My 35 Years without Opera

Imagine, if you will, that when my godmother invited me to the opera on 15 May 1975, I said, “No thanks.” What would my life have been like? Here’s a sugestion ... submitted for your approval.

My name is Bill. That’s me, doing a little shopping at the supermarket on the way home from work. Middle-aged, heavy-set. No, not that guy, the other guy. Yeah. I’m the one in the grey overcoat. I know it’s mid-May, but the weather’s been so changeable, and you can’t be too careful. Especially in the frozen-food section.

I’m just picking up a few TV dinners for next week. I’m not surprised you didn’t notice me. Why would you? It’s been a long time since I thought I was anybody special. Not since I was in junior high, if you want to know.

Back then, I wanted to be a writer. But then — what’s the expression? “I put away the things of a child.” The older I got, the more pointless it seemed, really. Like studying French. Mother said why not study accounting, it’s so practical. So I did.

I’ve been with Consolidated Office Supplies for a long time. Hard to count the years: one day is just like any other. Now that so many offices are going “paperless,” though, we’ve had layoffs. I’m probably next. Nothing I can do about it.

I play a lot of video games. That’s my idea of excitement, I guess. There’s never anything good on TV. I don’t listen to much music. It’s just something in the background. Somebody else’s background, not mine. I see people getting excited about a song, and I just don’t understand what the big deal is. I don’t read much. Nothing really holds my interest, you know?

Funny to think that I ever wanted to write, or travel, or see a play. What made me want those things? I don’t remember. Maybe it was sex. Everything comes down to that, right? I tried dating a couple of actresses when I was in college. It never worked out. I live alone now.

That’s my story — no story at all, really.

This exercise was so depressing that it requires an antidote.
Fortunately, Marilyn Horne has provided one.

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Let Horne Resound!

Here in New York, the 75th birthday of Marilyn Horne has been the occasion for all sorts of celebration, and it stirred me to action. Though the great lady is renowned for her master classes, I’d never attended one; surely this was the moment at last to see and hear for myself. I doubt that anyone, least of all Marilyn Horne, can count the young singers she’s worked with, sharing with a new generation the lessons she’s acquired over a lifetime in song. She’s tough and direct, though never nasty. She sweeps aside the mistakes and excuses, seizes on a singer’s potential, and instantly locates the technical flaw or interpretative shortcoming.

As ever, I’m fascinated by the discipline of musicians. A painter or writer need hardly even be conscious in order to work at her art, and indeed for many visual artists I’ve known, sketching and painting are almost a tic, involuntary, or a nervous habit that can’t be dropped. Musicians must practice. Moreover, they can spend hours — perhaps days — maybe even years — breaking apart a musical phrase, analyzing its components, and putting it back together again. Indeed, that process is what a master class encapsulates. I knew that Marilyn Horne’s master class would be instructive. Yet — even though I knew she’s a pistol — I wasn’t entirely prepared for how entertaining the evening would be. More than once, she had me in stitches.

As a service to myself, first and foremost, and maybe even to you, I took note of some of the smart things Marilyn Horne said on Wednesday evening. More than a few of her remarks contained wisdom applicable to almost any endeavor, so take heed. (All comments are those of Ms. Horne, except as noted.)

Long time, no see!
*
This is Legato City — but remember, we want all those consonants.
*
Why did you crescendo there? [Without waiting for an answer.] Because you didn’t want to support!
*
[At her suggestion, the singer and accompanist attempted to resume in the middle of a line. They failed.] It always happens! You try to shorten it, and you have to start from the beginning anyway.
*
If you’re gonna take a breath, you better take it fast. I don’t recommend doing without it.
*
I know you want to be glamorous.
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Don’t be afraid.
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I don’t think that’s a new [vocal] color.
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What do mothers think about their children — mostly? They adore them. [Then, gleefully.] And then they get grandchildren!
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Do you have to breathe there? Don’t!
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Chickennnnn. [After a singer failed to attack a phrase.]
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The only reason I moved your hands is I don’t want you standing there like studentesca.
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Tie it up in a bow and serve it on a platter! One of the things we’ve got to learn as young singers — and even old singers — is you’ve got to end it.
*
You know the word Schwung? You need much more of it. The French call it élan. What do the Americans call it? I think we just call it Schwung.
*
[After a singer confessed she’d “listened to too many recordings” while preparing her song.] That might have been somebody who couldn’t hold the note!
[Moments later, Horne correctly identified the recording artist that the young singer had listened to.]
*
[In response to the lyric “If you only knew”] Do you know?
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If somebody hears you breathe, it’s okay. That makes it more dramatic.
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This is the glory of your voice! Now you’ve got to let ’er out. Not everybody has that.
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Just slam your cords with some air.
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It’s got to have some drama in it! The words! Always go with the words!
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You know how bad the economy is if I read Paul Krugman before I do the crossword. [The audience laughed, but the young singer looked confused.] You know who he is? Big economist, Nobel Prize. Beside the point.
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If you get this [song] really right, you’ve got one of the great encores of your life.
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[When a young singer admitted that “I don’t know that I know” a particular piece.] I wanted you to learn it. I’ll survive.
*
[As the singer proceeded, Horne approached him and began to dance and sway before him.] I’m gonna direct you a little bit.
*
[To the accompanist] Be prepared! For everything.
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Don’t think you can squeeze it out — everything is based on support.

You see what I mean. She’s right in what she says — about more than music. We’re lucky to hear her.

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Songs of New York

Spending time in New York means hearing the city’s music once again, and revisiting some of the institutions that have sustained me in my love of opera over so many years. An institution unto herself is Marilyn Horne, who celebrated her 75th birthday (Friday) with a gala concert (Sunday) at Carnegie Hall, where tribute was paid to the great lady by several of my other favorite artists: especially wonderful were Frederica Von Stade (our mistress of ceremonies, eternally sublime), Thomas Quasthoff (in Brahms), Thomas Hampson (in Mahler), Dolora Zajick (“Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix”), and Dmitri Hvorostovsky (“O Carlo, ascolta”).

Among the younger artists, Nicole Cabell offered a luscious “Adieu de l’hôtesse arabe” that makes me hungry for more French rep from her; and Meredith Arwady, who impresses me more each time I hear her, in Elgar’s “Where Corals Lie.” (The gala was a benefit for the Horne Foundation, which sponsors recitals by these and other young artists in venues all across America.) The opportunity to hear any of these artists singly would be exceptional; the opportunity to hear them in one afternoon, historic; the opportunity to hear them and my beloved Susan Graham (“Connais-tu le pays?” so delicate that you could smell the orange blossoms) and my beloved Joyce DiDonato (closing the program with a courageous, kick-ass “Tanti affetti” that left us giddy), quite simply a blessing. Then Ms. Horne herself stepped out, hardly letting us cheer for as long as we wanted, before giving us a funny, tender little speech. Only in New York, kids.

The afternoon was a tonic, really, and it helped me to set aside my gnawing anxieties over the fate of another great musical institution, New York City Opera, that preoccupied me for much of the previous week.

Mortier: Pouf! He, how you say, vanish!

In the 1970s, City Opera’s signature artists (Sills, Treigle, Rudel, Capobianco, so many others) defined the possibilities of the art form for me as a boy, and its production of Menotti’s Juana La Loca was the first opera I heard in New York, in 1979. The company has suffered significant reversals in recent years, and many of them, it must be said, can be blamed on its board of directors. These folks — well-meaning, surely — chose the Belgian provocateur Gerard Mortier two years ago to take over City Opera as general and artistic director. Manifestly the wrong man for the job, Mortier quit in November, even before assuming his duties in full, yet he managed to screw the company just the same. At his urging, NYCO is on hiatus this season, while the New York State Theater is renovated. How any opera company is supposed to maintain a presence — to persuade donors that it’s viable — is anyone’s guess, but it’s a signal truth that Mortier, like so many Europeans lately selected by American boards, has at best limited fundraising experience. (The money is supposed to appear magically.) And of course Mortier quit when he discovered that City Opera had even less cash than he’d anticipated. His grandiose (and sometimes insulting) plans for the company couldn’t be fulfilled.

Now the company has turned to George Steel, who has minimal experience raising funds or producing opera at all. I thought he was a risky choice to run Dallas Opera, when he was named to that post a few months ago; I can only hope that his few weeks in Dallas have provided him with an intensive education in — well — everything. Both my hometown companies are cash-strapped, at the very beginning of an economic crisis. But City Opera really can’t afford a single misstep or a second wasted.

Man of Steel or feet of clay?

It’s the topic of every conversation here, almost. For every encouraging reminder that Steel does know New Yorkers, and is a well-regarded conductor, comes the dispiriting news that the company will cut its productions by half next season, or that Steel’s favorite opera composer is Johann Christian Bach. I wish I saw any cause for optimism.

As a reminder of what’s at stake, City Opera presented its only performances of a complete opera last week: two evenings of Samuel Barber’s Antony and Cleopatra in concert at Carnegie Hall. The score has suffered under the yoke of a terrible reputation, since it was given its premiere performance on the opening night of the Metropolitan Opera’s new home at Lincoln Center, in 1966. The composer Mark Adamo has defended the piece on his blog, and I urge you to read his analysis; but to these ears, Antony and Cleopatra’s enduring neglect is entirely justified: its Orientalist exotica (in the Egyptian scenes) sounds like movie music, its more aggressive “Roman” themes are bombastic, and in all its postwar conservative, tonal and melodic idiom isn’t very interesting. Menotti did this sort of thing much better, at least for the stage. Yet it’s important to hear Antony and Cleopatra, and to make one’s own judgments.

The shmatte they fall: Flanigan and Rhodes

The title roles are good parts for good singers, written for Leontyne Price and Justino Díaz, and taken here by the City Opera superstar Lauren Flanigan and a debutant, New Zealander Teddy Tahu Rhodes, whose work I’ve enjoyed at Houston Grand Opera in previous seasons. George Manahan led the City Opera orchestra with genuine passion, and it’s a luxury to hear that ensemble so well-rehearsed — polished, even, to a brilliant luster. In short, this is exactly the sort of thing City Opera ought to be doing.

Just pray that Steel doesn’t fuck it up.

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Marilyn Horne

Just before I fled New York for Paris, I went for dinner at La Mirabelle, one of my favorite restaurants, not only for the quality of their food (good plain home cookin’, if your home happens to be France), but also for the fact that owner Annick LeDouaron and the staff, almost entirely composed of native French ladies with whom I converse in French, have never at any point corrected my grammar or pronunciation. Moreover, Danielle Ruperti, my favorite waitress ever, is a gifted amateur painter, whose canvases decorate the walls (and you can, and should, buy one), and when the fancy strikes her, she cuts forth in song. With a vibrant contralto and laser-sharp diction, she sings a lot of Aznavour and Piaf, and sometimes a snippet of Trenet: this is exactly what I want to hear over my meal. I digest better.

On this particular evening, she came to the table where Feldstein and Mark Dennis and I were dining. “Over there,” she said, for our ears alone, “isn’t that the opera singer, Marilyn...?”

It was indeed Marilyn Horne.

As the evening wore on, I went up to her table. “This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in a restaurant with you,” I said, “and for future reference, next time, what should I send to your table?”

She grinned. “Just yourself,” she said. “Pull up a chair.”

When I was growing up in Dallas and discovering opera, I heard Marilyn Horne more often than was fair. People in other towns didn’t get to hear her sing, in quick succession, Rosina, Azucena, Bellini’s Romeo, and Meyerbeer’s Fidès. And that’s not to mention the quick glimpse of her Carmen I got while watching television’s The Odd Couple, and the many performances I heard on radio. I was entirely convinced that all mezzos sounded like her, because she was very nearly the only mezzo I’d ever heard.

When I got to New York, it was Horne’s performance in Handel’s Rinaldo that inaugurated my Met-going career, and later at the Met, I heard her sing Quickly in Falstaff and Samira in Ghosts of Versailles; at Carnegie Hall I heard her Juno in Semele, perhaps the most perfect concert I ever attended. At Bill Clinton’s second inaugural, I heard her sing to the nation, as if every American could hear her voice from the steps of the Capitol.

Because her voice is so huge, I didn’t expect her to be so tiny. But there you have it. That immense, burnished sound and powerhouse personality dominated the world’s biggest stages, but they came out of a plump little Pennsylvania partridge, a blue-eyed butterball hardly bigger than a handful. The first time we met, after a master class at Lincoln Center, we were both standing: in performance she typically wore high heels (or boots) and feathered helmets, turbans, or headdresses, but off-duty, she wore flats and not so much as a hat. I towered over her, and it was all I could think of to talk about. I feel certain the topic didn’t interest her nearly as much as it did me.

Meeting her at Mirabelle, I had a chance to redeem myself.

She was dining that evening with Robert White, the tenor and Juilliard faculty member, who was equally gracious as I horned in (sorry) on their conversation. Though we talked a little about opera, Marilyn Horne is about as far from the grande-dame diva as anybody you ever met, and she is interested in almost everything. We talked about her grandchildren (at my insistence, she showed me pictures: they’re gorgeous) and about politics. She’s a passionate Democrat, the 2004 elections were days away, and she was worried. Rightly, as it turned out. Her assessments of the political scene were pungent, very funny, and probably unprintable.

I shared a little story with her. In 1988, a right-wing “watchdog organization” published Dan Rather’s office phone number on the front page of The New York Times with the caption, “Are you mad at Dan Rather? Call now!” Enough people were intrigued by this that they tried the number, and by mid-morning it became impossible to do any work. The phones didn’t stop ringing, and though most people were too startled to say much when they discovered they’d reached Dan’s office, there was always another call to answer. So we transferred all calls to my home phone, where I’d set up the answering machine to play Horne’s recording of “God Bless America.”

You wanna complain about Dan Rather? You’re gonna get a dose of real patriotism. She cackled with glee. She’d struck a blow for a free press, and until that night, she hadn’t even known it.

Within about three minutes, it was as if we were old friends. In a sense, we were: I’d grown up with her. If I found myself wallowing in awe for even a second, it wasn’t because I was sitting next to this celebrity, it was because her eyes are arrestingly beautiful, pale blue and brimming with life. Look too deeply into them, and you’ll forget whatever you wanted to say. I fished around the Internet for good pictures to illustrate this little essay, but I found not a single photo that conveyed a fraction of her charm.

I kept beckoning to Feldstein and Mark, but they retained a respectful distance at another table. “This is important to you,” Mark said, and I didn’t manage to explain to him that, if he joined us, he’d be able to talk football — another of Horne’s passions. If she’d known about Mark’s signature move (picking up opposing players by the scruff of the neck and tossing them aside as he charged down the field), she’d have moved to his table.

Meanwhile Danielle and the staff served the last diners and ushered them out the door. Soon enough, we closed down Mirabelle, and the evening came to an end. We exchanged a few e-mails after that, and she offered sage counsel and hearty encouragement for my move to Paris. “Maybe I’ll see you there,” she said, although we never managed to do that. It would be difficult to top our dinner at Mirabelle.

But I brought her recordings with me. At her best, which is most of the time, she manages to combine all that power with dazzling flexibility — while giving the impression of completely natural ease. It’s not only because she was the first singer I heard in dozens of roles that hers is the standard I apply.

Yet what I admire most about her may be what she’s done with the later phase of her career. She teaches constantly, at the Music Academy of the West (where she in her turn was Lotte Lehmann’s student) and in master classes all over the country, and her annual classes at Lincoln Center, timed to her birthday, are a New York institution. Through the Marilyn Horne Foundation, she has helped to teach and to launch dozens of young artists. And she’s johnny-on-the-spot to support charitable and arts organizations, not only with her name and money but with her presence: when Darren Woods invited her to the opening of his festival season at Fort Worth Opera, she was there.

All these things make her not merely influential but one of the most genuinely beloved artists in America. People are nuts about her.

She’s had health problems in recent years, but she keeps on trucking. And we will continue to hear her voice, through the voices of hundreds of young people, for years, perhaps for generations.

Her birthday is 16 January; she’ll be 74. Join me, please, in raising a glass to her.

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