affects so much of our music life constantly perpetuates itself,
and, as can be observed in matters remote from music, often achieves
a quasi-ideological status, fostering as it does a system of values
favorable to business as such. There is nothing new in the ideas
themselves: the taste of the public--that is, supposedly, the
majority of listeners--is invoked as the final criterion, the court
of last appeal. Much effort and research is devoted to the process of
discovering what this majority likes best, the objective being programs
and repertory in accordance with the results of this research.
Actually it is not that simple, especially since, with the beginning of
radio and the spectacular development of the phonograph and recordings
in the twenties, the musical public has grown enormously in size.
Instead of numbering a few thousands concentrated in a few centers it
now numbers many millions distributed over all parts of the country.
It still continues to grow, not only in the provinces, but also in the
centers themselves. Such a public shows the widest possible variety of
taste, background, and experience. Hence it makes specific demands. As
one looks at the situation from the point of view of a large musical
enterprise, one may well ask which public it aims to satisfy. The
tendency must be to try to satisfy, as far as possible, the majority
of listeners, to offer programs which will draw the greatest possible
number of people into the concert hall, and to convince them that
they hear the best music that can be heard anywhere. The result is a
kind of business ideology which bears a curious resemblance to the
sincerely and justly despised ideology of the totalitarians, even
though the coercive aspects are absent. There are signs that the
tendency may be gradually receding as a more alert public is becoming
constantly more mature and more demanding, and before the ceaseless
self-criticism, another characteristic feature of our cultural life.
Perhaps, and above all, through the courageous efforts of some leading
personalities (such as the late Serge Koussevitzky, who always
insisted on the recognition of contemporary music, and especially
our American, and like Dimitri Mitropoulos who has waged a fight for
music which is considered “difficult”) a change is in store. These
efforts have often been surprisingly successful, and while the battle
is far from won--is such a battle _ever_ really and finally
won?--one remembers, for instance, the spectacular success which
Mitropoulos achieved in the 1950/51 season with a concert performance
of Alban Berg’s _Wozzeck_. One also remembers the case of Bélà
Bártòk--it is frequently asked, especially in the United States, why
this great composer had to die almost ignored by our musical public,
while scarcely a year after his death he became, and, on the whole,
has remained virtually a classic whose music today is heard, played,
and even loved all over the country. Such cases, however, do not alter
the fact that there still exists a curious disproportion between the
reputation, accepted almost without challenge throughout the country,
of a Stravinsky or a Schönberg, and the fact that _Verklärte
Nacht_ and _L’Oiseau de Feu_ are still their most frequently
performed works, while their mature and more characteristic music is
relatively seldom performed. This disproportion is partly rectified
by the existence of many recordings of Schönberg’s music, as it was,
momentarily, balanced by performances of his works in his memory just
after his death.
The great public finds _all_ music difficult to grasp, not only
contemporary music. Contemporary music meets with opposition in the
United States because it is unfamiliar and hence difficult. On the
other hand, with only slight exaggeration it can be pointed out that
tradition has very little value as a weapon against those who would
prefer hearing a concerto by Rachmaninoff to one by Mozart. If, in the
policy governing the choice of programs, one succeeded in satisfying
only the majority of listeners, nothing would be left for the elite,
the certainly much smaller public wishing to hear contemporary music
and, as well, the more exacting and profound music of the past.
The prestige and glamor of the great names of the past rather than
tradition checks this trend, opposing to it the growing demands of a
considerable segment of the public. That public is gradually developing
in size and experience. Furthermore, the artistic conscience of several
leading musical personalities in the United States (unfortunately not
all of them, whether of American or European background) oppose the
“system,” the rewards of which are naturally great for those who come
to terms with it; many a European performer, during the whole course of
our development, has been willing to seek success in the United States
at the lowest level, with little concern for the musical development
of our country. Such performers usually excuse their departure from
standards with the supposedly low level of culture in our “backward”
country and are supported in their attitude by business interests and
as well by a certain element of cultural snobbery, still persisting.
Fortunately there have always been others, such as Theodore Thomas of
earlier days, or Karl Muck, forty-five years ago in Boston, or like the
pianist Artur Schnabel, and there are still others who maintained the
highest standards here as elsewhere and thus manifested fundamental
respect for the American public, themselves, and their art. These
personalities created, in the largest measure, our music life, and
their inspired followers today obstruct its debasement.
In such a brief résumé of the forces characterizing our music life
much is necessarily omitted, and oversimplification is inevitable.
The emerging picture is gloomy in certain respects, but it can be
counterbalanced by such considerations as were voiced at the beginning
of our discussion. One sometimes hears the question: if things are
really so, if there is an absence of genuine tradition and we have to
consider the existence of economic forces pervading our music life
in an almost mechanistic fashion, is it not chimerical to hope for
the development of a genuine music culture in the United States? Part
of the answer will be given later when, after consideration of the
even gloomier situation of the musical theater in the United States,
attention must be given to the various forces which are rapidly
developing outside our organized music life and which constitute
a real and perpetual challenge. One must insist once more on the
fluidity of our culture, which is in constant development, or, as the
German philosophers would say, in a constant state of “becoming.”
It is interesting, at least to this author, to observe how in such
a discussion one passes from a negative to a less pessimistic point
of view, and one wonders why. The answer lies not only in faith in
one’s own national culture, but in thousands of facts which crowd in,
sometimes emanating from unexpected sources. These facts support that
faith. They point to the genuine, the most vital need for musical
experience in the United States, and drive toward it; they constantly
seek and possibly discover fresh channels through which these
experiences can be achieved. The development, in fact, is so rapid that
any discussion such as the present may seem outdated even before the
ink is dry. It should be remembered, finally, that economic forces,
however mechanistic, are, in the last analysis, the projection of
spiritual forces and eventually are subject to them. In this respect,
as in most others relating to our musical development, the best
antidote to pessimism is retrospection.
IV
All that has been said about the business organization of our concert
life applies with at least equal force to our musical theater. The
latter is the most costly as well as the most complicated form of
musical production, and therefore the most problematical economically.
However, the somewhat embarrassing situation of the musical theater in
the United States is not only of economic origin. It may even be said
that the economic difficulties are at least partly derived from other
problems, so to speak anterior to economics.
These problems may be broadly summarized in the statement that the
serious music drama has shown signs of becoming popular only in recent
years. A certain portion of the public has always shown interest and
enthusiasm for opera, to be sure, and such a public has always existed;
however, there are signs that it has grown both larger and more adept
through the influence of radio programs, concert performances, and
other forces to be discussed later. Of late, it has become customary
to devote a concert to the partial or complete performance of an
operatic work rarely heard in the theater in the United States, and
still more recently this practice has been extended to the performance
of works even from the standard repertory. Significant events were the
concert renditions, by Mitropoulos in New York, of Strauss’s _Elektra_,
Berg’s _Wozzeck_, and Schönberg’s _Erwartung_; and, by Monteux in San
Francisco, of Debussy’s _Pelléas et Mélisande_ and Gluck’s _Orfeo_.
The results were not equally successful; while _Elektra_ achieved rare
acclamation in New York, the success of _Pelléas_ in San Francisco
was less conspicuous, as those who know the opera well will readily
understand. But the fact that such performances are in fashion is
evidence that there is still need for them at this point in our music
life, and the enthusiasm for them is evidence that a public stands
ready to embrace something other than the standard fare ordinarily
offered by our established operatic institutions. This is only one of
many symptoms of the situation. Many enterprises throughout the country
have sprung up during the last twenty or twenty-five years which show
that a public for opera is developing; only the means of satisfying it
is lacking.
The above statement that serious opera only recently has begun to
show signs of becoming popular requires elucidation. The best way of
approaching the question is to consider the basis on which our operatic
institutions grew. We started with the institutions because, as always
in the United States, there were people in those days who did not wish
to be deprived in the New World of all they had been able to enjoy in
the Old. The ever-present snobs gradually joined their ranks, and at
the time the Metropolitan Opera was founded, twenty years after the
Civil War, their influence was at its height. It was the epoch of great
fortunes, of tremendous expansion of American industry and finance, and
of the arrogance of recently acquired wealth. Much has been made of the
fact that in the original architectural planning of the Metropolitan
Opera House express provision was made for the demands of social
exhibitionism. All this is tiresome, no doubt, but it is relatively
harmless. More important, perhaps, is that the problem of building an
intelligent public was faced in all too casual a manner. The small
European and cosmopolitan nucleus had no need for such education;
the snobs needed little or nothing, since their aims were far from
the desire for genuine artistic experience. Most others contented
themselves with accepting or rejecting what was offered.
It is worth considering our operatic situation not only in itself, but
in its relations to the environment into which it was transplanted.
There is every reason to believe that the performances of that period
were of the highest quality, and that that level declined only
much later, under pressures similar to those already mentioned in
connection with our concert life, which in both cases arose roughly at
the time of the World War I with the decline of patronage. In the last
years of the nineteenth century there existed not only enough wealth
fully to support such enterprises, but also a willingness to follow the
best artistic advice obtainable. What was wanted was, in the direct
terms, the collaboration of the most distinguished artists of Europe,
and such collaboration was cheerfully and handsomely rewarded. The
latest novelties were desired along with all the standard repertory,
and they were mounted in the most sumptuous manner. Occasional world
_premières_ took place at the Metropolitan; the author has already
referred to the fact that his parents sought the advice of foreign
composers, in this case of Puccini and Humperdinck, who were in New
York for the world _premières_ of _The Girl of the Golden
West_ and of _Königskinder_, respectively. Among the conductors
at the Metropolitan were Anton Seidl, and later, Gustav Mahler and
Arturo Toscanini. While the repertory favored the nationality of the
manager (under Conried German opera and under Gatti-Casazza Italian),
such favoritism was, at least in part, amended by other organizations.
Oscar Hammerstein, for instance, through his Manhattan Opera Company,
introduced the then new German and French operas to New York. This was
early in our century, and though his project was short-lived, operatic
institutions, all different in complexion, were springing up in Boston,
Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco. In the South, in New Orleans,
French opera was still in existence. In the United States as in Europe
the most celebrated melodies of Verdi, Donizetti, Gounod, Bizet, and
even Wagner were played and sung. Why then, one will ask, did opera
fail to become popular?
The question is not of opera but of music drama, and has nothing
to do with either the dramatic quality of the performances or with
melodies. The author treasures the memory of certainly first-class
performances of _Otello_, _Die Meistersinger_, _Carmen_, _Pelléas_,
even of _Don Giovanni_ and of Gluck’s _Orpheus_. However, certainly
for most devotees opera meant something other than music drama; and
this for reasons ultimately deriving from the fact that opera in the
United States was still a luxury article, imported without regard
for its true purpose or its true nature, and that the circumstances
of its production accentuated that fact. For a public with this
orientation, opera possessed the magic of an emanation from a distant
and glamorous world, one which retained the element of mystery. Since
the artists were highly paid--as a result of a quite natural desire
to have the very best available at any price--it was equally natural
that the public overestimated the importance of individual singers and
their voices, and remained comparatively unaware of the importance of
ensemble. The “star system” did not originate in the United States, to
be sure, but it found fertile soil here, as did the widespread idea
of opera as a masquerade concert, a romantic pageant in which various
celebrities played their roles, and the primary purpose of which was to
provide sumptuous entertainment.
Such an idea of opera was in part also the result of the fact that
the works were sung in their original languages, or at times in
other non-English languages. The idea was prevalent that English
was a bad language to sing--and such an idea is not unnatural when
it is considered that the singers were mainly of German, French, or
Italian origin, background, or training. There were occasions on which
singers sang different languages in the same performance: Chaliapin,
for instance, sang _Boris Godunoff_ in Russian, supported by an
Italian cast.
Indisputably from every ideal standpoint an opera should be performed
in the language in which it is written. But properly understood,
opera is at least as much theater as music. Any drama--musical or
otherwise--suffers through translation; yet no one would seriously
suggest a performance in the United States, under any but exceptional
circumstances, of a work by Chekhov, Ibsen, or Sartre in the original
language. Even in regard to opera this problem is beginning to be
understood; and anyone who has attended recent performances in English
at the Metropolitan--or imagined, on the contrary, what might have been
the result had _Porgy and Bess_ or a work of Gian-Carlo Menotti
always been sung in Italian or German--has an idea of the importance of
this question. For a relatively inexperienced public like the American
before the World War I, a public not well versed in opera in English
and unfamiliar with the languages in which the works were sung, hence,
in reality, with the works themselves, the foreign language becomes an
obstacle. It fosters the sense of remoteness referred to above; not
only the words, but in some cases even the titles of the works remain
mysterious even when the plots may be familiar. The public, as a whole,
remains in the dark not only as to what Isolde and Brangäne, Isolde and
Tristan, or Tristan and Kurvenal are saying in the respective acts of
_Tristan_, but also it cannot fully participate in the musical
and dramatic unfolding of _Otello_, the infinitely delicate
articulation of _Falstaff_, or in the complications of the last
two scenes of _Rigoletto_. In such instances the drama is missed
if the meaning of the words is not understood; and when the words are
not completely understood in every detail, at least the experience of
an enacted libretto can convey some of the power of the music.
It must be emphasized, however, that for any public a drama is
drama only if it can become the reverse of remote. It must be truly
and intimately felt; and a living theater cannot exist entirely on
imported fare. In order really to live, an opera must be felt as drama;
otherwise results different from those noted are scarcely obtained.
Neither composer nor performer can breathe life into opera unless its
drama is felt, and the public takes fire only from things it has lived.
It remains basically indifferent if there is no point of contact with
whatever is dramatic in its own world or age; from its own epoch the
public learns what drama _per se_ is, and only from this point of
departure can it understand dramas of other periods. For this reason
we speak of French, or German, or Italian, or Russian opera. With few
exceptions, what was lacking at the Metropolitan of the period in
question were operas written in English, in quantity and in quality
sufficient to solve this problem and to lay the foundations for a vital
operatic tradition.
Meanwhile the economic problems characterizing our music life are
becoming more acute in the field of opera. Our nonoperatic theater
is doubtless the weakest point in the whole of American cultural
life; it may be, and often is, summarized in the words “Broadway” and
“Hollywood.” The reciprocal action of the vast economic power of our
theatrical and, above all, our motion picture enterprises, of increased
prices and therefore increased risks, and, finally, of the huge
American and even international market results in a kind of spiral:
economic risks and caution operate constantly so as to keep standards
at a low level. The same forces are at work, in a restricted way, in
the operatic field. Little by little the operatic enterprises of which
mention has been made, had to be abandoned, with the exception of the
Metropolitan and the curtailed autumn season of the San Francisco Opera.
Under the pressure of rising prices, the fundamental limitations
of the system became clear. The repertory remained facile, without
novelties of consequence, without daring of any kind. Whatever new
works were heard in the United States--_Mavra_, _Lady Macbeth
of Mzensk_, _Wozzeck_--were performed under special auspices;
and while later the performance of _Peter Grimes_, and still
later, _The Rake’s Progress_ seemed hopeful beginnings of a
possible change, the fate of these two works served only to point up
the real dilemma. Broadly stated, one must admit that the performance
of any new work is a serious risk in a situation where rising costs
have vastly increased the economic hazards to which the enterprise is
subjected. This is true even under best conditions. On the other hand,
if an institution is to survive, it is imperative that fresh blood be
constantly injected, and for an institution like the Metropolitan this
means freshness and novelty in repertory as in everything else. One
cannot permanently live on the past; even revivals are not the answer.
Much has been accomplished at the Metropolitan since 1950, the advent
of Rudolf Bing as its director. In the period prior to his arrival,
artistic quality had seriously declined, owing in part certainly
to the steadily deteriorating economic situation, but in part also
to ineffectual leadership. Inevitably, some of the preconceptions
indicated were responsible for the decline which economic stresses
threw into higher relief. The problem of creating a satisfying operatic
ensemble from casts composed of singers drawn from different parts of
the world, with different backgrounds and engaged as individual stars,
is great; but when rehearsals are inadequate, as they assuredly were at
the time, the results are disastrous. Surprisingly good performances
were achieved on occasion, especially by Bruno Walter, Fritz Stiedry,
and George Szell, and tentative beginnings were made in using English
translations for some Mozart performances. In general, however,
standards were lower than ever before.
Unquestionably, Bing has brought some changes for the better, both
in repertory and standard of performance. The essential problems,
however, remain, since they are not created by artistic directors, but
by prevalent misconceptions. Composers, and, above all, the regulation
of financial support can contribute to their solution. Certainly they
are not insoluble, and there is reason for believing that forces are
gradually working in the direction of a satisfactory solution. However,
one must remain aware of problems and obstacles. They are formidable.
Numerous attempts are now being made in many parts of the country to
further the production of opera by contemporary American composers. The
response has been indeed surprising. For many years thinking in terms
of what might be considered genuine American opera was the rule; one
peered into the void for the “real” or the “great” American opera in
much the same way as one looked for “the great American novel,” and
one attempted to forecast its characteristics. This is not only an
example of the bent toward abstraction discussed before, but also one
of a primitive and mechanistic view. In other words, the search, less
for truth or artistic necessity and more for a product most likely to
make headway on the American market, was in the foreground. Sometimes
the answer was found in the use of so-called “American” subjects--plots
taken from our history, folklore, literature, or landscape. At other
times, such efforts were combined with the use of folk tunes: the
object was the creation of a kind of folk opera. A solution was sought
in the evocation of American scenes and memories, a worthy aim only
if not considered the final answer to the fundamental question. Some
advocated the use of “contemporary” subject matter instead--texts
seeking to incorporate characteristic aspects of modern life. Again,
one cannot object, except to an irrelevant dogmatism. Solutions were
sought, in fact, with reference to everything--contemporary drama,
the spirit of Hollywood and Broadway, and, of course, jazz. At least
one work of real value, _Porgy and Bess_, may be associated with
these attempts, though it certainly represents them in the least
self-conscious manner. However, no such program can ever be regarded as
the answer to the problem.
The achievement of a genuine “national style” in any sphere whatever
depends on something deeper than evocation, nostalgic or otherwise; and
if what one seeks is timeliness, machines, ocean liners, or nightclubs
on the stage do not suffice. What is required is _drama_, felt
and communicated, whether it be comedy or tragedy; and this, if it is
real, _becomes_ both contemporary and national--just as _Julius
Caesar_ is both English and Elizabethan, and _Tristan_ neither
Irish nor medieval. So far as this author knows, no one has thought
of reproaching Verdi for having written Egyptian, Spanish, French, or
English--even American--opera in the various instances which come to
mind. It is a heartening sign that American opera composers of today
seem to be fully aware of this problem, however they differ as to
outcome.
In any case, this is the central problem of American opera. How can
one hope for the growth of an American opera tradition under the
conditions prevailing in our established operatic institutions, and in
view of the fact that throughout the country there are only three or
four which continue to exist, and those not on a desirable economic
basis? One must insist once and for all that a vital American music
life cannot be confined to the established conventions of concert
and opera. We have already given attention to radio and recordings,
which play so decisive a role, and interest us for manifesting sharp
contrasts with features discussed in connection with concert and
theater. Later comment is reserved for what may well be regarded as
the most noteworthy aspect of American music life today: the multitude
of impulses all over the country, the yearning for musical experience
our concert and opera life does not offer. These impulses center
largely in educational institutions--in schools, conservatories, and
universities. Above all, one here finds the beginnings of what may be
called a different mode of opera life. In an already considerable and
ever-increasing number of schools and opera departments, problems of
opera production are being studied, with an undaunted willingness to
experiment and, if necessary, even to fail, and with a vitality which
amazes all who have the opportunity to watch it closely. At least
one happy result has manifested itself, even within the framework
of music life. It has shown Americans that satisfying results can
be obtained in the operatic field without recourse to the luxury of
stellar personalities or sumptuous modes of production. Notably at the
City Center Opera in New York--an offshoot, in a sense, of the opera
department of the Juilliard School--some performances provided even
valid competition in quality of ensemble and vitality of interpretation
to identical works at the Metropolitan.