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Saturday, October 12, 2013

James A. Drake - After The War: Six American Tenors of the 1920's


James A. Drake:      After the War:  Six American Tenors  of the 1920's

 












I am both honored and pleased to be able to once again present Dr. James A. Drake as our guest author today.  A recently retired college president, James A. Drake is a distinguished author of seven books, four of which are biographies of great opera singers of the twentieth century.  Although not a musician (he earned a doctorate in philosophy and taught primarily in social-science disciplines before he became a university administrator), Dr. Drake earned the confidence of the legendary soprano Rosa Ponselle, with whom he collaborated on her autobiography for Doubleday and Company. With a foreword by Luciano Pavarotti, the Ponselle-Drake collaboration yielded excellent reviews and was named "Music Book of the Month" by the National Book Clubs of America in 1982.  The book was also promoted during a Metropolitan Opera broadcast in the 1982-83 season. By that time, Dr. Drake had been selected by Sara Tucker, widow of the celebrated tenor Richard Tucker, to write an authorized biography of the great singer, who had died in 1975 while at the peak of his career.  For the Tucker book, Luciano Pavarotti again contributed a foreword, and the biography was officially released at a special event hosted by maestro James Levine at Lincoln Center.  Once again, Dr. Drake's newest work received a "Music Book of the Month" award.


As the United States settled into a period of tranquility and prosperity after World War One, a new phenomenon emerged in the nation's major opera houses:  the rise of American-born, American-trained singers who were engaged to perform leading roles without any significant experience in the operatic capitals of Europe.  This new phenomenon had been predicted by Giulio Gatti-Casazza, who was then the general manager of the Metropolitan Opera Company.

"Before the war," Gatti-Casazza told a New York Times interviewer in April 1918, "all aspiring young artists and students went to Europe ...  But that is finished now, for a long time [and] I doubt if such a state of things will ever return."  Acting on his prediction, Gatti-Casazza soon made an overnight star of Connecticut-born Rosa Ponselle, whose only experience had been in vaudeville, whom he cast with Enrico Caruso in the 1918 Metropolitan premiere of Verdi's La Forza del Destino.

From November 1908, when Gatti-Casazza began his tenure as the Metropolitan's general manager, and until his retirement at the end of the 1935-36 opera season, his administration engaged steadily increasing numbers of American-born singers, and featured them in both major and minor roles.  This was a far cry from the 1890s, when the Pennsylvania-born baritone, David Bispham, was described by the New York Times as  "the only American man singing upon the stage in either continent in grand opera."  The rise of the American-born opera singer coincided with the refinement of the phonograph and the growth of the sound-recording industry.  In turn, the recording industry owed a good portion of its initial commercial success to an opera singer--Enrico Caruso, the superstar tenor whom Giulio Gatti-Casazza had the good fortune to inherit from his predecessor at the Metropolitan Opera House.  If the long shadow of Caruso eclipsed the careers of any American-born tenors of the World War One era, the phonograph captured their singing--and from their recordings, some of which were made 100 years ago, we can experience and appreciate the uniqueness of their voices and their mastery of vocal technique. 

Riccardo Martin

 More than any other American tenor of the Gatti-Casazza era at the Metropolitan Opera, it was Kentucky-born Riccardo Martin (1873-1952) whose repertoire most closely approximated that of Caruso.  Like him, Martin sang the principal tenor roles in Aida, Il Trovatore, Cavalleria Rusticana, Pagliacci, Mefistofele, Manon Lescaut, La Boheme, Madama Butterfly, Tosca, Carmen, Faust, L' Elisir d' Amore, Lucia di Lammermoor, Martha, La Gioconda, and La Fanciulla del West. As a youth, Martin (whose birth name was Hugh Whitfield Martin) had studied violin and had sung in a local church choir, but was increasingly attracted to composing rather than performing music.  He left Kentucky in the mid-1890s to attend Columbia University, where he studied composition, counterpoint, and orchestration until his singing voice was discovered by one of his professors.  

By 1901, Martin had gained a sufficient reputation as a concert singer to persuade Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate, to award him a grant to study with prestigious voice teachers in Paris, Florence, and Naples.  In Paris, his principal teacher was Jean De Reszke, the tenor luminary of the late nineteenth century.  In Naples, Martin studied and coached with Vincenzo Lombardi, who had figured prominently in Caruso's early career.  On November 20, 1907, Martin made what should have been an acclaimed debut at the Metropolitan Opera House, singing the role of Faust in Boito's Mefistofele.  The timing of his debut, however, could not have been more unfortunate for Martin:  the title role inMefistofele was sung by the incomparable Russian basso, Feodor Chaliapin, who was also making his Metropolitan debut that evening.  

Although Martin received generally good reviews in the major New York newspapers the next day, it was Chaliapin's stunning performance that led the New York Times critic to write, "One was reminded of Caruso nights, so boisterous were the demonstrations of approval ...."  For the remainder of the 1907-08 season, however--and for the duration of Martin's singing career, which ended when he decided to return to the study of composition in the early 1930s--his "pure and vibrant tenor" (as it was described by one critic) was increasingly appreciated by audiences, critics, and buyers of his Victor phonograph records.  This is Riccardo Martin's recording of the majestic "O souverain, o juge, o pere" from Massenet's Le Cid, which he made for the Victor Company's prestigious Red Seal label on December 8, 1910:


 
 

Paul Althouse

Like Riccardo Martin, Pennsylvania-born Paul Althouse (1889-1954) studied music and voice in college, at Bucknell University.  With the encouragement of Bucknell faculty members and alumni supporters, Althouse went to New York in the early 1910s to study privately with a number of prominent voice teachers including Percy Rector Stevens and Oscar Saenger.  When he was offered a Metropolitan Opera contract by Giulio Gatti-Casazza in 1912, Althouse became the first American-born, American-trained singer to debut at the Metropolitan with no previous European experience.  Although the leading tenor roles eluded him (his Met debut was as one of the guards in Die Zauberflote, with Leo Slezak as Tamino and Emmy Destinn as Pamina), Althouse earned the confidence of the Metropolitan management as he undertook more secondary roles from the 1912-13 season onward.   

During that season, Althouse was cast as Grigory in the American premiere of Boris Godunov on March 19, 1913, with Toscanini conducting and Adamo Didur singing the title role.  After one of Althouse's performances in Boris, the New York Times critic Richard Aldrich described him as "a young American tenor who ... has a voice of unusual beauty of quality and a style of vocalism that brings it forth to the greatest advantage."  Early in his career, Althouse's voice was a sizable lyric tenor, with lirico-spinto potential.  From 1920-1925, after being unable to secure any leading operatic roles, he limited his singing to recitals and concerts exclusively.  But the summer of 1925, Althouse had a transformational experience:  he traveled to Bayreuth, an experience which prompted him to re-direct his career and pursue the Wagnerian heldentenor roles.  

Althouse's first performance at the Metropolitan as a Wagnerian tenor took place on February 3, 1934, when he appeared as Siegmund in Die Walkure,  with Frida Leider as Brunnhilde.  He remained on the Metropolitan roster until the 1939-1940 season, after which he concertized sporadically and then decided to became a full-time voice teacher.  Although a number of Althouse's students went on to have successful careers in opera, concerts, and on radio, it was Brooklyn-born Richard Tucker who became Althouse's star pupil.  (Eleanor Steber, who also studied with Althouse for a time, was always quick to point out that unlike Tucker, she had previously studied with another teacher.)  One of Althouse's last lessons with the young Tucker took place a mere two weeks before Althouse passed away on February 5, 1954. 

During his pre-Wagnerian career at the Metropolitan, Althouse made a number of recordings for the Victor, Columbia, and Edison companies.  This is one of his memorable Victor records:  the finale of the Garden Scene from Boris, which Althouse recorded with the contralto Margarete Ober on April 23, 1915:

Orville Harrold

"From Plow-Boy to Parsifal" was how The Etude, a classical-music magazine of the World War One era, described the career of the American tenor Orville Harrold (1877-1933).  Born on a farm near Muncie, Indiana, Harrold sang in local and regional choruses while studying with a series of teachers.  The last of these local teachers was Alexander Ernestinoff, whose confidence in the young tenor's future led him to serve as Harrold's de facto agent and promoter.  A tall, muscular, large-framed man (critic Max de Schauensee once likened Harrold's concert-stage presence to "Paul Bunyan in a tuxedo"), Harrold began his career on Broadway, where he sang operettas from 1906-1910.  His light-opera career reached its zenith when the composer Victor Herbert chose Harrold to create the role of Captain Dick Warrington in the world premiere of Naughty Marietta in November 1910.  

Gifted with a sizable voice, ringing high notes, and a seemingly limitless upper range, Harrold experienced a vocal crisis after his success in Naughty Marietta.  On the advice of fellow tenor Paul Althouse, Harrold sought the help of Oscar Saenger to rebuild his voice and technique, which had been over-strained as a result of his frequent appearances on Broadway and in vaudeville.  Under Saenger's tutelage, Harrold not only rebuilt his voice but also made the transition from singing light opera to grand opera.  The Italian verismo roles proved to be an ideal fit for Harrold's voice, and in the Puccini-Leoncavallo-Mascagni repertoire he received some of his finest reviews.  After one of his performances in Pagliacci with the Hammerstein Opera, the New York Times reviewer wrote, “His success was marked at the end of the first act, when he was recalled until he repeated ‘Vesti la giubba.’ ... His voice is one of beauty, his high tones having especially good quality.”  

In Cavalleria Rusticana, which Harrold sang at the Metropolitan Opera for the first time on January 20, 1920, his performance as Turiddu was lauded by the New York Timescritic Richard Aldrich, who wrote that "his singing was remarkably fine in its power and pathos, in the beauty of his tone and the dramatic expression he brought to the role."  At the Metropolitan, Harrold sang in the American premiere of Korngold's Die tote Stadt (with Maria Jeritza), in Charpentier's Louise (with Geraldine Farrar), and in Rimsky-Korsakov's The Snow  Maiden.  But despite his success in opera, Harrold returned to Broadway and continued to tour in vaudeville until 1929, when he retired from the stage. 

On April 16, 1920, prompted by the acclaim he had received as Rodolfo in La Boheme at the Metropolitan Opera, Harrold traveled to the Victor studios in Camden, New Jersey, to record Rodolfo's narrative, "Che gelida manina": 
 

 

Mario Chamlee

A native of Los Angeles, Mario Chamlee (1892-1966) was offered a recording contract by the Brunswick company when he was mustered out of the U.S. Army in 1919.  At the time, Brunswick's management was creating a recording division as a complement to the company's line of high-priced phonographs.  The recording executive who essentially discovered Chamlee was Gustave Haenschen, also a war veteran, who had been discharged from the Navy just prior to becoming Brunswick's director of popular-music recordings.  "Archer Cholmondeley, which was Mario's real name," Haenschen recalled in a 1973 interview, "was still in his khakis when we persuaded him to make a test recording for us at Brunswick.  We signed him to an exclusive recording contract, and he stayed with us for the rest of his singing career."

Before the war, Chamlee had graduated from the University of Southern California, and had also studied violin during his college years.  While still at USC, he began studying voice with local teachers and decided to pursue an operatic career.  Adopting the stage name "Mario Rodolfi," he made his debut with the Lombardi Opera Company in Los Angeles in 1916, singing the role of Edgardo in Lucia di Lammermoor.  "What a virile yet sensitive singer-actor Mr. Rodolfi is at his young age," one Los Angeles critic wrote of his performance.  "His is a trumpet of a voice when called for, but was tender and emotional in the Tomb Scene."

At Brunswick, Haenschen and Walter B. Rogers, who directed the company's classical-music division, persuaded the young tenor to adopt the name "Archer Chamlee" for record-making purposes.  The sales of the newly-named tenor's first Brunswick recordings made it clear that Chamlee had the potential for a substantial recording career.  "What made his voice appealing to our record buyers," Haenschen said, "was the uncanny similarity of timbre phrasing, and interpretation between Chamlee's recordings for Brunswick and Caruso's recordings for the Victor Company."  This was no mere coincidence, as Haenschen freely admitted.  "Our opera recording director, Walter Rogers, had worked for the Victor Company before he came to Brunswick, and he had conducted most of Caruso's recording sessions at Victor.  So when we signed a recording contract with Chamlee, Walter worked with him to mimic Caruso's phrasing, note by note.  "After two or three weeks of making test recordings under Walter's direction," Haenschen added, "Chamlee began to sound enough like Caruso, at least on records, to the point that we thought we had finally found a way to compete with the Victor Company and its star tenor." 

In November 1920, after finally settling on the stage name "Mario Chamlee," the young tenor made his Metropolitan Opera debut in Tosca with Geraldine Farrar in the title role, and Antonio Scotti as Scarpia.  Perhaps because of such illustrious onstage company, Chamlee received only passing notice in the critics' columns.  Reviews of the tenor's subsequent performances in a variety of Italian and French leading roles yielded generally lukewarm responses from the major New York critics.  Chamlee's Duke in Rigoletto, which he sang to Amelita Galli-Curci's Gilda in November 1931, was judged to have "suffered, vocally, from driving the voice unnecessarily in his upper tones."  When he first appeared in Gounod's Faust, however, he received more favorable treatment from the critics:  "Mr. Chamlee had sung Faust only once before and never at the Metropolitan," said the New York Times reviewer.  "Making allowances for a few slips in his cues, it was vocally very fine, and after the 'Salut demeure' especially, he was the recipient of well-deserved applause."

One of Chamlee's last significant operatic appearances took place on March 3, 1938, when Gian Carlo Menotti's Amelia Goes to the Ball had its Metropolitan Opera premiere.  Although the opera itself received tepid reviews (the New York World-Telegram likened Menotti's score to "lukewarm vanilla soda"), Chamlee received commendable reviews overall.  By the early 1930s, when the recording industry was reeling from the effects of the Depression, the Brunswick company had been sold to the Warner Brothers studios in Hollywood.  The sale of the company coincided with Chamlee's declining royalties from his recordings, as well as his decreasing interest in an operatic career.  By 1939, he had ceased singing opera at all, and limited his radio performances to popular music exclusively.  

Later, with his wife, the lyric soprano Ruth Miller, Chamlee became a full-time voice teacher.  (Anna Maria Alberghetti, of Broadway fame, studied with the Chamlees for a time.)  During the prime of his career, however Mario Chamlee had been a formidable tenor.  This is his 1924 Brunswick recording of Caruso's signature aria, "Vesti la giubba":


 

Charles Hackett


Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, Charles Hackett (1889-1942) began his operatic career in Boston’s Jordan Hall, where he appeared in Gounod's Faust  in 1910.  Reviewing one of the young tenor's early appearances in Rossini's Stabat Mater, the critic for the Musical Courier wrote, “He proved a revelation to the public who had never heard him before.  Not having much opportunity to show what he really could do except in the ‘Cujus animam’..., he availed himself so excellently of this one solo, even to the extent of ... a daring D-flat, [that] was immediately rewarded by the sort of applause which at once spells success.”  

After Hackett's Metropolitan Opera debut, as Almaviva in Il Barbiere di Siviglia on January 31, 1919, the New York Times reviewer said, "he disclosed such an agreeable and flexible voice and such finished singing and acting that the audience could not help recognize that a real bel canto artist was before them ...."  As the 1918-19 Metropolitan season progressed, Hackett received continuous praise from the major newspaper critics.  Of a Verdi Requiem that he sang with Rosa Ponselle, Margarete Matzenauer, and Jose Mardones, the critic Sylvester Rawlings wrote that "Charles Hackett ... surprised even his warmest admirers by the ease and distinction and beauty with which he sang the none too easy music that fell to his lot."  Hackett also earned the enthusiastic regard of Enrico Caruso.  “The night Caruso arrived at Buenos Aires," Hackett recalled in a newspaper interview, "he happened to hear me sing for the first time.  He had not been there for fifteen years, and was surrounded with influential friends.  Yet as I was going on in the second act he broke through the crowd, and with that generosity and great-heartedness which made him so loved, put his arm around my shoulders and said, ‘How you have sung tonight!  You make me feel old, for you have done things with your voice which remind me of what I used to do when I was younger'.” 

Hackett's last in-house performance at the Metropolitan Opera took place in April 1921, after which he decided to leave the Met and to relocate to Italy for additional musical study.  When he returned to the U.S. a year later, he joined the Lyric Opera of Chicago, where he sang the leading tenor roles in the Italian and French repertoire from 1923 until 1933.  On February 3, 1934, Hackett returned to the Metropolitan Opera to sing Romeo to the Juliette of Lucrezia Bori, one of his favorite colleagues.  The morning after the performance, one critic wrote that "Mr. Hackett ... sang the difficult role so beautifully as to command the admiration and respect of music lover and musician alike.  His voice is one of great appeal, his phrasing sensitive, his appreciation of the subtleties of the French language that of a true artist ...."  This is Charles Hackett's 1927 recording of "La reve" from Massenet's Manon:


 

Roland Hayes

The challenges faced by Riccardo Martin, Paul Althouse, Orville Harrold, Mario Chamlee and Charles Hackett were trebled, at the least, in the case of Roland Hayes(1887-1987), the first African-American tenor to make a debut on the concert platform as an aspiring opera singer.  In common with the other American-born tenors of the World War One era, Hayes was inspired by the recordings of Caruso.  "I had never heard any real music," Hayes later wrote in his autobiography, "but one day a pianist came to our church in Chattanooga, and ... he took me in hand and introduced me to phonograph records by Caruso.  That opened the heavens for me.  The beauty of what could be done with the voice just overwhelmed me."  

The son of freed slaves who became tenant farmers, Hayes was born in Curryville, Georgia, but relocated with his mother and his family to Chattanooga in 1898, after his father had died earlier that year.  Although he was able to attend school sporadically in the segregated, under-funded black schools in the Chattanooga area, Hayes was forced to leave school in order to help support his mother and his siblings.  By his own estimation, he had a sixth-grade education when he began working as a waiter and earning other small sums from any jobs he could find.  By the late-1890's, Hayes had matured into a lyric tenor under the tutelage of Arthur Calhoun, the director of a local church choir.  In 1905, Hayes was still supporting himself as a waiter and hotel porter when he was accepted into the college-preparatory program at Fisk University in Nashville.  There, a group of tutors helped him obtain a high-school diploma.  Decades later, Fisk University would award him an honorary doctoral degree, one of eight that he received during his long lifetime.

While enrolled at Fisk, Hayes was accepted into the elite Jubilee Singers, which traveled throughout the northern U.S. and much of Europe as a fundraising vehicle for the University.  From 1909-1911, a quartet from the Jubilee Singers (which originally consisted of ten male singers) was recorded and marketed by the Victor Company.   Although Hayes was not a member of the Jubilee Quartet at that time (Victor catalogs and advertisements of the era list the names and a photograph of the four members), he was in the group when they made a second series of recordings for the Edison Company in 1911.  After leaving Fisk, Hayes relocated to Louisville, Kentucky, but kept in contact with the Fisk University administration.  When the lead tenor of the Jubilee Singers left the ensemble in 1914, the president of Fisk contacted Hayes in Louisville and offered him the lead-tenor role in the Jubilee Quartet's upcoming concert in Boston.  

Hayes not only accepted the offer, but also decided to remain in Boston in the hope of establishing himself as a solo artist.  In 1915, he made his concert debut at Jordan Hall in Boston (where Charles Hackett had made his operatic debut five years earlier).  "His voice is rich, pure, and gracefully lyric," wrote Philip Hale in the Boston Globe.  "Not only has he a voice that many might envy, he also has the gift of interpretation.   He catches almost instinctively the mood of the poet and composer."  Another pioneering black artist, Harry T. Burleigh (1866-1949), a conservatory-trained baritone, pianist, and composer-arranger, served as Hayes's piano accompanist when the young tenor made his New York City debut in Aeolian Hall on January 30, 1919.  (Five years later, Aeolian Hall would become the site of the premiere of George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue.)  The day after Hayes's concert, the critic for the New York Times wrote, "the young man's enunciation was remarkable, not least so in the dream from Massenet's 'Manon,' which he sang in good French."  

Because phonograph recordings had been a key to the artistic and financial success of the Jubilee Singers, Hayes decided to pursue a recording career as a supplement to his concert appearances.  First at Victor, and subsequently at the Columbia and Edison studios, he made test recordings but was unable to secure a contract from any of the three major record companies.  Left with no alternative but to finance his own recordings, he managed to raise enough money to pay the Columbia Company to produce a limited quantity of phonograph records of his singing.  In the February 1919 issue of The Crisis, the monthly magazine of the NAACP, the enterprising young tenor raised enough money to pay for a half-page advertisement entitled "Roland W. Hayes Phonograph Records."  The advertisement began with a question:  "Do you own a phonograph of any make and have you tried to purchase records which would bring to your home the singing and playing of the best Negro artists?"  

Noting that most record stores usually stocked "popular music and possibly a few records of quartet songs by Negro singers," the advertisement suggested that prospective buyers should be able instead to purchase recordings by "the individual Negro performer who would rank high among the invisible makers of music ... to cheer your spare moments after the grind of the day's work is done."  "At last this is possible," the advertisement stated.  "Roland W. Hayes, the acknowledged leading singer of the Negro race, has brought out his first record and ... has plans for many others in the very near future."  Four records were listed in the advertisement, three of which were spirituals.  The fourth recording was an operatic selection identified on the record label as "Arioso from 'Pagliacci'."  This is Roland Hayes's performance of "Vesti la giubba":


 

Long after Riccardo Martin, Paul Althouse, Orville Harrold, Mario Chamlee and Charles Hackett had retired from the stage, the indefatigable Roland Hayes was still concertizing.  Throughout the 1950's and 1960's, he sang nearly eighty concerts per year.  Although an operatic career had eluded him, he continued to give concerts until 1973, when he was in his mid-eighties.


James A. Drake

 

Friday, September 20, 2013

The Remarkable Voice of Judy Collins, Master of the Modern Art Song


The Remarkable Voice of Judy Collins, Master of the Modern Art Song

By Professor Nathan Bernstein

 

It is a pleasure to introduce today’s guest writer, Professor Nathan Bernstein.  Many readers, who follow great singers and historical operatic recordings on Youtube, will certainly know our author, although not by his real name.  Many will have read the erudite and highly detailed comments of Professor Bernstein, whose Youtube pseudonym is ‘Meltzerboy,” and who signs himself as “Nate.”  In fact, Professor Bernstein possesses a truly formidable knowledge of old classical singers and equally antique recordings.  He and I have conversed often and over a long period of time on Youtube, and I confess that I have learned a lot in so doing!  We both share a particular love of two singers:  Amelita Galli-Curci, and—strange as it may at first seem—Judy Collins.  I believe it dawned on both of us at about the same that “folk singer” is simply an inadequate term to describe the amazing Judy Collins.  She is so much more than that—her music is both intellectual and sophisticated, and often easily on a par with the music of Schumann and Schubert.  She is in fact a master of the modern art song, and her presentations are superlative.  She possesses an extraordinary voice and certainly belongs in the company of the singers one finds on Great Opera Singers!    Edmund StAustell

 

 

     Those who experienced the era of social protest and revolution in the 1960's are no doubt familiar with the voice and singing of Judy Collins, one of the pioneer folk divas of that turbulent period in American history. Folk music, at least as it manifested itself in the United States, was inextricably linked to liberal and leftist causes, although, as Judy Collins' famous contemporary, Joan Baez, once stated, half her songs are a call to activism while the other half serve as a means of escape from the social and political injustices of the times.

     For myself, the first time I heard the voice of Judy Collins in performance was in the 1970's at an outdoor venue: to be exact, Manhattan's Central Park. I clearly remember eagerly waiting in line clutching my ticket, wondering how she would sound live as compared to her voice on records. With many singers, one's first live contact is slightly disappointing since, as most of you may know, modern recordings are the product of several takes, splicing, and many other technological marvels, all of which are designed to package an artist at her absolute best. Therefore, I had my doubts. But all at once I and others waiting on line were treated to the sound of Judy's voice as she was rehearsing a few lines of Leonard Cohen's song "Story of Isaac." My immediate thought was that her voice sounded stronger, fuller, and more beautiful than it had on recordings, and the ensuing concert only confirmed my initial impression.

     How best to describe the voice and singing style of Judy Collins? With respect to the voice itself, one might say it is nearly vibrato-less, silvery, and equalized in all its registers. There is no forcing of tone yet it can at all times be easily and clearly heard without any interfering fuzz. Further, the diction is impeccable and the singing is artistic in that it avoids cheap effects and reveals the musicality as well as musicianship of the singer.  Here is one of her most popular and best-loved songs, “Both Sides Now:”


Sophisticated lyrics and stunning vocalism!  A truly beautiful song, magisterially delivered!

     Judy Collins had originally studied classical piano (similar to opera singers such as Amelita Galli-Curci and Lily Pons) and indeed gave performances of Mozart and Rachmaninoff compositions in public when she was still in her teens. Her piano teacher was one of the first women conductors, Dr. Antonia Brico, about whom Judy later produced an award-nominated documentary. Moreover, Judy grew up in a musical household: her mother played the piano, while her blind father, Chuck Collins, was a well-known radio personality and performer who specialized in the songs of Rodgers and Hart. So how did Judy Collins gravitate from performing the classical piano compositions of Mozart, Debussy, Ravel, and Rachmaninoff, as well as Broadway tunes, to singing folk music?  There were probably several forces at work, but, according to her own testimony, when she first heard Jo Stafford singing "Barbara Allen" on the radio, she was instantly hooked. At the start, Judy Collins was a folksinger pure and simple, performing traditional Irish, Scottish, and English ballads as well as the music of "city" songwriters, such as Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Randy Newman, and several others. She was instrumental in popularizing the songs of Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, in particular, before either of them had record contracts or performed their own compositions on stage. Indeed, she was responsible for Leonard Cohen's career as a performer. In the late 1960's, she was led to her one and only voice teacher, Max Margulies, to whom she admits to owing her vocal prowess and longevity. It was Margulies who shaped her voice from one of a rough (but still beautiful) alto to that of a shimmering soprano with a nearly three-octave range. She worked tirelessly with Margulies on equalizing her registers from top to bottom, on that elusive element of all great singers called phrasing, and on what Margulies spoke of as "clarity."  It was the same method he instilled in the classical singers he taught and coached. Here is an absolute classic of phrasing and style, as well as brilliant musicality.  Written by Collins herself, the astonishing “My Father:”


 
     From that point on, Judy evolved into a chanteuse and song stylist, who would sing not only traditional folk music but Broadway show tunes, art songs of composers such as Ned Rorem, popular music, and songs that can legitimately be called art songs. My next selection is a personal favorite from Judy's earlier years as a balladeer, which she has been reintroducing in several of her concerts of late.  In the heart-breaking “Hills of Shiloh" one can hear the deeper alto quality of Judy's voice at the time:

 

     Apart from her professional acclaim as an accomplished singer and performer, Judy Collins has had more than her share of personal misfortune, including being stricken with polio as a child, a bout of tuberculosis in her twenties, bulimia, clinical depression, alcoholism for more than 20 years, divorce from her first husband, and the suicide of her son, her only child, at the age of 33. Through it all, however, she has managed to persevere with grace and dignity due, in large measure, to the healing power of her singing, performing, and writing in her journal. She has also become a spokesperson for suicide survivors and those who suffer from the disease of alcoholism.

Finally, a piece composed by Judy Collins called "Home Before Dark."


 

THANK YOU!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, September 8, 2013

David Daniels' OSCAR: A REVIEW

Dear Readers:  I am privileged to count, among my acquaintances, many distinguished connoisseurs of great music.  Regular readers of our comments section will recognize today's author by his nom de plume JING, which I respect here.  Let me say only that I have known our author since our university days together, lo these many years (half a century)!, and we share more than a few happy memories.  Today our author reviews the opera Oscar, starring his friend David Daniels, the internationally recognized alto whose work will be familiar to all my readers.  -- Edmund St.Austell

BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF "JING"

I an not a music reviewer.  I am a retired protestant clergyman.  I am someone who loves opera (as well as other forms of classical theater.) I am a person who has, over my 71 years, sung and acted in high school and college, and professionally and in summer stock and community theater.  I have happily performed in many a church basement and nursing home.  While watching old movies on Turner Classic Movies, I regularly see famous singers and actors I have performed with, but who, unfortunately, few people remember (which means I am not always believed.) These are biases of mine you should be aware of: I love opera and live theater and believe that any critical comments of any production ought to be grounded in humility and gratitude for those who care enough about art to take the risks and make the sacrifices necessary to put something on stage.  This applies especially to new compositions.  I am impatient with anyone who thinks he or she knows enough to correctly predict the ultimate fate of long-term survival of any new work.  My own ultimate critical criteria when I attend the opera are that I stay awake, that I don't lose interest, that I trust I know it in my gut when something is "good" when I continue to be haunted by it.  I remain haunted by productions I have seen sixty years ago.  My final bias is that David Daniels has been a good, kind and generous friend of my wife Lois and me for fifteen years.  Star-struck?  You bet.  But that friendship has provided me with a window into the heart and soul of a person who is at once: pure artist, great performer, down to earth friend, gracious human being, and, importantly, an extraordinarily courageous advocate for gay rights, not only through what he says, but how he lives his life day to day.


OSCAR

Music: Theodore Morrison

Text: John Cox and Theodore Morrison

World Premiere at Santa Fe Opera

July 27, 2013

 

Countertenor David Daniels is a down-to-earth and gracious man with a ready and often raucous sense of humor. And at heart, he is a dedicated artist and gay man. For David, who experienced his share of suffering growing up gay in the South, to appear as the first openly gay opera singer to portray the gay title character of a new opera, one written expressly for him, has been a powerful experience. My wife, Lois, and I were fortunate to see his performance in “Oscar” and spend some time with him one weekend in August.  In conversation, one can sense how intensely he feels about playing the character of Oscar Wilde. He puts it simply, “It has changed me.” I said to him, “This feels like you are a part of something that is more than this opera.” He answered, “You know what? About 20% of it is this opera.”

 


 

 

Oscar Wilde was the “superstar” of late Victorian London, and his fame was complex and precarious. In part it was due to polite society’s uneasiness about his sexual persona (he was married with two children). He was also the public face of the Aesthetic Movement. “The aesthetes’” message was that art has no other purpose than to uplift the human soul through beauty alone. Art for art’s sake. That message offended many Victorians who believed that art must be, above all, morally elevating. Nevertheless, such moralists found it impossible to take their eyes off the messenger – a sensational young wit in elegant velvet attire, foppish hair style, lace cuffs, knee-pants and buckled shoes, who was also a stunning conversationalist, brilliant literary critic and poet, and undoubtedly the greatest comic playwright England had seen in a hundred years. Wilde sat atop a fragile perch. Something was bound to happen. And  in 1895, while still basking in the extraordinary success of “The Importance of Being Ernest,” his tumble began. John Cox writes the following in the program notes for “Oscar.”

 

“The common perception of Oscar Wilde is as a great writer and notorious homosexual. We wish in our opera to accept this duality and modulate it into a perception of him as a tragic hero. The greatness required to qualify for such an upgrade is evident in his brilliant career. As playwright, novelist, poet, journalist, wit, and public personality, he was at least the equal of any contemporary. What we offer here is testimony, suitably inflected for the theater, of the events that turned his comedy to tragedy, plunging him into a purgatory of social humiliation and physical suffering through imprisonment with hard labor, thence to discard him as a spent husk. His resurgence from victim to hero came only posthumously.”

 

This is the frame the opera’s creators chose in order to make dramatic sense out of Wilde’s life, especially its final years. How did all this happen? Cox continues:

 “The gods always prescribe a nemesis to the protagonist in order to engineer his downfall. Oscar’s nemesis took the beautiful form of Lord Alfred Douglas. Bosie Douglas was the youngest son of the Marquess of Queensbury, and they despised one another.  Oscar soon found himself in the cross fire of their enmity when Queensberry raised public objection to Oscar’s relationship with his son, imputing a sexual basis to it. Bosie forced Oscar to sue Queensberry for libel, hoping thereby to disgrace him, but Queensberry won the case, so that disgrace fell on Oscar. He was rapidly put on trial, convicted and jailed for ‘gross indecency.’”

 

The opening chords of the opera are filled with foreboding. The first to appear is Walt Whitman, powerfully sung by the exceptional baritone, Dwayne Croft. He serves as a traditional Greek chorus throughout the work. While some critics have regarded this device as irrelevant and distracting, for me personally, it worked very well. I love Walt Whitman’s poetry, and following his spoken introduction of the story, I began to notice that what Whitman sang comes directly from “Leaves of Grass.”  Both men were great artists whose lives had many parallels, including a veiled sexual life that their respective publics suspected with great ambivalence. In fact, Wilde had visited Whitman in Camden, New Jersey, during Oscar’s famous lecture tour of the U.S. and Canada in 1882. Wilde, a much younger man, esteemed Whitman highly. As a child his mother had read to him from “Leaves of Grass.” Whitman offered Wilde some elderberry wine, and throughout the visit Wilde addressed him with great respect. At one point Wilde declared that he couldn’t bear “to listen to anyone unless he attracts me by a charming style, or by beauty of theme.” “Why, Oscar,” said Whitman, “it always seems to me that the fellow who makes a dead set at beauty is in a bad way. My idea is that beauty is a result, not an abstraction.” Wilde, taken aback, replied, “Yes. I think so too.” After his meeting with Whitman, Wilde said, “I have the kiss of Walt Whitman still on my lips.” For me, the use of Whitman as a commentator on Wilde, as fellow artist, but as critic of “abstraction” makes sense. The arc of the drama of Wilde’s life in “Oscar” reveals his terrible journey from abstract aestheticism to palpable suffering – first through his perilous relationship with Bosie, and then from the pain he underwent in prison.

 

Following the prologue, Act I takes place on the eve of his second trial. Out on bail, Wilde attempts to find a hotel room for the night. But Queensbury has bribed some detectives to harass Wilde, hounding him with brutal anti-gay slurs, and tipping off the night clerks in each hotel that this is Oscar Wilde, the man charged with “gross indecency.” Repeatedly turned away, as he wanders helplessly, the image of Bosie appears to him. Bosie is portrayed by the remarkable dancer Reed Lupau. He is graceful and slight as was the real Bosie. He has no spoken or sung lines and appears frequently throughout the opera, sometimes as himself, sometimes masked as other characters. At Oscar’s insistence Bosie has already fled to France. Bosie never appears in the opera except as a wraith in Oscar’s imagination, a kind of obsession, morphing into a variety of forms, some comforting, some demonic. Though the use of a dancing mute is borrowed from Britten’s “Death in Venice,” I still found it very effective. Wilde maintained that Bosie was “the love of his life” - a love that was tender, obsessive and very dangerous.

 

Wilde at last finds refuge in the home of his old friend Ada Leverson, a writer and mother. The only room she has for him is the nursery, overflowing with toys, rocking horses, stuffed animals, and children’s books. Soprano Heidi Stober was new to me.  Her voice took flight with genuine compassion for Oscar. Their conversation is punctuated by wit and sharp observations, but we instantly know that Wilde is beset by dread and weariness. To calm him, she asks Oscar to read aloud from one of his children’s books.

 

Theodore Morrison’s score is tonal and romantic, avoiding harsh dissonance, but is still replete with surprising turns. For me, the music worked well. This is not a score that is ground-breaking, but it serves the drama very effectively, as words and music nicely embrace. Lois said it felt in places like a “sung play.” The only two arias in the opera belong to Daniels, and the first is in this scene. Oscar sings a brief song in praise of absinthe. Wilde downs several glasses of it (at least the substance looked green to me).  Ada leaves briefly, and Bosie re-appears to Oscar. They join in a gentle dance and embrace. This leads to the beautiful aria “My sweet rose,” overflowing with yearning. The tri-tonal nature of the refrain (using the so-called “devil’s interval”) is uncanny, yet genuinely moving. Daniels sings with a legato of sheer beauty with none of the vibrato-less “eeriness” that was once so widely expected of countertenors. No recorded music from “Oscar” is readily available. Here, however, is Daniels singing with similar feeling, but in a very different style. This is ”Ch’io parta?” (“Must I leave?”) from Partenope by Handel.  It captures heart break not unlike what Oscar feels. This aria is a personal favorite from the first opera I saw Daniels in.

 


 


 

Into the scene then enters another of Oscar’s friends, the writer Frank Harris. Tenor William Burden, another rising star with Santa Fe experience, sings beautifully and dramatically.  Unlike Ada, he is a friend whose dominant personality has often clashed th Wilde’s ego. Word of Harris’ arrival sends Wilde into retreat from the nursery to gather himself for the encounter, with some very funny lines about what it is like to be around Frank. But when he
 returns Frank and Ada try desperately to convince Oscar to flee England at once. Harris says he has readied a yacht to take him away. They argue that he owes it to himself and to his wife and children to find safety. Their soaring duet expresses the special love they share for Oscar and the ardent desire to protect him from the cruelty that is bound to engulf him. When he seems at first to agree, Ada and Frank depart and we witness Oscar’s genuine struggle to decide. I have seen David Daniels on stage many times over the
 years, but this is his finest acting. Bosie returns and we begin to see the depth of Oscar’s anguish. Now he makes the “moral” decision to be true to who he really is. He will stay and defend himself, and he will accept the consequences. Gone now are his off-hand dismissals of what prison might be like. He has begun to realize the truth of what is happening to him.

 

 

 

The next selection is “Welcome Wanderer” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Benjamin Britten. Britten is said to be a big musical influence on Theodore Morrison. Here Daniels plays Oberon. Puck is silent, though he speaks elsewhere in the opera. This music is much closer in style to “Oscar” than my other selections. And though Oberon and Puck are not Oscar and Bosie, this shows an interaction between a singer and a mute actor suggestive of the one in “Oscar.”

 


 Act I ends with a wild and bizarre depiction of the trial itself. Instead of the familiar tense “courtroom drama,” the nursery is transformed into a crazed menagerie of prancing hobby horses, dancing Raggedy Ann dolls, stuffed animals, and wooden soldiers - all toys gone bad - evoking a travesty, presided over by a judge who is a bouncing jack-in-the box. (played by the remarkable young bass Kevin Burdette). This scene has been criticized as over the top. And it is, but I found it amazing theatre. The phrase “mockery of justice” rolls off the tongue today so easily that it has lost the sense of outrage it actually implies. But here it is recovered. As the guilty verdict is rendered, the music swells, and Oscar Wilde, the accused in the dock (which has been a baby’s crib) finds himself condemned as the slats of the crib are transformed into slowly rising bars. And the music swells to the strains of “Hail Britannia!”

 

 

 

Act II takes place in Reading Gaol. For many today, Wilde’s two-year imprisonment is a footnote to his life. But the opera reminds us that Victorian prisons were no minimum security spas for the rich and famous. They were brutal, degrading, and fully dedicated to the destruction of body and spirit. This mission is proudly announced by Colonel Isaacson, the governor (warden), upon Wilde’s arrival. Kevin Burdette returns to play him as malevolence incarnate. Wilde appears shackled and still attired in his red velvet smoking jacket. Gone now is any trace of wit or irony. He stands in dazed silence as what awaits him is read aloud:  No speaking to another prisoner at any time, hard labor, no pen and paper of any kind, no reading material. With piteous humility, Oscar asks “May I not have some book to bring solace to my soul?” This is briskly denied by Governor Isaacson, who informs Oscar that he has no soul, and reminds him that the purpose of his stay in Reading Gaol is to be reduced to nothing. Then, piece by piece, his clothing is discarded and he dons his gray prison suit. Escorted to his cell, a cage, he is introduced to the machine upon which his hard labor is to be performed. It is a fiendish metal device with a crank attached. Each time the prisoner turns this crank, one revolution is registered and retained for an endless record.

 

Wilde is required to attend a church service. Standing in line with the other prisoners, he collapses, is made to stand again, and again falls to the ground. His head now injured, the governor finally orders him to the infirmary. There takes place what, for me, is the most moving scene of the opera. He shares this brief respite from the horrors of the prison with two other inmates, all three barely able to move from their beds. One of them has heard of Oscar. Respectfully he asks Wilde what he thinks of Dickens. Oscar is tempted to summon his mocking wit, but at once realizes how humble the man is. Though all have been living in hell, Oscar is now able to newly connect with another broken human being. He is learning from their suffering and from his own. A moment that still brings tears to my eyes is when Wilde has difficulty getting comfortable enough to sleep and his new friend leaves his own bunk, goes to Wilde’s bedside, unfolds his blanket, and gently tucks him in. Oscar would later write, “There is no prison in any world into which love cannot force an entrance.”

 

Before leaving the infirmary, Oscar learns that a prisoner is to be hanged, a man who murdered his wife by cutting her throat. As the time approaches, tension among the inmates rises to a frenzy. Bosie, masked as Death itself, swirls through the prison like a whirlwind, his dancing spectacular in its choreography. The prisoners sing a poignant and haunting chorus, with lyrics taken directly from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.” Here Morrison’s mastery of choral composition is truly impressive. The hanging is enacted in a brutally explicit and ghastly way. It is riveting. The masked executioner is revealed to be Bosie.

 

 

 

Eventually the sadistic Isaacson is replaced. Wilde, now nearing the end of his two-years, is allowed pen and paper and books. His last visit is from Ada. In a letter to her, he had expressed his desire, on release, to be received into a Christian monastery. She sadly informs him that the request has been denied. Wilde is resigned and she is sorrowful as they part. (For three years after his release, Wilde wandered in exile in France seeking spiritual redemption; broken in health, penniless, never to see his wife and children again. Oscar Wilde died in a shabby Paris hotel room. His oft quoted famous last words are likely apocryphal, a variation on an earlier observation to friends: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go.”)

 

The opera, itself, ends in a startling way. Walt Whitman, long dead, appears again. From his vantage point in heaven, he welcomes Oscar Wilde into a firmament that is home to the souls of the great, good and wise ones of human history. The music soars and is wonderfully triumphant. It is, well, quite operatic! And the opera’s final words belong to Oscar. Amazed and surrounded by those who have just welcomed him into glory, he turns to face us and sings: “For myself the only immortality I desire is to invent a new sauce.” This, it seems to me, is a perfect ending. It is as if to say, “La tragedia รจ finita.”

 

This final selection is “Barbaro Traidor” from a recording session for the opera Bajazet, by Antonio Vivaldi. Here is Daniels with Fabio Biondi conducting Europa Galante. Imagine it as Oscar Wilde having fun in heaven with some wonderful friends. Please skip the ad, since no such thing can exist in heaven.