The conductor has entered the pit. The house falls silent. And we see one last straggler enter the auditorium of the New York State Theater. She's a bespectacled bluestocking of the last century, a preoccupied reddish-blonde big-boned woman who'd be quite handsome really without those wire-framed glasses. Passing beyond the orchestra seats onto the stage, she makes for the towering stack of books piled on the writing-table in front of the curtain at stage right; pulls out one of the books and rifles through it with fierce urgency; finds what she's looking for, slams the book shut in triumph or in rage, and scribbles as if her life depended on it — first at her desk, then on the floor — as the orchestra strikes up a quick march.

Normally Ms. Loiterer objects as heartily as Dr. Repertoire to directors that stage the overture. But Lauren Flanigan's bold entrance as Susan B. Anthony pulled the rest of us with no further ceremony into the world of Virgil Thomson's The Mother of Us All. This, the other great American opera, is so successful the New York City Opera gave the first full-scale professional staging in New York City on the afternoon of March 19, 2000. The belatedness alone, after over half a century, is almost as much an achievement as getting the world "male" written into the constitution of the United States of America.

It's easy to get caught up in the nineteenth-century bric-a-brac of The Mother of Us All — so much of it and all so luscious, Gertrude Stein taking up each piece and commenting on it from every possible angle at once as Virgil Thomson sits back and enjoys the spectacle. Christopher Alden, who directed this production, which originated at last year's Glimmerglass Festival, didn't lose his track. Not that he didn't give us lots of fun along the way. He and his designers played with nineteenth-century American popular art and theater much as Thomson played with nineteenth-century popular music and Stein with nineteenth-century American oratory. Virgil T. and Gertrude S. rummaging in Susan B.'s writing-table behind her back (research, like oral sex, is a dirty job, but someone has to do it); a silent and formidably mannish Isabel Wentworth lingering by herself at the end of a scene as Jo the Loiterer (Jeffrey Lentz) asks if everybody has forgotten her; Susan B.'s dreams as so many tableaux before the painted backdrops and behind the red curtains of nineteenth-century vaudeville; Jenny Reefer (Kathryn Honan-Carter) leading in a sextette of suffragists in red, white and blue bloomers, twirling their picket signs in perfect synchronization — wonders abounded, all rising out of the words and music.

Half-naked muscleman alert: Andrew Johnson (David Ossenfort) and Thaddeus Stevens (Jonathan Boyd) stripped down to their bare chests — in cold weather! — for their first-act brawl. In the next scene, they stripped down to their long johns for their V.I.P. act. Somebody out there has been reading too many issues of Cowpokes. Or maybe Ms. Loiterer was just hoping that Chris the Citizen (Troy Cook) would strip down instead. Seeing how great-grandpa Jo smooched Chris over the refreshments in the final scene, she credits herself with having inherited his good taste in men.

Anyway, Alden and Flanigan between them brought out a through-line underneath all the pageantry. Alden had the set, designed by Allen Moyer, split front and back. Downstage stood a writing-table piled high with books on one side of the stage and a chair (on which Anne (Ruthann Marley) and then Susan B. sat knitting) on the other, before a backdrop emblazoned with grossly enlarged Victorian wallpaper patterns — very Charlotte Perkins Gilman. This was Susan B. Anthony's domain, where she sat studying, scribbling, desperately observing the world outside her from the prisonhouse of Victorian womanhood. Upstage, the drop curtain opened up in the next scene to reveal a nineteenth-century classroom, chalkboards all around, the rest of the cast sitting upright on so many chairs around a Daniel Webster (Michael Devlin) permanently atop his podium. This was the world of quarrelling men which Susan B. sought to address; first barging in on Daniel Webster, who not so much debated her as disdained her outrage from his lofty eminence; then asking around, her questions unaddressed by those caught up in their own little vaudeville acts. Only as a result of her observations, in the wake of the near-disastrous wedding of Jo the Loiterer and Indiana Elliott (Tara Venditti), would Susan B. envision that women as well as men shall have (high C) the vote.

Flanigan, as Susan B. Anthony, was as committed and musically irreproachable as always. She started the afternoon in splendid shining voice, with a really beautiful piano high B-flat in her first scene, and an inward yet focused mezza voce perfect for her soliloquy at the beginning of the wedding. In the second act, some of the long notes at the ends of phrases acquired a wide vibrato, and her very final soft note on "My long life" was as precise a neutral third between E and E-flat as one could hope to hear outside an electronic-music studio. First-night nerves, probably; as a statue in the last scene, she had had trouble keeping still when singing, a good indication of nervous tension.

The supporting cast was uneven, alas. It didn't help that they had to double as the decidedly underpowered chorus; if a pit chorus is good enough for Plat�e and Ariodante, it's good enough for The Mother of Us All. New York State Theater's much-discussed amplification system can't be as all-pervasive as we fear, if we can hardly hear an upstage chorus. And while everyone looked right in their individual roles, they weren't always cast to sound right. For instance, Honan-Carter's dark-suited dyke of a Jenny Reefer and Wendy Hill's fluttery Constance Fletcher looked just right; but Jenny Reefer's solos in the second-act suffragette march benefit from a more incisive tone than Honan-Carter's very dark mezzo, while Wendy Hill's light soprano was a poor fit for music conceived for a high mezzo. (Had the Met the sense to beat City Opera to The Mother of Us All, what a great Constance Fletcher Frederica von Stade would have been!)

Vocally and dramatically outstanding, however, were Michael Devlin as a dry-voiced but still commanding Daniel Webster; and Barbara Shirvis, who made every one of Lillian Russell's moments a hilariously tacky star turn complete with Follies Pink spotlight. Also, Ms. Loiterer is happy to report, Tara Venditti as Indiana Elliott was great-grandma to the life — dark-haired, precise and full of voice, and spunky to the max. (But weren't there five children?) George Manahan's conducting was beyond reproach.

What becomes a legend most? Personal energy and personal dignity combined help a lot. Lauren Flanigan positively overflows with both, enough to make Susan B. Anthony Stein's and Thomson's heroine. Kurt Streit, who sang the title role in New York City Opera's new production of La clemenza di Tito, which opened just a week before The Mother of Us All, also has quite a bit of both. He needed it. A woman struggling to be heard and giving her all for a good cause, like Susan B. Anthony, is relatively easy for a present-day audience to identify with. By comparison, a noble Roman ruler, particularly one who deliberately restrains his worst impulses for the good of the state, is a bit of a puzzlement. Streit's Tito wasn't the stereotypically stolid noble Roman. Instead, Streit used his own native exuberance to portray a man just brimming over with generosity and affection, all the more so for having nobody to love (lending a certain melancholy to his opening aria). Tito's clemency became entirely believable as an overflow of sheer vital energy in the public sphere. In private, in the second-act interview with Sesto, Streit was positively desperate. This was clearly somebody who if not absolutely determined to do the right thing might be capable of doing something very, very wrong — oh, say, leveling Jerusalem (as the historical Titus did) — with equal passion.

Lorraine Hunt Lieberson's Sesto was the star attraction of the afternoon. She was announced as fighting off a week-old viral infection; but if it affected her voice Ms. Loiterer didn't hear it. The newly full and warm middle register noted by Ms. Loiterer in Gatsby is really and truly there; as an intense mediumweight mezzo, Hunt Lieberson is to Dame Janet Baker roughly as the hills of Thrace are to Monument Valley. Physically, she seemed diffident, almost hangdog, depressed under the weight of Sesto's secrets; even more restrained than Streit, she allowed expressive gesture to break through public reserve finally in their second-act interview. I never realized how short Hunt Lieberson was until I saw Streit tower over her; nor how much despair Metastasio's conflicts of love and duty conceal.

Marie Plette's Vitellia revealed the diva in the making some of us always suspected was there in someone who could carry off Kristina's RuPaul drag in the Met Makropoulos Case. There was definitely some heavy-duty sexual attraction between Vitellia and Sesto, the way they were nuzzling each other in the opening scene; and Plette's ferociously coquettish singing of the descending runs in her first aria were a perfect vocal correlative. And she sounded nice and full without being brassy within most of the wide range of Vitellia's music. Only on the very top did she thin out a bit. Tracy Dahl, as Servilia, did the bubbly-bouncing-up-and-down bit which is one of the few things Ms. Loiterer remembers with pleasure from The Ghosts of Versailles nearly ten years ago; vocally she sounded bright and a bit acid, like an old-time Italian soprano leggiero.

If Stephen Wadsworth's direction is of the sort that can call up such convincing dramatic performances as Streit's and Plette's (Hunt Lieberson can take care of herself) — good enough to recall the glory days of his Marivaux productions at Princeton's McCarter Theater — I can almost forgive him a nondescript but totally nonclassical redbrick unit set that recalled nothing so much as David Lodge's Rummidge. (All the stranger that Wadsworth made a point of citing Rome's classical ruins in his program notes!) I have less sympathy for Wadsworth's Ponnellian abuse of eavesdroppers and his almost total cluelessness as to what to do during an aria.

(Technical note: Just before the overture, a supertitle reminded the audience to turn off all beepers. It was received with scattered applause. Now that just about every opera house in the English-speaking world has supertitles, perhaps other opera companies might follow suit?)

Meanwhile, back in Allemonde across the plaza, little has changed. The chateau could still use some major home improvement. Sheets still cover half the furniture; there are still holes in the floor left over from the last flood; and that damned bronze horse is still in the basement, along with all that other Conklinesque rubbish Genevi�ve should have had cleared out by now. Jonathan Miller's recently revived Met production of Pell�as et M�lisande (seen April 8) does not improve with acquaintance. Indeed, it manages to get just about everything about the world of Allemonde wrong, from the dull yellow light that bathes the stage throughout just like an office on a cloudy day, to the rotating unit set that gives no idea of whether anyone is indoors or outdoors, to the blocking that has the singers stroll downstage, deliver their lines, and go back even when the scene begins in the middle of a conversation.

Happily, James Levine and his orchestra were in good form. Not the last word in orchestral atmosphere, perhaps, despite some really lovely wind-choir blends; but Levine did an amazingly nimble job of following the ever-changing flow of Debussy's vocal writing without getting bogged down in the effort. And the singers were better this time around.

Ms. Loiterer had anticipated that Dawn Upshaw's ingenuous yet energetic stage presence would make for a M�lisande more demanding of love than the customary depressed waif. Maybe I overanticipated; at the time, I found Upshaw a little conventionally withdrawn. In retrospect, though, Upshaw was altogether admirable dramatically, without a bit of sentimental calculation. She hit just the right note of nervous sensibility in the first four acts. She shied away from Golaud's touch when they first met, without hysterics; she delighted in the sea and the sky and the ruined fountain around her as they distract her from Pell�as's attentions — not that she objected to the latter; she screamed under her breath with pure fright as Golaud struck down Pell�as to the only fortissimo in Debussy's score. Her utter certainty and impassivity on her deathbed became all the more frightening a reproach to Golaud's guilt-ridden inquiries.

And Upshaw's voice sounds perfect for the role, slightly reedy yet clear all the way down, much like the solo oboe that announces M�lisande's leitmotif in the first scene. It's the voice of a woman who knows what she wants at any given moment, but has no sense of what she did yesterday or where she'll be tomorrow; directionless, to be sure, but never vague, no more so than Upshaw's bracing precision of pitch and rhythm. And who could have imagined that the Best Little Girl in the World would have Olga Borodina's powers of self-transmutation? (Recognizing Catherine Malfitano under Katerina Ismailova's blonde wig was child's play in comparison!) Wafting about the stage in her "aesthetic" gowns and streaming auburn tresses, Upshaw recalled Ellen Terry as painted by Burne-Jones.

Dwayne Croft, the original Pell�as of this production, once again sounded splendid, with a really enchanting boyish effusiveness that brings the character to life. And those Rogaine treatments really do work wonders; were the costumes actually redesigned? But with all due respect to French tradition, Pell�as really is a tenor role. Even Croft, whose upper register is remarkably easy for a baritone, only got through the fourth-act love scene with rather too much falsetto crooning.

Willard White (Golaud) sang very well indeed, his voice ringing and smooth without a trace of the woolliness or brassiness one has come to fear in the Met's bass-baritones of fifty-three and under. Physically, his Golaud was a very correct, very dignified, very — well — authoritative sort of fellow. Then he grumbled past Pell�as and M�lisande playing with hair like a couple of kids; his suspicions raised, he bullied Yniold into voyeurdom with all the ferocious restraint of a father used to getting his own way. This made his breakdown from jealousy in the last two acts all the more tragic. When a man of such physical restraint seizes his wife's hair, or sinks down at the foot of his wife's deathbed, you know something is deeply wrong in Allemonde. Best of all, White also listens to his fellow singers as dramatically as he moves. In the second act, as the wounded Golaud lies in bed, White didn't have to thrash around to convey his pain; all he had to do was lie there, crumpled — and when he wasn't singing beautifully, his eyes, taking in every one of Upshaw's emotional nuances, did the rest.

Robert Lloyd, the other holdover from the original run of this production, seemed a little bland at first as Arkel; but he rose to a fierce patriarchal protectiveness over M�lisande's deathbed. But who says Arkel's wise all the time? To play him as slightly befuddled, even spaced out, for the greater part of the opera, only coming to a full reckoning of the situation at the end, makes good dramatic sense as Lloyd played it. Nadine Denize read Genevi�ve's letter very well; but the production put her at a particular disadvantage. According to Dr. Miller, Genevi�ve floats through Allemonde like Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park, serene on her sofa with no idea of what's going on around her; which corresponded to a certain imperturbable quality in Marilyn Horne. But Denize isn't nearly so grand a presence; she doesn't float. In a better-conceived production she would appear the better chatelaine.

Indiana Loiterer III

The usually cough- and whisper-infested Met audience was on surprisingly good behavior as the lights dimmed. We were being transported into the Rhine, and that great silence was taken over by the orchestra’s ghostly E-flat. Das Rheingold had begun in Cycle I of the Met’s "Ring Festival 2000," and thus began my first Ring cycle. Some people mention how seeing Parsifal live is a religious experience, but after having seen Lohengrin and Tristan und Isolde, I have come to the conclusion that for any true Wagner lover, seeing any one of the master’s musical dramas is a religious experience. This spiritual aura was there as the prelude to Das Rheingold began.

It was definitely a great performance of this often-misunderstood work. Joyce Guyer, Kristine Jepson, and Jane Bunnell were all wonderful as the Rhinemaidens, however Ms. Jepson shone the most as Wellgunde. Ekkehard Wlaschiha sounded old and worn as the Nibelung dwarf. It is true that Alberich’s music doesn’t require the most beautiful singing or phrasing, but Wlaschiha was either incredibly ill or just past his prime. One technical quibble as far as staging was concerned was that when Alberich seized the lump of gold from atop the underwater rock, it became stuck. Luckily, Wlaschiha was able to free it before the lights totally faded.

James Morris was a commanding Wotan. After many Wotans, the voice still sounds young and fresh. Morris had absolutely no trouble with the toughest passages of the music, and this remained consistent through Die Walk�re and as the Wanderer in Siegfried. Hanna Schwarz really surprised me with the size of her voice. Though it can sound a bit worn at times, the sound is always interesting and unique. She certainly pays close attention to text, conveying frustration in the bartering of Freia, excitement at the thought of the Ring keeping her husband faithful, and nobility upon the entrance to Valhalla, among other things. Freia’s high-lying tessitura proved no problem for the wonderful Hei-Kyung Hong. The voice is easy and fluid, and it seems to be much more distinctive than it has been in the past.

Mark Baker was a little underpowered as the god of spring, and Alan Held’s huge sound was both appropriate and exciting as Donner. Koptchak and Halfvarson were decent as Fafner and Fasolt, but did not overly impress me. I wished I was hearing Matti Salminen and Rene Pape instead, but oh well, you can’t have your cake and eat it too sometimes. Philip Langridge was wonderful vocally and dramatically as Loge. He made Loge a crafty trickster, but in no way overacted a la Stolze. It was amusing to see Langridge and Clark, Loge and Mime, sitting down next to one another almost like two schoolboys. Birgitta Svend�n’s beautiful mezzo soprano did not seem commanding enough as Erda, but the singing was gorgeous nonetheless.

Levine tended to be on the rather slow side, but he really brought out all the beautiful subtleties in the score. Sitting up in the Family Circle has its advantages and disadvantages. A disadvantage is that some upstage set pieces cannot be seen. In this case, the Family Circle crowd could only make out the base of Valhalla. Most of the dazzling rainbow bridge was not able to be seen from up so high. The wonderful music-making onstage more than made up for this loss.

Absolute heaven is the only way I can describe Act I of Die Walk�re. Domingo is in superb voice, and at this point the role of Siegmund suits him perfectly. His involvement with the character and the music simultaneously created a flow of artistic energy that I have never experienced. The way Deborah Voigt spins out a phrase takes me back to the divas of old I never had the opportunity to experience live. Her tone is golden and warm, yet has such power. Her naming of "Siegmund" peeled the already peeling paint off the Met ceiling, and "O hehrstes Wunder!" was the greatest moment in the entire cycle. Halfvarson was well suited to Hunding, creating the dark, menacing husband one would want to run away from. But with Domingo, why wouldn't you?

James Morris and Hanna Schwarz continued their excellence from Das Rheingold, making the confrontation a dramatically compelling scene, as it should be. Wotan’s long narration of Act II was made exciting through the insight of Mr. Morris. His involvement with character reminded me of the intensity of Hotter’s Wotan on the Solti set. The farewell was simply glorious, leaving most of the audience in tears.

After a rough start with the "Hojotoho’s," Eaglen warmed up somewhat. In the lower-lying passages, she is always difficult to hear. Once her voice goes above an A, the sound turns thin and edgy, but her upper middle register is glorious. I do wish she’d get some acting lessons. Br�nnhilde is not the kind of role you can get by using the "stand and sing" method Eaglen tends to lean toward. Her large size does not help her in staging at all; for most of Act III, Eaglen was placed in the downstage "rocky-ditch," if you will. I sat there noticing the lack of character, insight, and passion needed for Br�nnhilde. That was sorely missed.

Graham Clark and James Morris added some much-needed excitement to Siegfried. Clark was everything you’d want in a Mime without overdoing it. The voice is by no means large, but projects amazingly well. Though emotions were high for James Morris in Das Rheingold and Die Walk�re, he connected the most as the Wanderer. Vocally, he was practically flawless; the man showed no signs of vocal tiring in any of the first three operas. His awakening of Erda in Act III was particularly riveting.

Stig Anderson brought boyish playfulness to his interpretation of Siegfried, but I don’t think he registered any change in character after falling in love with Br�nnhilde. In fact, his characterization remained somewhat static throughout both Siegfried and G�tterd�mmerung. His voice is quite lovely with a great sense of line; unfortunately, it was extremely difficult to hear him over the orchestra on many occasions.

Eaglen returned in better vocal shape for the end of Siegfried. Her inaudible lower register and thinning top still proved to be issues, but less so than in Die Walk�re. Watching her sing the first five minutes of her music sitting on the stage was rather painful, and I sat in wonder as to how she was going to get up! I have no prejudice against overweight people, but Ms. Eaglen’s excess weight cannot be healthy at all. I wonder if she plans on doing anything about it, but from the recent interview in Opera News, it doesn’t seem like she cares very much.

G�tterd�mmerung found the horn section in poor shape, making several cracks throughout the afternoon. One wished Levine had sped up the prologue and Act I just a bit since it lasted just under two hours! On the other hand, his pacing in the last two acts was quite effective; Siegfried’s funeral march and the immolation scene were thrilling. The Norn trio was a stellar one with Birgitta Svend�n, Wendy White, and Christine Goerke. Again, Svend�n was lacking a bit in power, but the voice is quite lovely. Goerke shone the most, producing an amazing vocal line with perfect control, a second Deborah Voigt in the making. I wished she were singing Gutrune!

Andersen was in rough shape throughout the afternoon, and before Act II, it was announced that he would continue the opera but was suffering from bronchitis. As a vocalist, I find this a very foolish thing for him to be doing. If he really did have bronchitis, I’m surprised he was able to sing at all. Perhaps there was no cover, who knows.

Eaglen suffered pitch problems throughout the afternoon, and her trademark laziness was very much in evidence. The immolation, however, was quite a thrill vocally. She finally seemed comfortable with what she was doing. This beautiful vocalism was interrupted with a comical toss of the torch into the funeral pyre. The audience chuckled a bit at that one, as they did when she gave Alan Held, singing Gunther, a tiny shove and he went flying across the stage.

Mr. Held was the best voice on stage that afternoon. The sound is huge, controlled, and consistent from top to bottom. He made Gunther more human, comforting his sister when Siegfried returns dead, but was still overcome with the longing for the Ring.

Eric Halfvarson’s dark bass was well suited for Hagen. The summoning of the vassals was not always solidly on pitch, but in general the tone was less harsh than in the past. Sondra Radvanovsky's vibrato fluttered excessively, but she had no major vocal problems. Even though Gutrune won Siegfried falsely, I think an audience should feel some sympathy for her loss. This sentiment was missed. The bright light at the close of the opera was also obstructed from view in the Family Circle.

With a work as mammoth as Der Ring des Nibelungen, perfection is hard to obtain. Though this cycle had its shortcomings, it was an event this 18-year-old will never forget

Fleur Jet�e

"…a truly remarkable instrument, capable of jewel-like precision in coloratura runs..."her technique never failed her … some of her trills were even more precise than those of the instrumentalists..." "breathtaking control" — these were some of the critical accolades bestowed on Cecilia Bartoli after her concert with Les Arts Florissants at London's Barbican Centre (April 14th).

A remarkable instrument certainly, but as for the rest! She's never quite figured out the technical adjustment to her larynx required to execute a real trill, but instead manages a semblance she achieves by rapidly hammering one note in the manner of a pneumatic drill. It is curiously impressive in its own way, but like her coloratura, its charms are short-lived. Coloratura essentially means "color", which is exactly what is lacking in this sort of helter-skelter ride of aspirated inaccuracies which Bartoli persists in giving us, as one prestissimo section of Vivaldi relentlessly follows another, and another, and another.

In Rockwell Blake's Rossini Tenor CD, the accompanying notes inform us of the tenor’s ability to "articulate as many as 4 separate notes to a beat at 142 metronome speed"! Bartoli now seems dead set on topping this feat. In the slow middle section of an aria from Vivaldi's Juditha Triumphans she stretched, spun and cajoled some exquisite long legato lines and beautiful, well-supported high pianissimo phrases, and with "Lascia ch'io spina" (the forerunner to the more famous "Lascia ch'io pianga"), she proved that she can rank with the best.

This was truly great singing, and I was on the point of relenting and forgiving her everything, but alas, once more she launched into a volley of never-ending aspirations, releasing a force ten gale that practically blew the music from the stand. This tedious barrage of "divisions", accompanied by many a facial twitch and grimace, resulted in a standing ovation. Bartoli offered two encores adorned with fioritura which would make Beverly Sills' Cleopatra ornaments seem positively purist!

I gather from my American friends that you are not so susceptible to the "charms" of Lesley Garrett as are the gullible Brits. English National Opera went into a great panic to find a replacement Fiorilla when she withdrew from the forthcoming new production of Turco in Italia conveniently four days before the press conference. Apparently, she has no time to learn the role, despite not being called to rehearsal until September, and having no other operatic engagements before it. Perhaps the fact that the role requires vocal stamina, coloratura, and an ability to sustain notes above the staff has something to do with it.

Fils de Brahma