Content area
Full Text
My mother loved the opera and tried to instill a similar devotion in her sons. In my case, it must be admitted, she had small success. I remember being disappointed when Don Giovanni took his final leap into the pit of hell and - leaning out over the balcony rail - I could see the stagehands catch him where he fell. An overweight Salomé failed to entice once she removed her seven veils; she remained a thick aging lady in a body stocking and not the seductress Fd hoped to see dance. But Aida was a winner; we went on my twelfth birthday to Rome's Baths of Caracalla. There were elephants in the triumphal parade, and neither a summer rain squall nor the great steaming gouts of elephant dung could dampen my enthusiasm for the spectacle involved. Giuseppe Verdi, it was clear, was a showman as well as composer, and I can remember thinking, wow, this stuff can be fun . . .
Otello is an opera I did come to admire. Fifteen by then, I studied it in music theory class and knew the story and the characters from the English play. Too, I had begun to learn about love and to feel the pangs of jealousy; I owned the recording with Mario del Monaco and, as Desdemona, Renata Tebaldi. Often, late at night, I'd play her piteous rendition of "The Willow Song" or the great duet with which act 1 concludes. As with any repeated exposure, the more I listened the more I learned, and "music appreciation" in this instance went beyond the question of whether or not the lovers would live happily ever after, exiting on a high C. Their intricate exchange of vows, the harp arpeggios and contrapuntal melody and soaring devotional rapture made what was secular sacred and transformed what was language to song.
Still later, newly married, I found myself in the north German town of Bremen, and with an unscheduled evening; my wife and I bought tickets to a local production of Otello. It was being performed, as it turned out, in German. Although the singers were accomplished and the opera company fully professional, I couldn't make the shift. In the back of my brain Tebaldi, sweetly yielding,...