Main Events
A Tristan und Isolde, a War and Peace.

By Jay Nordlinger, NR managing editor & music critic
February 23-24, 2002

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The Philharmonic's Tristan was important for at least two reasons: It marked the return of Kurt Masur to his podium, after a long absence for surgery. And it marked the beginning — or near beginning — of Deborah Voigt's career as an Isolde. She has recorded the Love Duet with Plácido Domingo, but she has not yet sung the role in full — that will happen soon. Voigt's is not so much Wagner singing as it is beautiful, smooth, lyrical singing applied to Wagner — miraculously. It's as though Mimì (from Bohème) suddenly expanded to Isolde size, without any sacrifice of line, loveliness, taste.

But we will marvel (more) at Voigt in a moment.

Masur seemed glad to be back before the orchestra, and the orchestra seemed glad to have him back. He spent much of his early career in the opera pit, as used to be routinely true for European conductors, but he has not been in one for many years. It could have been a critic's imagination, but he seemed pleased and stimulated to have a chance to conduct in opera again. For this concert series, Masur stitched together Tristan's Prelude, Act II, and the Liebestod (the Love-Death that Isolde sings, ending the opera). This was a very fine digest of Tristan — not a bad way to go.

In Masur's hands, the Prelude was rather slow, and also suspenseful. It gave the evening an added sense of occasion: This was, indeed, an Event. The Philharmonic's sound was what might be described as the Masur sound, which is to say, it was by no means lush — not Philadelphian — but it combined a certain warmth with strength. Masur gave a reading of beauty and sensuousness, and also of some eroticism, which is the last thing many would expect from this conductor. He appeared a man applying everything he knew from a lifetime of study, reflection, and practice. The Prelude set the trance — the spell that this opera must cast — perfectly.

About Deborah Voigt's voice, and singing, there is little left to say. One runs out of words. But I will continue to talk: She sends glorious, unblemished walls of sound at you, overwhelming you. She feels the music superbly, being a musician as well as a singer, a throat freak. She can give you astounding volume (at no sacrifice of beauty), but only when appropriate, not just to show off or subdue. All of her notes are resplendent, from the lowest — which are not just audible (not always the case with sopranos) but big! — to the highest. I have caviled before that she can be too sturdy a singer, but her "Lausch, Geliebter!" — to take one example — was unbelievably tender.

One of my usual complaints — regular readers know this — is that we're loath to accord enough respect to the living and practicing. Retired or dead singers? They were real treasures! But the ones here before us? We have more than a proper, sober skepticism.

So, here is an appeal, especially to the young: Know, right now, that Voigt is a very great singer — a historic singer, actually. Don't wait until she is faltering or buried. Don't be like those who dumped all over Callas and then, when she was gone, wailed, "Oh, Maria, Maria, our beautiful, perfect, brainy, consummate, never-to-be-equaled Maria!" That is simply lazy and dim.

We have no need to whimper over Flagstad or Nilsson: Voigt will make — is making — an Isolde that would have brought Wagner to his knees. Seldom has the lil' princess been treated to such beauty, power, and understanding, all together.

The Philharmonic's Brangäne (what a strange phrase to write, by the way) was Violeta Urmana, the Lithuanian wonder who slew New York as Kundry in a James Levine-led Parsifal at the Met last season. She was later heard — again with Levine — in Schoenberg's Gurrelieder at Carnegie Hall. Her voice is alive with character and color, and she is a consistently intelligent singer. The world's opera houses will work her to death, if they can.

And the Tristan? That was Stig Andersen, a Danish tenor, poor fellow. On the night I heard him, he may well have been ill. From his first notes — "Isolde! Geliebte!" — he was mismatched (though, against Voigt, who wouldn't be?). At times, he was actually inaudible, incapable of being heard amidst the soprano and the orchestra. He simply didn't have the juice. When he could be heard, his singing was ragged, often to the point of collapse (and sometimes beyond). One had to feel sorry for him. He was sort of a sacrificial lamb, against this Isolde, for whom the Event was made.

Appearing as King Mark was the veteran German bass-baritone Theo Adam. It is good to report that the old pro's still got it. He may have more experience and canniness than voice, but that experience and canniness count for a lot. He delivered his monologue with correctness and vigor.

Masur was never less than thoughtful — parts of the orchestral score were exquisitely sensitive, almost Impressionistic. The last portion of the Love Duet dragged somewhat: Voigt could handle such expansiveness; Andersen could not. And the Duet's climax was a bit of a letdown, lacking the ecstasy, the fire, that it has at its best.

And the Liebestod? That was controlled, confident, determined, what else? Masur — or perhaps he and Voigt together — chose a slow tempo, but not an unsustainable one. If there was a problem, it's that Voigt could use a little more fragility, a little more bend, a bit more smallness in this music. She gives you those walls of sound: but there might be a few chinks, a few nicks, in those walls, for the Liebestod. It seemed too solid, too regal — too sturdy a house. It reminded me that Voigt's collaboration with Masur on Strauss's Four Last Songs — recorded a few years ago — is less than satisfying, less than properly autumnal, farewell-bidding, otherworldly. This was not a Liebestod that truly transported. And — very weirdly — Voigt's final note, that hallowed F sharp, was flat. Badly so. After an hour and a half of essentially flawless singing, that!

But she is only human.

And now for our second Event, Prokofiev's War and Peace: It had never been produced at the Met, and it came under the auspices of Valery Gergiev, director of the Kirov Opera in St. Petersburg and principal guest conductor of the Met. That is to say, it was a Kirov production, and Gergiev presided over it all, and ably, too.

Prokofiev completed this opera in the teeth of World War II, after Nazi Germany had turned on its ally, the Soviet Union. War and Peace — like the book from which it is taken — is a massive endeavor, involving umpteen scene changes and a cast of thousands (or of scores and hundreds). Gergiev — of whom I have been sharply critical recently — performed heroically, and he did so in part by not performing heroically. What I mean is that he calmly, intelligently let the music come out, keeping a steady hand on the wheel, without unwanted intrusions. Then too, this opera is so complicated, so hugely collaborative, that the conductor scarcely has the luxury of distorting.

War and Peace comes in two, very distinct halves: Peace and War. It could almost be two operas, although Prokofiev, no chump, relates the two halves neatly. Certainly in the Peace half, this is no gaudy, elephantine affair. In fact, it has many chamber qualities, being light, spare, and transparent. At the beginning of the opera, there is a soprano/mezzo-soprano duet that is delicate and dear, almost in Delibes territory. Later, Prokofiev — who was a master at this — gives us a lilting B-minor waltz, which has a touch of foreboding: We know this won't end perfectly well (being War and Peace, after all). The waltz returns in a flashback or hallucination after the war subsides.

Outstanding in an excellent cast was Anna Netrebko, the Russian soprano singing Natasha. She is an experienced singer, yet you could say that, as far as New York was concerned, a star was born. Hers is a light, high voice, though with a hint of darkness, which is unusual, and effective. That voice is clean and clear, with rock-solid intonation, no matter what the singer is doing onstage: reclining, lying on her stomach, dancing about. Her singing is unforced, natural, with a beautiful, smooth line. She was a young beauty playing a young beauty, which is nice, if you can get it, in opera (though the aural aspect comes before all, of course). Anna Netrebko is the Met's first Natasha, and I doubt that if the company went on to stage this opera for several generations it would get a better one.

In the part of Prince Andrei was Dmitri Hvorostovsky, about whom I have written amply (including in the February 11 National Review). Quite simply, he was born to sing Russian baritone roles, and much else. He was gleaming and assured throughout (a phrase you could use about him after virtually every one of his performances).

The main tenor of the evening was Gegam Grigorian, as the good-hearted but somewhat hapless Count Pierre. Grigorian does not specialize in beauty of sound, but he has many virtues, including stamina and intensity. He is a workhouse of a tenor, rugged, sturdy, built to last (like those trucks).

Among all these Russians (or, in the case of the Armenian Grigorian, near Russians) was an American, the ever versatile Samuel Ramey. He was commanding as always: in this case, literally commanding, as the Russian field marshal Kutuzov. Ramey gives a singing lesson with practically every phrase he produces. As he ages, he seems only to grow in dignity, as he proved the other month as King Philip in Don Carlo. But then, he always had dignity, even, presumably, when he was a youth in Kansas.

This production was unfailingly interesting to look at, with the Met sparing no expense: There was no end of eye-popping sights, including Moscow burning and Napoleon on a white steed (though he was too far back to be heard effectively — the baritone singing Napoleon, not the steed).

War and Peace serves to remind one, if one needs reminding, of the extraordinary skills of Serge Prokofiev. He composed this opera under no little pressure, as the State demanded change after change, pushing him toward bombast and propaganda. In the War half, Prokofiev does indeed flirt with bombast and propaganda, with his patriotic hymns and so on, but he is too true and noble a composer to go all the way.

I will tell you one thing that annoyed me, personally, about myself: After listening intently to War and Peace over several hours, I could not get (Prokofiev's) Romeo and Juliet out of my head. I wanted to listen, mentally, to the opera, but all that came was that ballet. Such, though, was the musical world that this amazing and ingenious composer occupied.

— Mr. Nordlinger also contributes a monthly music column to The New Criterion.

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