It’s with much sadness that I note the death of Patrick J. Smith. I first met Patrick when he came aboard High Fidelity‘s reviewing staff in 1964, and saw him often professionally and socially over the next fifteen years, especially at warm and entertaining gatherings hosted by Patrick and his wife Elisabeth, a gifted illustrator, at their elegant Park Avenue apartment. In 1970, Patrick published The Tenth Muse, a historical study of the libretto, which despite more recent scholarship remains a basic reference in that field of inquiry. In that same year, he founded a quarterly, The Musical Newsletter, for which I became a contributing editor, along with David Hamilton and Robert Morgan. Our quarterly editorial meetings at the magazine’s cozy headquarters, always over a lunch of roast beef sandwiches and Ballantine IPA, were stimulating and convivial. MN lasted for seven years, and to the best of my knowledge its circulation peaked at just short of four figures. But it contained a wealth of  fine writing by some distinguished writers, who, by the way, were paid competitive rates for their work. Later, Patrick became the Editor of Opera News for a ten-year run, wrote for a number of other publications, and served in other critical and administrative capacities. I last saw him at the launch party for my book, Opera as Opera, in the summer of 2018, when he was very much his customary witty, genial self. He leaves an importance legacy for our artform, and fond memories for me. 

Today’s post is unusual, in that it has something of a macro/micro aspect (and sometimes we do see developments more vividly at a localized level than from a more elevated p.o.v.) and has led me unexpectedly to thoughts on a 61-year-old essay by a writer whose influence on the arts flowed very much in the direction of our central topic, a”re-imagining” of an initially triumphant opera that has fallen into disuse, in the context of the latest of several efforts to revive a venerable theatre festival.       

Samuel Barber’s Vanessa, with a libretto by Gian-Carlo Menotti, was premiered at the Metropolitan Opera in the season of 1957-58, to a feverish audience response and a more reserved, but generally supportive, critical one. I well recall the atmosphere around its arrival. All of us who cared about the emergence of an American operatic repertoire had felt an optimism in the postwar years, based mostly on the successes of operas by Floyd, Ward, Moore, Weill, Blitzstein, Dello Joio, and Menotti himself, and by a general sense that with the war over, and very much on our terms, we could pick up on the efforts of the interwar years and move onward and upward. Yet these operas had emerged under the auspices of the New York City Opera, regional companies, university opera departments, the NBC-TV opera telecasts, or—inconceivable as it seems now—the Broadway theatre business. None had cracked the “world-class” ceiling at the Met, and only two or three seemed even borderline candidates for such elevation. No American opera had been mounted by the Met since Rudolf Bing’s arrival as General Manager in1950. Now, though, he had on offer an opera by a composer whose standing with the music-loving public, prominent conductors and performers and critics, was equalled or surpassed only by Aaron Copland’s, and whose libretto was by that same Menotti who had reached the public with The Medium, Amahl and the Night Visitors, and The Consul. Barber, with his comfortably in-between harmonic idiom, his easy command of the traditional orchestra, and the melodic gift shown in his songs, would surely write to Metropolitan size and artistic expectations. And so he did, at least sufficiently to stir the excitements of the premiere and ensure that RCA Victor would quickly record the work with all forces intact. I was among the excited, not because I supposed the opera would really hold in the Met’s repertoire of canonical masterworks, but because it had at least aspired to that level and at times approached it, and had been performed as if it had achieved it. As a young devotee, I was a part of the expectations, the aspirations of that time, which can be described, but not re-created, now.

It has been a scant three years since, in a season’s-end article devoted to a number of things, I reported the accession of Zachary Woolfe to the position of Chief Music Critic at the New York Times, succeeding Anthony Tommasini (see Where Are We?, 6/10/22). While noting that classical music criticism had long since been “stripped of rank” at the NYT, I expressed cautious optimism about an improvement over the then-recent standard, tempered by the news that, first, a new Culture Editor had also been appointed in the person of Gilbert Cruz, whose background had been entirely in pop entertainment genres with a strong promotional bias, and, second, that it seemed unlikely that any writer, however strong-minded, would be able to seriously address major artistic issues (thick on the ground) given the paper’s elevation of social justice initiatives of predictable sorts.

Now comes the revelation of an internal memo to staff from Culture Editor Sia Michel (Gilbert Cruz, we hardly knew ye) who after a turn as Editor of Spin, a rock magazine, started at the Times as Pop Music Editor, then rose to Editor of Arts and Leisure (that would be the Sunday section), to Deputy Culture Editor, and finally to her current position. ^(I)Here’s what Ms. Michel announced: a “reassignment” of Zachary Woolfe and of Chief Drama Critic Jesse Green, Pop Music Critic Jon Pareles, and TV critic Margaret Lyons to other positions. For Green, Pareles, and Lyons, these would be vaguely defined “culture section correspondent roles” and, for Woolfe, “an option to join the obituary desk.” I can’t play faux naïf by pretending to be shocked by this development, but I am shocked by the manner of it (though all these are demotions, the obit option for Woolfe is a pointed insult, not only to the individual writer, but to the arts of classical music and opera themselves), and by its lack of transparency. (Unless something has escaped my scrutiny, the Times has so far published nothing about these “big changes.”)

Michel offered the customary hypocritical  “thank you for your service” tributes we usually associate with the bum’s rush out of a political post, but only bits of camouflage for what she has in store, e. g., “different perspectives to core disciplines,” and a “search for critics on their [that is, the drummed-out incumbents’] beat in the weeks to come.” Which is to say that nobody’s lined up for these jobs, they’re just cleaning out the raccoons. The Times will be going beyond the traditional review format and, hand-in-hand with opera’s drift (well, no, shove—toward the visual and away from the aural), video will play a prominent role. We can only speculate as to how this will play out in terms of the coverage of opera and music, but I’m guessing that it will start to resemble the Times’ sports section. I like to keep up with doings in baseball and tennis,  but it can’t be done with the Times, which years ago stopped any day-to-day reporting (scores, box scores, standings, drawsheets and results, etc.) and instead furnishes “personal interest” stories, analysis of trends, and commentary on the politics of sports. These  articles are sometimes interesting, but are in the place of, rather than in addition to, hard news. The one live performing arts beat left standing for now is dance—Gia Kourlas, dance critic since 2019, remains, and writes frequently about dance’s closest equivalent to opera, classical ballet.

Nearing the end of its 2024-25 season, the Metropolitan Opera has presented a new production of Richard Strauss’s Salome, with its Music Director in the pit and a noted German director, Claus Guth, in charge of onstage happenings. Since its staging, mise en scene, and Personenregie are all elements of just another auteurial contemporization (though a theatrically savvy one), I’ll reserve comment on it, and on the performances, till we’ve taken a look at the work itself and the extreme demands and opportunities attendant on its interpretation.

Of the two principal legatees of the 19th Century’s operatic traditions, Strauss and Puccini, it was Strauss who made the more definitive break. And while that break is certainly evident in his music, it was fundamentally dramaturgical. In four of the five operas on which his reputation stands, he forsook the E-19 protagonist couple metanarrative for other plot-and-character formulations, and in the fifth (Der Rosenkavalier) he and Hofmannsthal made a deliberately inverted, wistful use of it by way of farewell.^(I) It was Salome that announced this break, and with a vengeance, though Strauss had run up warning flags in his earlier operatic attempts and above all in his tone poems, whose programmatic content had nothing to do with the metanarrative. The tone poems, though, did engage iconic cultural subjects with music that might be harmonically unsettling and orchestrally graphic, but could still be listened to on a more abstract level of contact with the subject, or even as “absolute” music, provided the listener can let go of symphonic structural expectations. Operas, even the few that are abstractly or symbolically conceived, cannot be received that way, and for Salome, Strauss took for his text an already notorious play by a once-acclaimed outcast playwright. He’d seen the play in Hedwig Lachmann’s German translation of Oscar Wilde’s original French at Max Reinhardt’s Deutsches Theater in Berlin, where the title role was played by Gertrud Eysoldt, a longtime leading actress of that famous ensemble, rivaled only by Konstantin Stanislavski’s Moscow Art Theatre for its influence on modern theatrical practice. That production had a long run for the time and place, and from all that we can learn it seems safe to attribute to it a revelatory artistic impact that translated directly into Strauss’ treatment of the subject.

An important part of that treatment was a re-purposing of late-E-19 voice types—specifically, Wagnerian ones. Strauss wrote for voices whose format (that is, their weights and resonance properties relative to their expected tessituras and range extensions) corresponded to Wagnerian models. But he demanded new behaviors of them. For instance, we recognize quickly what we think of as a Straussian soprano line, asking for the sustainment and shading of long, high phrases with an expert control of dynamics, and we can see this as an extension of Isolde’s Liebestod or the Siegfried Brünnhilde’s “Ewig war ich.” But Strauss also requires of his sopranos—especially in his two great tragedies, Salome and Elektra—an easy descent into the depths and a deftness and pointed strength of wordplay in the lower-middle range that Wagner would have reserved for his Beckmesser or, in a much gentler context, Eva in conversational mode. The part of Salome is full of this in her early scenes, often alternating with higher outbursts, and again in the final scene. In the former, for depth try “Wie schwarz es da drunten ist!” through to “Es ist wie eine Gruft,” (“How black it is down there! . . . It’s like a grave . . .”), down to the low G-flat, then sustaining low B-flat as she peers down into the cistern. For strong word-pointing, listen to the two pages beginning with “Warum sieht mich der Tetrach fortwährend so an?” through “brutale, ungeschlachter Römer mit ihrer plumpen Sprache” (“Why is the Tetrarch incessantly gazing at me? . . . [those] brutal, loutish Romans with their dull, clumsy speech.”) Note two things: first, how this tessitura hangs about just below and above the passaggio register transition, middle C to F, and second, how very like a jaded society woman Salome sounds upon her entrance, with her comment on the tiresome Jews, Egyptians, and Romans. It’s not only her creepy Stepdad Herod who’s chased her out for some fresh air, and she seems quite accustomed to dealing with it all. (Keep this observation in mind—I’ll be following up on it below.)

Dear readers:

Yesterday, as I approached the final section of what has become a rather long article, my computer went into meltdown mode. Function has now been restored, and all retrieved. Prior obligations will limit my work today, so my Salome thoughts will not appear until tomorrow, Monday, June 9th. In the afternoon.

Thanks,

CLO

My article on Richard Strauss’ Salome, scheduled for today, Friday, June 6, on Richard Strauss’s Salome, will be published tomorrow, Saturday, June 7. My apologies for the delay.

Best wishes to all,

CLO

Friday, June 6th, will be the date of my article on the Metropolitan Opera’s last new production of the 2024-25 season, Richard Strauss’s Salome. I’ll be discussing the work itself, as conceived by Strauss on the basis of Oscar Wilde’s play, in relation to its “re-imagining” by director Klaus Guth. And of course I will consider the opera’s unusual performance demands and how they’ve been met in the past as well as in the current offering.

I’ll also announce my future posting plans, which will (as of now) include a single summer operatic event. Since it occurs in early August, it will be the subject of a 2025-26 preseason piece, along with the little I have to say about the Met premiere of John Adams’ Antony and Cleopatra. 

CLO

Recently, I’ve been hearing and seeing a lot about a “flourishing American repertory,” or even an “American canon.” Some of it comes from sources dedicated to advocacy, and thus predisposed to an enthusiast leaning (notably, Opera America—see below), and some from reviewers influenced by local civic pride, a genuine wish to be supportive of an imperiled art, or a relationship to it that is essentially a fan’s. They are naturally reluctant to apply a meaningful critical standard, to whatever extent they are capable of doing so. But some of the clamor also comes from knowledgeable, engaged professionals and established critics. I tend to discount these claims, partly because they are to one side of my own preoccupation with the salvation of the operatic canon, but mostly because of a skepticism born of long, ever-hopeful experience with just this subject. (For a rundown of that experience, see “Florencia” and ‘The New Opera Problem’ Redux,” 12/15/23.)  Still, it’s true that there is a creative churning in the field, and my curiosity remains active. Might the churning be turning up something we could call a repertory?

A work doesn’t join “the repertory” just by virtue of having been done, or even of having made the rounds once. For it to attain that status, it must be repeatable and renewable. Both artists and their audiences must find it interesting enough to invest in on multiple occasions, over time. True, it’s not necessary to think of operas in repertory terms at all. We can simply take them as we do many other transitory events we enjoy to a greater or lesser degree and then release into our ever-receding rotation of momentarily relevant occurrences. That’s especially so—indeed, welcome—for all who believe we must live only in the present. But it is not so for anyone who looks forward to a future. That person is located on a timeline, and a timeline necessarily includes a past. The signal virtue of a repertory, especially when its repetitions and renewals bring forth a canon, is that it binds people together along the timeline, bringing the understandings and values of its origins with it. That enables us to separate what continues to nourish us from what doesn’t, and lends our own efforts a perspective that is not accessible to us in the present dimension, no matter how far we reach out into it. It also suggests that this process will continue into the future, taking our own understandings with it. So a repertory and the institutions that maintain it become forces for social continuity, identity, and stability, all of which I believe we sorely need. I decided to challenge my skepticism with a sampling of well-received 21st-Century American operas via recordings, asking myself as I went along: having heard the music, am I eager to hear it again? Do I want to see the opera? Can I imagine wanting to see or hear it repeatedly, in different productions with different casts? Is it, in other words, a serious candidate for a repertory, or better yet, a canon?

Ludwig van Beethoven’s Fidelio, with its unique amalgam of Singspieler-ish domesticity, last-minute rescue-opera melodrama, married love exaltation, just-deserts redemption, and spiritual uplift, returned to the Met’s repertory on March 4 for a brief run, in the production first directed in 2000 by Jürgen Flimm. It was conducted by Susanna Mälkki, and the revival stage director was Gina Lapinski.

Lise Davidsen is the raison d’être of this revival, so first attention to her. I have already written often about this soprano^(I), very much the Met’s leading lady of the decade. So the question here is how comfortably the artistic proclivities already characterized consort with the hyperextended vocal, musical, and dramatic requirements and opportunities (plenty of both) in the role of Leonore. Let me run a quick inventory, with the understanding that the three aspects can be teased apart only for discussion purposes. Vocal: on the positive side, there is the upper octave, and in particular, the upper fifth (E to B) of her instrument, whose amplitude, freedom, and clearwater timbre enable a satisfying, often exciting, fulfillment of the part’s crucial climactic phrases and proclamations—worth the price of admission in itself for all of us who look for these crowning moments. Also, clean intonation, by no means to be taken for granted. One reason, however, that those upper notes register their sometimes startling impact is that we are not prepared for them by the sound of her lower octave, which, though not jumbled and unpredictable like, for instance, Leonie Rysanek’s (another sensational-at-the-top Leonore), is a slender, modest presence; it can trace a line, but not fill it in. Her available span of color (the chiaroscuro) is controlled, but narrow. This means that not only does the great interplay of registers, resonances, and dynamics set up by Beethoven across wide stretches of compass in the “Abscheulicher!” become little games of now-she’s-here, now-she’s-gone, but that the many moments of lower-midrange settlement, some of extraordinary beauty, are not more than indicated. The overall vocal impression is of a “best highlights” Leonore, with much of the rest more or less in neutral.^(II)

As I announced at the end of my last post (The Met’s New “Aida,“ 1/18/25), my next report will be on the company’s revival of Fidelio, which will star Lise Davidsen and be conducted by Susanna Mälkki. That will appear on Friday, March 21. Meanwhile, I’ll be completing my selective investigation of a few of the works that are advanced as belonging to a new American repertory, or even a “canon.”  That will comprise evaluations of the works themselves as heard on recordings, and—by way of context—of two informative publications from our country’s trade and advocacy organization, Opera America: its annual Field Report and a new special report on newcomers to the operatic audience. That is scheduled for Friday, April 4. Till then,

CLO

I must open on a sad note by recording the death of a longtime colleague and friend, Richard Dyer, who for thirty years was the highly respected chief music critic for The Boston Globe. Though we wrote for several of the same magazines (notably High Fidelity) from the 1960s onward, and Richard even reviewed me twice (once as novelist, once as actor) we did not actually cross paths except in passing until the last decade or so, when we finally had a couple of luncheon meetings up in the Berkshires (Tanglewood having been on his beat for all those years) and began a regular correspondence. Richard’s letters were full of keen observations and reminiscences, both professional and personal, and of a love of music and an optimism he somehow maintained to the end despite full awareness of the worsening trends. He was as knowledgeable about theatre as about music, and eagerly shared obscure materials in both areas. I’ll miss Richard, as will all who knew him, and the world of classical music at large.

Giuseppe Verdi’s Aida, the most finished of all his works showing the tragic fates of lovers caught in deadly political and religious conflicts, and thereby the most powerful, concise statement of grand opera as a form, has returned to the Metropolitan Opera’s repertory in a new production. Directed by Michael Mayer and conducted by Yannick Nézet-Séguin, it had its premiere on New Year’s eve. I saw the performance of January 7th. I also have to hand two previously unheard recordings—not exactly hot off the presses, but new to me—to give us some triangulation on the production and performance.

The work’s demands are such that one seldom sees or hears anything approaching their complete fulfillment—that’s neither expected nor required for the work to convey a satisfying experience—but I can’t recall an Aida as flat and empty as this one, despite some willing performers. To sketch the framework first: it is Mayer’s conceit that we are seeing the opera’s action through the eyes of modern Egyptological explorers who first inspect, then plunder the artifacts of the Pharaonic civilization. They troupe in and out, most prominently in the Prelude and Triumphal Scene but elsewhere as well, and hover above the final entombment. Thus are the specters of Orientalism, Colonialist Exoticism, and Cultural Appropriation conjured; thus are we put at arm’s length from the story and its emotional impact, and invited to pass moral judgment—a loathsome tactic. With all exoticisms and ethnic distinctions either erased or turned upside down (Aida’s black, her Daddy’s white; Egyptians and Ethiopians are undifferentiated; Moorish slaves, Amneris’ attendants, Temple dancers, prisoners of war, et al., are all laundry-day white with the occasional black face and body spotted in), there are no identities, no positions or attitudes related to those distinctions left to play.^(I) The dances, so deliciously and precisely written to delineate those identities and positions, are especially penalized, and irrespective of the choreographic choices (by Oleg Glushov, who has my sympathies), they become little more than anonymous jigglings.