MARILYN HORNE
The art of opera and the art of the song recital are as different as the art of the muralist and of the miniaturist. The opera singer–well, the star anyway–has the entire evening to create a character, aided by costumes, makeup, wigs, sets, and props. She has the conductor and colleagues for support, and the size of the hall, the orchestra, and the demands of the role to cover or excuse any deficiencies of tone. She has one picture to paint, and the leisure to get it just right. The recitalist, in contrast, stands alone before the audience with only a piano to lean upon. Wearing her own personal hair and exposing her taste in evening gowns and accessories, she must create jewellike musical portraits, each in a matter of a minute or so–as many as two dozen in an hour of singing. Each must be different from the one before it and the one after it, yet each must fit into the whole. This is an art form in which the small but expressive voice can shine; mere Valkyrielike power, which can ease a singer past any number of objections in an opera, is just not very interesting in a recital. Good diction is imperative to get the brief messages across, and there’s nothing worse than a voice that wobbles and scoops in such an intimate setting.
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Naturally, the only people who can sell tickets to a song recital are opera stars. It is not a particularly popular form in today’s musical world, but patrons will come to hear a famous voice in a cozier venue than the typical opera house. This can be mutually beneficial: the star gets a chance to grow artistically and sing unfamiliar literature, and the audience gets its own musical horizons broadened while indulging in a bit of diva worship. Unfortunately, the artistic quality is not always as high as one might hope. Some singers do recitals strictly for the bucks: one world-renowned artist–who, in his defense, really had no interest in singing anything but opera–told me that he’d put together “the easiest possible recital” because there was a call for it and it made for a remunerative gig. And some fans would just as soon sit back and listen to their favorite arias with piano accompaniment.
Other evidence of Horne’s artistry came in her diction, which was superb in four languages: English, German, Italian, and French. She is living proof that one need not sacrifice tone quality in order to spit out the words. She also demonstrated that one can sell a song without a lot of extraneous movement; for most of the program her right hand was clamped firmly to the piano lid.
Though some people are still shocked that Stokowski took it upon himself to rewrite Bach organ pieces for orchestra, transcription has a long and honorable history: soloists have been quietly swapping scores for centuries. It’s not unusual for musicians in search of new challenges, not to mention nifty new tunes, to ransack the literature written for other instruments–trumpeters steal from the soprano repertory, flutists borrow from violinists, and artists of the synthesizer grab whatever appeals. But the guitar may well be the solo transcription champ. Andres Segovia was the king of the transcribers, borrowing freely from the works of Bach and others. Julian Bream and John Williams (the guitarist, not the movie-music composer) have also created arrangements for guitar, adapting works by Bach, Handel, Marcello, and the guitaristic piano music of Albeniz.
Ascension Church in Oak Park is an acoustically outstanding venue for this unobtrusive art: Henry could be heard clearly at the back of the crowded sanctuary without amplification.
