagine those lucky to have experienced her in it were sent into.

Where would we be without amazing artists who gave their all, as did Madame Olivero? Or their legacies and the contribution and continuation of our beloved the lyric art? How fortunate we are to never have to find out.

Thank you, bless you and may you rest in peace, dear, great lady.

Licia Albanese: A Small Tribute to a Legend

Licia Albanese has died. It was inevitable, yet still somehow unexpected, as though she would live forever. I had always been a moderate fan of this lady's, but some years ago I heard a performance I'd previously only heard about, the 1956 Manon Lescaut broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera featuring Albanese & Bjoerling in the leading roles, with Dimitri Mitropolous at the helm. I'm here putting down the notes I made from that experience.

* * * * *
My jaw still hasn’t recovered from hitting the floor. How crazy was this performance??!! It was completely insane.

Albanese sounded a thousand years old - yet really, really hot . . . juicy, even. And her high notes? They blasted out like velvet bullets. Whenever someone speaks about how to "act with the voice" - Albanese is PRECISELY what they're talking about. The emotive skills of both of these singers, is mind boggling . . . huge. Of course I knew this already from their studio recording, and though I’d always heard of this '56 performance, and white hot” it was, I had no idea . . . no idea.

Both Jussi and Licia give such over the top performances that if they were singing these roles today, some would (sadly) laugh at the hysterical, over-emotive “in your face” performances. Then again, maybe not, when the actual singing is of this high quality. Bjoerling’s performance here tops his studio effort for the fact you get the sense he really is living the role. And his top notes (low notes . . . and all notes in between) are spun out with such vocal glory that not only are his excesses forgivable, they’re necessary . . . welcome and thrilling.

Sadly the orchestra (under my man Mitropolous) often sounds bad, undernourished and under rehearsed, and I have to put it on the conductor as I’ve heard the orchestra from that season sound quite fine. (Nobody shoot me please, I can't believe I'm saying that about a man I consider a god). But D.M. pays wonderful attention to his singers and that pay off was worth its weight in gold.

Albanese’s Sola perduta, abbandonata was one of the wildest versions of any aria I’ve ever heard – certainly of this aria, and I mean by about 1000 percent. Shrieking and sobbing and shouting and sobbing and gasping (and sobbing some more) sometimes, remarkably, in the middle of the notes of a phrase. Who else could do this like her? Sometimes she seems even to do this in the middle of a note – it’s madness . . . pure FILTH! Delicious filth. And the notes . . . Oh. My. God. Simply unbelievable. She hurls them out with such force I believe they were very likely heard on Mars. I had to both laugh and cry as she finished the aria punctuated with sobs as continued repeating the aria’s final lines, sobbing and choking out "non voglio morir . . . no voglio morir" over and over, before more sobs, shrieks as a hysterical Jussi returns, joining in the madness.

The closing few minutes were intense beyond the point of ordinary belief – and why should anything about this performance be ordinary?

* * * * *

Licia, of course sang many more roles, logging in over 400 performances with the Metropolitan Opera over a long, distinguished singing career. Singing, however, wasn't her only career, as she went on - up until her passing, encouraging, coaching and aiding new, young singers to get established in this most difficult and rewarding art form. Madame Albanese truly was one of a kind, and though she has passed on, her work and legacy will live on. How lucky we were to have her! Rest in peace, dear lady.

Licia through the years.

Jessye Norman: Roots - Album of the Year!

In her new two disc album, Jessye Norman has given us an a gift that is as sure to infuriate as many as it delights. To my mind, this is exactly as it should be. The live album (recorded before an audience at the Berlin Symphonie) is a musical journey, in its way a theatrical work presenting Norman's life as a proud, African American woman of song.

It opens with a rhythmic overture of African drums serving as a sort of "call to order" which doesn't so much end as it does flow into her first number, an a capella rendition of His eye is on the sparrow. Slowly an instrument, a drone, is heard as we move into the spiritual I want two wings as the instruments progress with the singer directly, marvelously, into I couldn't hear nobody pray with the singer and her musicians increasing in intensity through this steady stream of sound. The effect not unlike that of walking down the darkest of halls or paths, lost, blindly, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, moving toward a single shaft of light, distant, faint, that, with each step increases in warmth and brilliance. It is a tremendous.

Norman uses her instrument as the best jazz or classical musicians do, with a sound that is usually immediately identifiable, but also willing to do everything and anything within its means to achieve an artistic purpose. Like the great Betty Carter, she is not beyond bending melodies and pitch, lightening the voice to a thin, almost childlike sound, then suddenly opening up and bathing the room in a lush warmth which you never want to end. Some, particularly strictly classical audiences, found this disturbing, and early reviews denounced the album as "painful," "disgusting," and "shameless." Everyone of those critics may be right in not liking what she's done here, but all of them are dead wrong and have failed to understand what this remarkable artist has done here.

The first song to take us there is Duke Ellington's Heaven, where Norman, begins treating it as a jazz standard, playing with the piano, swooping up and down and coloring the notes and text generously with liberties. But, about midway through, through scatting, nonsense syllables, trilled "rs" and drum-like sounds becomes not only the singer, but a player in her own band. The effect brings a terrific sense of fun with Norman covering several octaves both easily and breezily. Only in the bizarre world of music can this be followed - almost seamlessly, by a reprise of Bernstein's Somewhere from West Side Story. Norman's is about as inauthentic a version to Broadway as is possible to imagine, but she wears it earnestly and this little version does exactly what she expected it would do - have the audience hoopin' and hollerin' as she rolls, plows, then busts into My Baby Just Cares for Me." It's almost too much to take in, and I looked in vain for a place to take a breath before coming to the realization: I didn't even want to.

Norman is unrecognizable in a number of the pieces (including the aforementioned "My baby...") but every syllable is uttered with care, precision, just as every note is a wild, swinging celebration of a life's joy, as she calls out her player's names before a solo riff in classic, great jazz lady style.

While Lena Horne's version of Stormy Weather has always been my touchstone for that particular song, Norman takes a new approach, a jazz-infused one, and at some points almost introduces just a hint of Billy Holiday. It's a slower, more sensuous take than anyone is probably used to, but, with her operatic inclinations and unusual instincts infuses the song with a weight that feels natural as it builds towards the final reprise. Thrilling is not an understatement.

Moving on, what this lady does with Weill's Mack the Knife is nothing but sheer brilliance. Norman almost returns the piece to the opera house, giving the opening narrative auf Deutsch, against the small tattoo of a snare drum as she turns the bloody, violent text into a chilling narrative of devilish delight. Each verse grows in intensity, her voice tinged with a bit of violence until the audience erupts in extended cheers as the song is still wrapping up. Oh, Jessye!

It's almost impossible to review this without wanting to comment on every single number (as I've done up until now). Suffice it to say, what Norman does with nearly every song, is claim it as her own. She turns whatever you may have known or felt about a song completely on its ear. Even something as innocuous as All the pretty horses becomes in her hands, something else altogether - a haunting dreamscape with enough colors to convince this listener he has synesthesia.

Then, there's the throaty brutality of God's Gonna Cut You Down which closes the first half, with a dark rawness that gives Johnny Cash a run for his money. When she ends the song it is with a final pronouncement announcing death and it is blood chilling. BUT, Miss Norman isn't done yet, oh, no! She directs, or more appropriately, admonishes her band to "Take me off" as, mic still in hand, she walks off singing "Go tell . . . go tell that back biter, Good God a'mighty's gonna cut you down!" The audience cannot contain itself again and goes absolutely wild, erupting into rhythmic applause and cheering the ovation fierce and almost unending.

Norman opens the second half with Les Chemins de L'amour in a throaty baritone, that under different circumstances might be deemed a bit indulgent, but here . . . it works. There are countless brilliant touches that abound throughout the remainder of the show, such as La Marseillaise morphing into The Star Spangled Banner which serves as the introduction to J'ai Deux Amours.

Jessye closes out her musical journey with Ellington, Bizet, Monk and more before finally ending this breathless journey with When the Saints Go Marching In introduced by a bluesy, twang that propels both the audience and Jessye into a fiesty mood that finishes the concert in as bawdy, loud and rip roarin' a manner that probably hasn't been heard in a house since Judy sang one night at Carnegie Hall.

It is nearly beyond comprehension (but only "nearly) that this is the same woman who for years has transfixed me as Cassandre, terrified me as Judith, thrilled me as Ariadne, made my heart soar with Sieglindes and it only makes this crazy cake all the tastier.

This is as joyous a celebration of a singer as I have ever experienced and I only hope the album sells well and shows those who might not already know, what a force of nature, what an artist and remarkable human being is this Jessye Norman. Few artists I can think of now or of the past, would, after a legendary opera and concert career has ended in classical music, so painstakingly and intricately craft a show of this immediacy and complexity. Now take the show on the road, girl!

Danke Hildegard Behrens

When each of us estimate the value, the worth of another human being, we do so by several criteria. There is the value this person has to the world at large, then to the more specific "world" they inhabited, and then - more personally - the value they had to us as an individual. Though I never met this woman in person, Hildegard Behrens remains one of the most important people in my life. She has been since I was a teenager and first opened that EMI recording of her as Salome back at the start of her career and of my obsession. To say that her death has had some effect on me would be an understatement. But it is her larger-than-life personality, her artistry, the integration of everything she was and had which she shaped into one of the greatest, most challenging, thrilling artists to have graced the stage in the past century - it is these things I choose to concentrate on, to celebrate and to remember.

I remember that very first time hearing her Salome, placing those black vinyl discs onto my father's turntable and dropping the needle. The next two hours (including picking up, turning over and changing records) our living room had become the ancient Judean court of Herod and his household. The fact our house was surrounded by cedars and cypress trees giving off their scent on that warm afternoon, only added to the sense of occasion, the mystery and the allure. By its end, my entire body was covered in gooseflesh, my heart was pumping wildly and I could almost feel the blood coursing through my veins. Who was this woman?

Over the ensuing decades, I became transported by "this woman's" performances and recordings every chance I could. When she brought her Brunhilde to the Met - I remember watching the telecasts, every night, eschewing invitations from friends to watch so I could make sure my VCR was loaded with tapes enough to not miss a beat. Few evenings in life had thrilled me, had moved me, or enthralled as did those four nights in front of my television set in my little DC basement apartment.

Elektra, Elettra, Marie, Leonore, Senta, Isolde, Tosca . . . Tosca? Yes, Tosca. Though audiences seemed divided (and wildly so) on Behrens as this most Italianate of characters, Behrens remains one of my favorite Toscas. Every note, every gesture, those amazing, beautiful, liquid eyes (which would, in a few more years make the world weep as Wotan bid farewell to his daughter), the violence - wild yet fully feminine, and the most spectacular leap any diva made from a parapet, thrilled me as Tosca should. I recall the first time seeing that leap of hers - I'd never seen a Tosca jump UP from the parapet, and Behrens' Roman diva - for a moment, made me think she was willing her ascension to heaven for that meeting with Scarpia and God . . . and then the violent plunge down to earth. Brava, diva!

Not everything went swimmingly for this great lady, and I recall how, when the Met presented its new Elektra, Behrens was found wanting. A "disaster," claimed many - saying she left the house in shame, never to return. Ha! Behrens was to make one of the greatest of triumphant returns any singer had to that august company - and do so in the same role and production. I recall listening to the Saturday broadcast, and the roar that went up as the lights came back, nearly obliterated my speakers. When it was telecast, I realized I was probably watching THE video I would review and obsess over the most for the rest of my life - or at least a good part of it. Few performances of anything I've witnessed have been as emotionally raw, as heartstoppingly beautiful and terrifying - and as cathartic as "Hildegard Becomes Elektra."

A year or so after the actual event, a friend dropped in to watch this with me one hot summer night, and he used a phrase I've grown to love: "Paolo," he said, "she's singing like there's no tomorrow!" That phrase describes this lady to the teeth: singing like there's no tomorrow!

Recently I watched the now legendary Met Ring and could only sit in wonder and awe, just as I had in my youth. Perhaps more so. The entire thing moved me, but nothing more than Behrens' Brunhilde. I waivered back and forth between which I loved more, her Walkure or Gotterdammerung, and realized: I don't have to choose. Having said that, however, I can think of no more tender, beautiful moment in all of opera than Wotan's Farewell, and here, Behrens, not singing a note - turned this scene into a visual duet as James Morris - remarkable as Wotan - bade farewell to his beloved child. Though far from home, I watched this scene last night via the miracle of the internet - and its poignancy, its genius from composer and artists alike - shattered me in that way that only the greatest works of art can do.

There is so much more to say about this great lady, so many memories flood my mind and make my heart race, but they don't need to be said - they've been felt. They've been felt down to my marrow. She will always be with us and her legacy shall ever speak for itself.

Thank you, Hildegard, for the abundant joy you brought to my life. Your loss is so difficult to take, but your life and light they will continue to burn, to warm, provoke and thrill. "Ruhe, ruhe, du Gott"

Brava, Jessye Norman!

While I never got to see her live in a staged opera, I was blessed (and that’s the word) to have heard Jessye Norman perform in a number of recitals and orchestral performances. So, blessed IS the word and YES, she really WAS that good!

Each performance from her was a unique and special experience; few recitalists communicated better or more directly to their audience than did Ms. Norman. From the moment she walked onto the stage the lovefest began. And Jessye respected and challenged her audiences, always presenting a mixture of the unique and “strange” with the comfortable. Berg, Messiaen, Schoenberg and Haydn mixed with Mozart, Handel, Brahms and Strauss. Outside of “cult” figures like the woefully underappreciated Cathy Berberian,
who else of Norman’s stature was presenting such wildly varied music in performances. I recall a recital where folk who’d known her primarily from her spirituals (and were not noted for being classical music fans) went mad for, of all things, her Messiaen, which was not presented in the usual “respectful block” of your typical recital, but spread out throughout it. (Of course, Jessye never gave a “typical” recital.)

Her instincts and discipline created musicmaking of the highest order, performances you felt that, had the composers been able to hear her they’d be shouting “THAT’S how it goes!”

The sound of that voice – one of the most beautiful, sensuous voices in my experience, was thrilling, opulent. Norman’s voice had this almost bizarre, dual quality, being simultaneously “dark” and “refulgent.” It wasn’t as gigantic a sound as some might think, but rather, as a friend once called it “mighty.” That velvety, soul-filled texture could be transformed into one of surprisingly remarkable lightness, and flexibility (even with a decent trill!) and when combined with her flair of insightfulness of text wedded to music, she was one of the most significant and extraordinary recitalists of the 20th century.

As much as she did her audiences, Jessye consistently challenged herself as well, always seeking out unusual repertoire to present to us. All this, while she could EASILY have cobbled together a winning set of Wolf, Schubert, and Mahler performing to sold out halls for the rest of her career. Instead, she created these crazy kaleidoscopes of programs introducing appreciative and hungry
audiences to music most had never even before heard of, much less heard.
Brava, Jessye!

Later in her career, Norman (like many other greats before her) seemed to be compensating for vocal imperfections, pitch problems, etc., by beefing up the drama of the text and taking a few liberties (a few too many for some) with the notes resulting in less than perfect performances. While this may have infuriated some, there were plenty others (like me) who were more than happy to still have these experiences with Jessye because, overall, she was still getting most of it right and what was there to enjoy was seldom less than magnificent.

63 is not particularly old these days, but in the life of a singer (particularly female singers) it means the career is decidedly over – or soon headed that way. That Jessye Norman is still presenting herself before a public who clearly adore and want to hear her is to be applauded. While no singer can be at 63 what they were at 40, Ms. Norman still sounds pretty good to these ears and, not surprisingly, better than more than a few singers decades younger.

She always was, and remains, an American treasure and I just love her, Brava, Jessye!

La Stupenda on La Divina

I recently re-watched an interview of Joan Sutherland on Charlie Rose from several years back. I thought it pretty cute when Charlie asked "other than your own ... excluding your own, what other voice have you been enchanted by?"

"Flagstad. Tebaldi. Ummm... Callas." Charlie mentions he knows they worked together early in her carrer and asks what Callas was like to work with. Sutherland described Callas as “humble, very humble very sweet, very helpful, a worker - my goodness.”

"But, brilliant as an actress too?" asks Charlie.

Uh oh. Dame Joan gave her shoulders a nervous shrug, her eyebrows raised up
her to the top of forehead escaping worms. She remained silent – almost as though couldn’t believe the question had been asked. She issued forth more physical ticks - neck stretches, swang her head from shoulder to shoulder before responding with a long "ummmmmm.... in some cases.” Charlie was leaning in now. “ [acting] it was a bit hammy [loud, deep chuckle] but it ... it ... it told -- it ... it ... it was always full of a . . .
certain expression, yes.”

So from Miss Sutherland we now get a portrait of Callas as an enchanting singer, a kind, sweet, helpful woman . . . but a hammy actress. Wow!

Jessye Norman: A Portrait

For fans of Jessye Norman this is a must have. While it's a "documentary" - it's not quite the in-depth, probing, revelation or examination of the singer I was hoping for, but rather a series of conversations on topics ranging from childhood, spiritual beliefs, politics, dedication to her art, early career dealing with loneliness, and the like. Little of it plumbs the depth of the woman or of her art, (how could 90 minutes do that?) but once I settled in, I found myself smiling, happy to have this force of nature sitting in my living room and talking casually about a thousand things.

Jessye speaks mostly in English - but since this was a German production, she moves back and forth between German and English - sometimes in the middle of a sentence, or thought. The film is broken up by a dozen music videos with Norman lip-synching to some of her more remarkable recordings. While I know some shall be put off by this sort of thing, I adored it. Each video is performed as part of an art installation, the singer gowned and jeweled, in headdresses, turbans, wild wigs and haute couture, moving, expressing herself physically to her own recordings. Some will dismiss this as artifice, but - and I mean this as a compliment - few in history (and no one I can think of) does artifice come so naturally to as it does Jessye Norman. She makes me believe every breath, every moment - she creates a world that seems, somehow, better than it is - or maybe, just maybe, it really is as great as she makes it, if even for only the brief moments that she's in it with me, making me forget the rest.

There are touching, moving reminisces of her childhood. One in particular, where as a child, her mother worked for the Democratic party registering voters, and young Jessye assisted her. At certain times, Mrs. Norman would ask her daughter to leave the table they were working at. It wasn't until after college Jessye asked her mother why. It was because certain members of their congregation and community could neither read nor write and had to sign only with an "x" and her mother didn't want her daugther to see or know that about these friends. It was one of those "lump in my throat" moments.

Norman talks about wanting to understand why racisim exists; why governments are more interested in the sexuality of its citizens, than more important matters, why can't we live and let live? "I want to know. It could be that only God can answer such a question." "A society is responsible for helping people to pull themselves up by their bootstraps - but's let's make sure that they are wearing boots!" The music, coming as it does from some of her legendary recordings - is breathtaking - sometimes literally!

A video of "Erlkoenig" opens the "recital" portions and it is stunning mini film in and of itself. I can probably list a dozen favorite recordings of this song: Jessye's is at the top of that list. I can think of few better ways to relax and escape "the real world" for 90 minutes than to bask in the glow of Jessye Norman.

Brava, Jessye!

p.