On the night I attended (Dec. 11), several friends were there, and of course we exchanged impressions at intermission time. “Some Munchkins and a soprano,” was the verdict of one; of another, “Like listening to an old 78 or LP and the needle keeps skipping”; and of a third, “Well, I hear notes here and there.” My own contribution (while in agreement with these) was to the effect that it sounded as if all the (many) male singers had studied so assiduously with the same teacher that, irrespective of their vocal categories, they sounded uncannily alike—mouthily in search of a bright, shallow sound that yet carried poorly. Indeed, though only one of the participants was the same (the Walther, Klaus Florian Vogt), I could file a report on the opera’s opening scenes identical (as to the soloists) with the one I wrote regarding that Salzburg recording, with the added note that these conversations were now being conducted unmiked, in the lofty spaces of our opera house.^(I) Thus, here was Vogt, with his odd puffs of heady tone, audible but bearing no trace of virility; Davidsen, of whom more in a moment, but in this scene granting us some notes of longer value near the top of the stave, and nothing save little snips on the plethora that are shorter or farther down the scale; Claudia Mahnke (Magdalene), clearly a light soprano cast in a part that requires a solid mezzo or contralto simply to sustain the chat and establish a mature vocal identity; and finally Paul Appleby, well routined in the relentless Mickey Mouse shtick imposed on his part, but with a voice noticeably receded from its grainy welterweight format of a few seasons back. Cumulatively, the scene had a search-and-peck effect, like the sound of learning to type with two fingers. Or of that old record, with anything below the upper regions of the voices’ compasses buried in the grooves that were skipped.

There are two aspects to vocal presence. One is sheer tonal volume, created by the combination of the energy directed to the laryngeal vibrator and the amplification provided by the acoustical complex that lies above it. The other is continuity, the sustainment of this amplified vibration to form musical shapes the ear can track. Volume, of itself, stirs up the air and creates excitation, but continuity is required to tell a story. The presence created by volume and continuity may still not hold our attention for long—that depends on the artistry of the performer—but it is a basic condition for operatic narrative to move forward. The narrative also relies on the physical, actorly presence of the performers that enables the eye to receive it, and on the sonic presence of the orchestra. This last is of special value in Wagner, in whose orchestral writing there is such an aesthetic richness and power, such elaboration of the storytelling, that the listener can ride through longish stretches of mediocre singing and foolish acting without losing engagement with the work. Even at best, though, these last two presences cannot more than partially compensate for the concealment of the first. Opera is about the fates of characters who sing.