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Salzburg Souvenirs, Part III

Okay, Salzburgers, welcome to the third installment: this third installment of these scribbles about Mozart's hometown, and its assorted doings. For Parts I and II, go here and here. Where were we? Doesn't matter -- I'll just type.

One of the guests in our interview series is Christiane Karg, a young soprano -- German. Specifically, she is from Bavaria, and I say, 'Oh, you're from ‘Grüss Gott' country.' In southern Germany and Austria -- in South Austro-Germany (though some will kill you if you say that) -- they say 'Grüss Gott.' In greeting, I mean. Elsewhere, they say 'Guten Tag,' etc.

#ad#Anyway, Karg is a light, high lyric soprano -- Amore (the character) in this year's Orfeo ed Euridice (the opera by Gluck). And she makes a fascinating comment -- fascinating to me, at least: Her favorite voice of all time is Pavarotti. Not a lyric soprano or other soprano, but Pavarotti. A lot of singers feel that way: I have ascertained that from many of them.

And Karg gives me an occasion to tell one of my favorite stories: Matthew Polenzani, the American tenor, was in our interview series. (Swell guy, very good golfer.) We were saying how the Pav Man was 1) lyrical and 2) loud -- really, really loud. Huge sound. He focused it so it drilled right through your forehead: yet his voice always retained its lyricism and freshness. 'How did he do that?' I asked. Polenzani said, 'I have no idea -- otherwise, I'd do it myself.'

I've always loved that answer.

Another singer, Stephen Costello, is with Karg and me in this same session. Like Polenzani, he is an American tenor. And he makes a point about the Pav Man: His voice never failed; it held true (or true enough) till the end. It's the rest of his body that went to pot.

#*#Sometimes, when I tell my Polenzani-Pavarotti story, I tell this story, too -- which I adore. These stories go together like peaches and cream. (Although, come to think of it, I've never had cream with peaches -- or peaches with cream.) Tom Weiskopf had finished his round at the Masters, and was in the television booth, providing color commentary. Nicklaus was on the 16th tee, I believe. And the announcer said to Weiskopf, 'Tom, what's going through Jack's mind right now?' Weiskopf answered, 'I have no idea. If I did, I might have won this tournament a time or two.'

#*#Feel like a quick picture? According to my e-mail, readers are kind of digging them. Although one said, 'What's with the cellphone jobs? How about investing in a digital camera?' Well, gotta crawl before you can walk. Or something. Anyway, here is just a country snap -- a snap from a walk out in the country. I consider this a friendly view, a friendly scene -- very Salzburg. Very Salzburg environs. See what you think.

#*#On the Mönchsberg, overlooking Salzburg, there is a very glamorous party -- a 60th-birthday party for Stephan Braunfels. He is the famous German architect, the maker of the Modern Museum in Munich, plus a slew of other buildings. I remember going to the Modern with the Pryce-Joneses, very shortly after it opened. Braunfels is a highly, highly cultivated man: a pianist, a music-lover, other things. He has a pedigree too.

One grandfather was Walter Braunfels, the composer. Another grandfather, I believe -- or was it great-grandfather? -- was Adolf von Hildebrand, the sculptor. His father was Wolfgang Braunfels, the art historian, and urban-design authority. A highly, highly cultivated family.

Braunfels tells a story about his grandfather, the composer -- who was half Jewish, and whose music would be in disfavor, come the Nazis. In 1923, Hitler came to him and asked whether he would compose a party hymn: a hymn for the Nazis. He must not have had the goods on Braunfels. The composer said, 'Um, no thanks.'

Stephan Braunfels's birthday party is a marathon affair, beginning at 6 in the evening, I believe, and going till about 3 in the morning. I attend from about 10 to 1. I know the party started with a performance of The Eight Seasons -- which combines Vivaldi's Four Seasons and Piazzolla's Four Seasons of Buenos Aires. After midnight, a jazz ensemble comes on, complete with singer: for songs by Gershwin and Porter. And the food, let me tell you -- a seated, late meal for a well-attired multitude -- is unbelievable.

Braunfels presents a slide show -- kind of a 'This Is Your Life.' He talks about milestones for him, important figures and events. He went to Florence, and fell in love with everything Florentine: especially the buildings. It decided him on being an architect, I believe. At seven, he discovered Elvis -- loved him. He loved Callas too. And Beethoven's Symphony No. 7, conducted by Furtwängler. He was thirteen when Kennedy was assassinated -- affected him greatly.

At 14, he discovered the Beatles -- loved them. He grew his hair to be like theirs. His teachers in Germany, not very understanding, said, 'Are you a girl?' He went to Greece, saw the Parthenon -- was held in its spell. Wanted more than ever to be an architect (as I remember).

#page#Speed ahead a few decades: Braunfels is touching when he says that 9/11 had a big impact on him. I haven't heard that in a while, from anybody. One of his dreams is to build a skyscraper in New York. I hope he gets to do so. Like many foreigners, he has a greater appreciation of America than most of us -- most of us natives.

As I mentioned, this is a very, very glamorous party, in a dreamy, swank setting, with swells and stars all about. The glamour is enhanced by a touch of scandal: the presence of Marc Rich, Clinton's most notorious pardonee. Very pleasant fellow to meet.

#ad##*#So, I'm walking through the Mirabell Gardens, and there's a little choir -- not a professional choir, but a group of tourists, of travelers: probably American. They're sort of ramshackle, and they appear to be pilgrims of a sort. They are singing 'Amazing Grace' -- and I find this wonderful, even moving. But then I see a hat out in front of them -- which bothers me. Not exactly sure why. Maybe I'm wrong, to be bothered . . .

#*#Want to see a snap of the Mirabell Gardens -- just a portion? (Of the gardens, I mean, not the snap.) I took this early on a bright Sunday morning -- here.

#*#I don't think I've ever been in a city where I didn't see Che Guevara's face, a lot. I imagine if I were in the Kalahari Desert I'd see it -- he is like a stain throughout the earth. Worse, his ideology is, too. I see Guevara's face just down the hall from me, in the establishment in which I am staying. He is on the wall. And I see him on the T-shirt of a little kid in the Linzergasse. He is with his parents, this boy. And his Che shirt says, 'Hasta la victoria siempre.' Yeah, yeah -- 'victory' will come when apparel lauding this totalitarian killer disappears, or is at least less popular.

I can't blame the boy, of course. Blame the parents? And what about their parents? Blame the media, the schools -- the 'culture'? I have written pretty steadily about Guevara for about ten years. I think I deserve a break. I won't write about him until, say, Tuesday . . .

#*#I've mentioned Stephen Costello, just in passing, twice now -- he is a tenor from Philadelphia. Played the trumpet for many years. But, with a voice like his, you can't help singing. He is married to a singer, Ailyn Perez, a soprano. They have done Romeo and Juliet together, and La bohème -- perhaps other operas, too, not sure. 'What's it like working with your wife?' I ask. Well, for one thing, you can do love scenes with ease. 'You don't have to worry about where you can touch, about what you can do, about crossing a line.' You live across the line.

Great stuff.

#*#I meet an Italian couple who live in Bologna. One of them gives me her card, which indicates that they live on, or that she works on -- I can't remember -- Via Ragazzi del '99. In other words, Boys of '99 Street. What does that mean? Those were the last conscripts of World War I -- 18-year-olds, born in 1899. A great many of them were slaughtered on the battlefield, in the last year or so. The very name sort of makes me shudder.

#*#I'm not going to put this in my music criticism, so I thought I'd tell you here, in this journal -- or whatever these scribbles are. In the program for Romeo and Juliet is a nudie: a nude photo of a young girl, seemingly about Juliet's age -- 15? Just in case you were worried that the Salzburg Festival had gone square or something. For a while, the opera productions were going through a kiddie-porn phase. A famous singer teased me about a certain production -- not of this type -- assuming I didn't like it because it was 'progressive' and 'imaginative.' I said, wearily, 'Look, I'm grateful for any production where the kids get to keep their clothes on.' That shut him up.

Hard to shut me up though, right? I could go on, but I'm going to save the remaining items for a final installment, on Monday (I think) (hairy weekend ahead). See you then? Thanks for Salzburg-ing with me.


#JAYBOOK#

Full post as published by Bench Memos - National Review Online on August 27, 2010 (boomark / email).