Brahms Voiced

She wore the glorious crown of her voice with the grace of an empress and changed the lives of many through the subtle force of her spirit and demeanor. If the planet Earth could sing, I think it would sound something like Marian Anderson.

Right—you get that said about you, and you can go home and kick back with a beer. Add to the fact that the words are Jessye Norman’s—for decades the preeminent alto of her time—and there’s not much more to be said.

And will that stop me?

To say that she broke barriers is understatement. Anderson was born in Philadelphia; her mother was a teacher, her father sold ice and coal. Her grandfather had been a slave and seen emancipation in the 1860’s.

The family was religious; she sang in the church choir, and then sang solos in black churches around the city. There was no money for high school, at first, so she busied herself with her church, which eventually raised the funds for her to attend school; the principal of the school found a voice teacher. She was 24 when she finally finished high school.

And met with a slap—the director of admissions at the Philadelphia Music Academy didn’t mince words: “we don’t take colored.”

Bemused Reader, it was a different time. A time, for example, when no hotel would rent a room to a black person. So the black community, among others, opened their homes; when Anderson needed a place to stay in Princeton, Albert Einstein took her in, and they became close friends.

She studied in New York, won a competition with the New York Philharmonic in 1925, and then took off for Europe. There, she was enthusiastically received, especially in Scandinavia; for most of the 20’s and 30’s, she toured Europe.

It’s almost a shame that the incident with the DAR and the Constitution Hall occurred, since it’s the one story about Anderson that everybody knows. For those who don’t—here goes. The Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) refused to rent their hall to Anderson, because she was black. Eleanor Roosevelt resigned, sent the organization a scorching letter, and arranged for Anderson to sing at the Lincoln Memorial. 75,000 people came to the concert, millions listened on the radio. Seldom has a bird been flipped more graciously.

Which could be the word for Anderson—she put up with it all, and never bore a grudge. A few years later, she sang at Constitution Hall at the invitation of the DAR, and later recalled no feeling of revenge or victory. It was just another hall. Nor does she harbor any ill will at the Connecticut farmers that withdrew their property from sale when she went looking for a farm. She went right on, and then ingratiated herself with the community, singing Christmas carols at the lighting of the tree, never jumping in line in the stores even when offered to do so.

She was, in short, a thorough, complete lady. But most of all, she was an amazing singer with an impressive, rich voice. Distinctive as well—once you hear it a few times, you’ll never forget it.

And she brings a lovely, old school approach to these songs by Brahms, which are his only songs that have another instrument besides the piano. They’re special—Brahms composed the first for a dear friend, the violinist Joseph Joachim and his wife, an alto. The couple was expecting their first child. So Brahms wrote a lullaby, one of the tenderest pieces he would ever compose, and the three performed it in private: Brahms at the piano, Joachim on the viola, Amalie singing. The music meant so much to Brahms that he decided not publish it; it was private, and a gift.

Two decades later, Joachim’s marriage collapsed, he suspected Amalie of infidelity and filed for divorce. Brahms stupidly got in the middle, wrote a letter to Amalie expressing his belief in her innocence; Amalie introduces the letter in court. Anguished, Brahms wrote a companion song, in an attempt to breach the gap.

It took more than a song to heal the wounds; it took, in fact, the Double Concerto for violin and cello, and even then, the relationship never got completely back.

Anderson’s performance is just breath-taking, as is that of William Primrose, the violist. A perceptive viewer on YouTube made the comment—Primrose sounds like a contralto, Anderson sounds like a viola. It’s a completely satisfying performance….  

Two ladies, and one very much not....

OK—today’s post is a double feature.

Let’s get the ridiculous part over with first.

Readers of this blog will remember Ofelia, once a boss, always a friend. She operates an important language school (she bristled when I once wrote “a very good little language school”…) and has a quality that is fast disappearing.

Graciousness.

It used to be cultivated, aspired to, worked for. It now languishes with those other arts: needlework, playing the piano, writing thank-you notes.

That’s half of what you need to know about Ofelia.

She’s a whiz of a teacher.

Much better than I, actually. She’s una maestra de corazón (literally, a teacher of the heart—figuratively, a born teacher) unlike me. It’s just a thing I do.

Now then, enter the other character, La Comay. This would be the lady very much not-a-lady.

Not even a woman….

A drag queen, in fact, whose real name is “Kobbo” Santarrosa. And every day, he gets all gussied up in a dress and high heels and finally a cabezudo. That’s a big foam head.

Here the story get murky. There is something to like about La Comay. His show opens with a candle in front of little Lorenzo—the kid who saw too much, which cost him his life. La Comay isn’t gonna give up until that murderer is brought to justice.

The other hand?

Easier just to tell the story.

We were in the doctor’s office, Ofelia  and I, and the room was predictably crammed. Just as predictably, there was a television, on at the usual 900 decibels. The show came on.

This was during the hapless reign of our governor (or governess, as some called her) Sila María Calderón. She was our first and only female governor—we haven’t repeated the experiment.

And she entered into office a married lady, then became a divorcee, and then—feeling perhaps very gay (in its first meaning)—decided to date!

Well, the island was on its ears! Sila had a boyfriend! And not just any boyfriend, but one of her cabinet ministers, a guy named Ramón Cantero-Frau. (Mr. Fernández, who loathed him, immediately took to calling him Cantero Fraud….)

Well, this is an island where people have to know! This is the land of the presenta’o! (Literally, presented / figuratively, nosy) We take a generous interest in our neighbors, and look—ya gotta talk about something, right?

Cantero Frau’s car pulls up to the governor’s mansion. Instantly, swarms of journalists are waiting for hours. Will he spend the night? Are they doing it in the gubernatorial equivalent of the Oval Office? Oh, the delicious wickedness of it all. Don’t tell me!

Yes, do….

All right, so now you have all the elements. And you will have guessed that La Comay, seeing the entire island jump on this boat is not gonna be anywhere else.

And it’s the day after the First Couple goes to the movies! Yeah, there they were, Sila and Cantero Frau, right at the Fine Arts Cinema!

And La Comay that day was especially merciless. His parody of the scene—Sila was eating popcorn and spitting out the kernels; Cantero Frau, of course, was trying to get into her pants—had everybody in stitches.

But one.

She stood, that teacher, and immediately took charge of the classroom. She used a word I didn’t know but recognized immediately—vulgar. She stated that she had every confidence that NO ONE in the room was enjoying the show and so would take the liberty of turning off the television.

This she did, in a room with more silence than I’ve ever heard in Puerto Rico.

An awesome performance.

As was the performance this morning of the music the iPod chose to give me.

Marian Anderson singing the Alto Rhapsody.

It’s almost sad that the one thing people remember about her—if they know anything at all—is the famous concert at the Lincoln Memorial. It’s so compelling that it crowds out what was really a remarkable life.

Here’s how I remember her.

I know the story, but I don’t know who it was. Furtwängler? Toscanini? Von Karajan? It was, at any rate, one of the great conductors being hounded out of Germany by the nazis (no—no caps, computer! Not for them, and not in these  times…). Right, so what was his response?

He conducts his last performance for the music-loving Germans. And brings out Marian Anderson—as black as the keys on my keyboard—to sing for the Aryans. They conclude the concert with the Alto Rhaphsody, receive a standing ovation, and leave the stage, arm in arm.

This would be termed having the last word.

Oh, and one other thing about Anderson.

Two, actually…

She was a complete lady—once sweeping the stage before her concert, always gracious, always in control.

She had an amazing voice and sang with her brain.

Don’t think so?

Here’s Jessye Norman….

Marian Anderson was a woman of such quality, compassion and modesty that her humanitarian efforts alone would warrant our adulation. But she was also blessed with a matchless voice - a voice with so much warmth, richness and mobility that Arturo Toscanini was moved to call it a voice "heard once in a hundred years."

Marian Anderson, 1965.
Credit: The New York Times.

I became acquainted with this glorious sound at about age 10, through a recording of Brahms's Alto Rhapsody, and was so overwhelmed I wept, not really understanding why. When I was 16, in the early 1960's, I traveled by train from Augusta, Ga., to Philadelphia to participate in the Marian Anderson Voice Competition. I was so young and thrilled at being there that I was unaware that perhaps I should have been anxious as well. I did not win a prize, but the gentleness and warmth of that experience remain with me to this day.

It was in Constitution Hall in Washington that I first heard Miss Anderson in person, in 1965. Her voice filled the vast space easily, whether singing Schubert at full strength or "Deep River" with a profound hush. She was queenly in her every gesture. In 1939, the Daughters of the American Revolution refused to permit her to perform in this hall on racial grounds. Eleanor Roosevelt broke ranks with her fellow D.A.R. members and helped arrange a concert at the Lincoln Memorial, a historic event that has been called America's first civil rights rally.

Miss Anderson and I both attended a Metropolitan Opera performance of "Les Troyens" in 1973, when I was privileged to meet her for the first time. She recalled having sung in Augusta some 20 years before, and I was happy to tell her that the city still thought of her visit not only as a watershed but also as a blessing. On the occasions when we were able to sit and talk, I found her interest in me flattering, but I preferred listening to her speak about herself. How could she show the world such poise when she was faced with touring a segregated United States? How could she not take exception to her exclusion from the Met until late in her career? How could she be so deeply spiritual without being at all sanctimonious?

She wore the glorious crown of her voice with the grace of an empress and changed the lives of many through the subtle force of her spirit and demeanor. If the planet Earth could sing, I think it would sound something like Marian Anderson.


Jessye Norman is an opera and concert singer.