Odd bods
MUSIC CHARLES REID
For the opening nights (Das Rheingold and Die Walkiire) of Covent Garden's first Ring cycle this year, hopefuls were showing their money (five-pound notes were being proffered by some) along .kerbs as far off as Long Acre and Henrietta Street. Looking back I feel un- affectedly sorry for those who wanted to get in and couldn't. They missed performances that were passionately conducted by Georg Solti, splendidly played in the pit and, on the whole, satisfyingly sung.
By 'satisfyingly' I mean that the voices in general had character or beauty or both; that their owners made musicianly use of them; and that, again solely in a musical sense, the pro- ceedings hung together. With only a slender lacing of outside talent, the resident company at the Royal Opera House, homebred or home- trained, is within sight of true Ring ensemble, practically there, in fact. I rejoice with un- ashamed chauvinism.
But let it be clear what I am rejoicing about. I am rejoicing about a relatively limited thing : good voices well used. Wagner's immense Ring concept—which many of us start by scoffing at and find that it lasts us a lifetime —demands a good deal more. The need is for actor-singers of penetrating imagination and resonant personality. No need to say which comes first, the singing or the acting. Ideally considered, the two functions, although notion- ally distinct, are undivided. This may at first sight look like theoretical hooey. But every gifted opera-goer (listening to opera, remem- ber, presumes gifts, just as producing it does) knows that in practice this metaphysical fusion happens and that if it didn't there would be little point in going to opera at all. Given a preordained operatic artist, vocal phrase and concomitant actions of limb and lineament are mysteriously and hauntingly one.
So far there hasn't been much of this 'one- ness' in sight and hearing during the Covent Garden Ring. Certainly John Lanigan's Mime (Rheingold) had it. Despite an exasperatingly underlit Nibelheim, his every inflection and tic, his snarls and his panics were obviously attuned and telling. If his Siegfried Mime is as focused as this he will become a Mime in his own right, surviving the memory of two post- war Mimes of genius, Germans both. The Loge of John Dobson, although not offering much to the ear, has gained greatly in sardonic finesse: his acting may fairly be called dis- tinguished. In the case of Alberich (Gwyn Griffiths) and, less pointedly, of Wotan (Theo
Adam), something like the reverse applied. tr, These are true voices, of good, even beauti-
ful, grain, powerful and, on occasion, ringing. But the personality of the first suggests rather a benevolent country solicitor than the frus- trated enslaver of the world, while Mr Adam's mien is often that of a testy businessman.
On the whole the girls did rather better in aligning voice and action, though sometimes I wished the aural splendours and exactitudes of Josephine Veasey (Fricka) were matched by a more varied line in frowns and tantrums. Never in the history of human endeavour (or shall we call it luck?) was there a Sieglinde more pleasing to look upon than Gwyneth Jones. As Sieglindes go she is, indeed, the un- disputed dish. About her opulent voice one can never be quite sure. One or two blurted high notes early on having made me doubt her ability to pull off anything of the kind, I was bewitched by the glory (nothing less) which she made of her last-act exit number, '0 hehrstes Wunder!' She sailed up to top register under full steam, shiningly and without quiver. But could she, I wonder, do something about her narration in Act 1, Der Manner Sippe sass bier im Saal'? The tale she tells of the god-guest at the, wedding and of the sword thrust into the pillar-tree calls at the outset, anyway, for a changed tone colour— and for a new colour, as it were, in the singer's mind--to mark recession in time and the revealing of a marvel. By making present and past all of a piece, Miss Jones took away some of the narration's wonder and remote- ness.
In this performance she was wooed by a new Siegmund, James King, who, after a touch or two of uncertain intonation, proved himself a tenor of moment. In his scene with Briinnhilde (Amy Shuard : more earnest and downright than ever, though a bit blanched in voice) his `So grlisse mir' lines were as straight and gleam- ing as sword blades. From Elizabeth Vaughan (Freia), Helen Watts (Erda) and Michael Lang- don (Hunding) we had pretty, superbly grave and craggy performances respectively, all very much in the Wagnerian picture. The ensemble singing (Rhinemaidens' trio and the Valkyrie octet) was again one of the great things of the night—the trio singing especially; was any- thing more pellucid, lovely and precise of its kind ever heard from this stage?
About the vagaries of the evolving produc- tion (originally Hans Hotter's, now rehearsed by Peter Potter) there is much to exclaim about. Again we have an insipid fifty-watt bulb, or something of the sort, coming up as substitute for the gleam of hearth-fire on Nothung's hilt. When dismissing Sieglinde from Siegmund's in- fatuating presence, Hunding makes none of the threatening gestures which traditionally accom- pany the quasi-sforzandos and brassy barks of the orchestra. Troubles of stage-pit syn- chronisation are thus sidestepped. The cost is a blunting of Hunding's brutality. Reverting to the sword hilt, Siegmund walks over and grasps it from carpet level. He doesn't leap on to the table (for a brandish or two) until his sword- trick is over. Wagner's direction of `springt auf' is, I suppose, debatable. But, again in con- formity with the old way of doing things, I con- sider he should be up there from the start, dominating Sieglinde and the entire stage (not to mention the orchestra pit) for his electrify ing 'Siegmund heiss' ich.'
A lot remains to be said about Mr Solti's interesting new dynamic trends. It will have to wait until after GOtterdiiminerung.
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