My Year of Opera (III): Philip Glass, "Akhnaten"

I first got into Philip Glass's music around 14 years ago, and one of the first compositions I fell in love with were selected scenes from his opera, Akhnaten. Though I only got my hands on a full recording of the opera around 10 years ago, it has probably been my favorite Glass composition since I heard his music. For well over a decade, I'd hoped to catch a live performance of the opera, but the challenge was significant; prior to this January, Akhnaten has been performed only 7 times globally. Fortunately, the Atlanta Opera was putting on a performance this year; even more fortunately, I had a place to stay in Atlanta; and most fortunately of all, I knew somebody who was involved in the production of Atlanta's performance, and was able to get a ticket. So this past weekend, I flew down to Atlanta to catch what was the eighth performance of Akhnaten.

The opera is part three of Glass's trilogy of "biographical" operas (the other two being Einstein on the Beach and Satyagraha, about Gandhi in South Africa). Aknaten narrates the ascension of the titular pharoah and his decision to abolish all other Egyptian deities and worship only the "aten," or sun-disc, thereby creating what many have argued was the world's first monotheistic religion. Glass's opera focuses on Akhnaten's epiphany, his relationship with Nefertiti (his wife), his creation of a city devoted only to the Aten, and his subsequent downfall as he alienated his subjects and the priests of the old gods. The opera closes with tourists walking around the remains of Akhetaten, the city the pharoah built for his new religion, while the ghosts of Akhnaten, Nefertiti, and Queen Tye (his mother) wander about.

Although the story is simple, it is incredibly dependent on stage directions, moreso than any other opera I'm aware of (which, admittedly, is limited). Several of the scenes are composed only of wordless singing (most notably, the scene in which Akhnaten and Tye order the Temple of Amon be destroyed). Thus, the stage directions have a lot of action that they must convey that the recorded version of the opera couldn't possibly convey, and a lot hinges on the body language and facial expressions of the actors, as well as the broader directions given.

Fortunately, the stage direction was outstanding. Richard Kagey's directions and decisions were remarkable. The tension and violence of the destruction of Amon's temple, non-verbally acted out on the stage, was remarkable and perfect; likewise, the budding love of Nefertiti and Akhnaten in Act II, Scene 2 gave an even greater emotional heft to the music. While these two portions were highlights, the entire opera was outstanding in terms of acting. There were virtually no setpieces due to space restrictions (the only "sets" were a chair and table that served as the throne of the pharoah, and some veils that were taken on and off the stage repeatedly and that functioned as curtains, religious symbols, and royal opulence). However, the sparseness on stage was unimportant, Kagey's stage design and the acting performances and nuances he brought out of his singers gave the performance an emotional depth and heft that one could never conceive the opera had just listening to a recording.

The other highlight of the opera (aside from finally hearing and seeing something live that you've wanted to see for close to 15 years) was the Atlanta Opera Chorus. They sat on the stage in all black, functioning almost like a Greek chorus, overseeing all. The sheer power of the ensemble, though, was breathtaking to the point where words almost fail. In comparison to the Met's chorus, Atlanta's was far and away much better in every sense, from nuance to power, from emotion to accuracy. They could take your breath away with sheer volume (as in Act I, at the end of the Funeral of Amenhotep III) or with sheer, huanting, devastatingly beautiful quiet (as they sang Psalm 104 at the end of Act II).

I did have a few minor complaints about the performance. The bass was unable to really make his voice heard over the chorus in the funeral scene for Amenhotep III; I suppose you could blame the chorus for this, but they are supposed to be loud, and he just couldn't keep up. Also, I've listened to the recorded version of the opera enough to pick up some subtle musical shifts that very well may have been in the score but not on the recording (most notably, the addition of cymbals in "The Window of Appearances" at the end of Act I). Additionally, the orchestra (composed only of woodwinds and percussion, and a violin-free string section composed only of violas, cellos, and basses) seemed rather muted; it may have been I simply couldn't hear them as well from my seat (which was only about 6 rows back from the stage and pit), but perhaps not. I felt occasionally that the orchestra may have been a bit off, too, but I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, as I was simply going on memory of a recording, while they had the score in front of them. The conductor himself seemed to do a fine job, though, and aside from these minor quibbles, I had no complaints.

Indeed, after almost 15 years of waiting to see a live performance of Akhnaten, I was actually kind of anxious going into it, fearing that I would have built it up so much in my hopes and expectations that it couldn't possibly match them. Mercifully and gloriously, it was even better than I'd hoped and proved to be as triumphant, if in radically different ways, as any live performance of any style of music I've ever seen. And while I couldn't find any other reviews of the Atlanta performance online for anybody interested to read, I did find a highly amusing comparison of Obama and Akhnaten (and even a completely unsubstantiated claim that Obama is Akhnaten reincarnate! They even look alike! Color me convinced!)

[And an apology for reposting this - those who know me are aware of my technical struggles, which in this case manifested themselves in the accidental deleting of the previous posting.]

My Year of Opera (II): John Adams, "Doctor Atomic"

After my first foray into opera in a small setting, I followed up in October with John Adams' "Doctor Atomic" at the Metropolitan Opera House. The opera spends its two acts (the first taking place about a month before the test, the second taking place on the night/morning of the test) focusing on Dr. Robert Oppenheimer and the crew around him as they prepare for the first test of the atomic bomb at the Trinity site in New Mexico. Adams and librettist Peter Sellars examine the personalities and conflicts (internal and external) among Oppenheimer, his wife, Gen. Leslie Groves, Edward Teller, Robert Wilson, (both scientists involved in the project), and the fictional indigenous Tewa maid Pasqualita, all giving an incredibly human face to the production of the atomic bomb that avoids any mythification or villification of the characters involved. Indeed, Sellars' libretto does a great job at showing things such as Oppenheimer's simultaneous self-importance and self-doubt or (in a darkly humorous moment) Groves' hubris as he insists, while a storm rages and threatens the test, that the weatherman had better make the skies clear up.

While the libretto gained strength throughout the opera, it was by far the weakest component to me. Choosing to base the material on a conglomeration of literary texts (poems by John Donne, Charles Baudelaire, and others, as well as the Bhagavad Vita, which Oppenheimer quoted upon the successful first test) and transcripts from the notebooks of the scientists at the Trinity site. This led to a strange mixture between rather tedious scientific technical speech about the way the atomic bomb works, and abstract, metaphorical, fluid lyrics. These two approaches don't really mesh well, and lead to some rather boring lyrical passages, particularly in the first act (which is the more scientifically technical of the two). That said, the libretto does have its moments of brilliance, particularly in getting at the complexities of Oppenheimer mentioned above, and especially in the closing scene of the first act, in which Oppenheimer quotes Donne ("Batter my heart, three person'd God," from which the Trinity site gained its name), struggling with what his legacy will be as he confronts the bomb itself, a massive, wired ball hanging above the stage.

Adams' music, however, was a wonderful surprise. I was not terribly familiar with his work (though I've since begun checking out his works from the library, and find he's an amazing composer). I was really struck by Adams' score, a strange and wonderful style that incorporated elements of minimalism, eastern rhythmic styles, and the grandness of Aaron Copland. It didn't hit me at first, but that was probably more in part because I was focusing on the staging and set design and thinking to myself, "Really? Lyrics based on how an atomic reaction works?" To me, the music really hit its stride at the same time the libretto did - at the end of Act I. That said, I didn't think beforehand that the music was underwhelming in the way I thought the libretto was, so it would be great to go back and give another listen (unfortunately, Doctor Atomic is not out on CD yet). And Adams' music deals with a very tricky aspect quite deftly. In dealing with a subject matter that culminates in the detonation of an atomic bomb, which is unquestionably one of those moments in history where it's pretty easy to say, "things changed in strange ways from this moment on." Rather than trying to build up musically as dramatically as possible and falling flat, Adams takes the opposite approach of the musical anti-climax. As all the actors lay down on their bellies, goggles on, a countdown sounds, and Adams cuts the orchestra out, instead using a rumbling tape loop as the lights grow brighter and brighter (symbolizing the bomb). The opera ends with the rumble fading as a recording of a woman asking for water in Japanese repeats. The effect may not seem impressive on paper, but in person it was absolutely devastating, and its minimal "musique concrete" was exactly how the opera had to end, given the subject matter.

While my experience with "Oresteia" involved no "set design" in the traditional sense, "Doctor Atomic" was another matter entirely. The set design was a stark contrast to the sparse Xenakis work. The most important part of the set were two hulking, 3-story "walls" with individual compartments which at the beginning had the crude, actual photos of every scientist involved in the Manhattan Project; inside each compartment, there were members of the chorus working away at complex math and physics problems on chalkboards. These two "walls" were moved throughout the opera as necessary, but much of the action was based around them, whether it be as a scientific work area, the tower where the bomb was being assembled, or a showcase for the different indigenous animal symbols of the southwest during Pasqualita's solo (as a side note, Adams and Sellars did a nice job of incorporating the presence of indigenous peoples and their worldview without resorting to a "noble savage" stereotype). There was also a hulking mass of metal wires and rods covered in drapes in the background, rather successfully serving as the mountains of New Mexico as well as symbols of melted wreckage at the end of the opera. And in terms of symbolic importance, there was the massive bomb itself, which was lowered and raised throughout the performance, hanging over the stage as a constant reminder of its power and terror. I was really impressed by the whole design, and found it one of the stronger aspects of the opera (though other reviewers disagree: see here for a review that was underwhelmed).

My experience with "Doctor Atomic" was overall a joy, and other critics seemed to enjoy it, too (particularly the New York Times, which was glowing in its review and which included video selections from the production). However, the audience's reception was far more mixed. The applause at the end was delayed and, when it began, rather half-hearted. As I was leaving, I overheard two comments that really seemed to hit the general reception on the head: one woman said, "It was fine and all, but I thought I would have liked it more," while another gentleman in a different conversation commented to his friend, "It was worth seeing, but I wouldn't see it again." I simply did not share these feelings, though - it was quite a production, at least to me. It did not hit me in the same emotional way as the Xenakis production had, but that didn't take anything away from the overall experience. Indeed, in one way, it was way more personal than the Xenakis piece could ever be, because I have been to the Trinity site, and, having lived (and in many ways having "come of age" in New Mexico as I lived by myself for the first time), I couldn't stop thinking of the landscapes, the mountains, the expansive open-ness, and the Trinity site itself, giving the opera a particular and somewhat peculiar personal importance.

My Year of Opera (I): Iannis Xenakis, "Oresteia"

A bit ironically (given that I live only a short subway ride from the Metropolitan Opera House), the first opera I attended was not at the Met, but at the tiny Miller Theater at Columbia University. There, at the beginning of September, I saw the American premiere of Iannis Xenakis' bizarre, terrifying, intense opera, Oresteia. While the Greek tragedies on which Xenakis's work is based are complex, Xenakis instead focuses on a few key portions of the narrative, mainly, Cassandra's challenge in being clairvoyant but having nobody believe her, the guilt Orestes feels before and after murdering his mother, and Athena's decree and the turning of the Furies into the Eumenides. To tell this story, Xenakis used primarily percussive instruments (with a few woodwinds and one cello mixed in), a men's, a women's, and a children's chorus, and one soloist (a bass). Additionally, this particular production included ballet dancers providing interpretive dance for some of the key narrative passages, and a large screen hovering over the right side of the stage, with random abstract images occupying it throughout the performance.

I had never heard any recordings of the opera, and it was remarkable and unlike anything I'd ever heard before (which is saying something). The real highlight was the second "movement," "Kassandra," composed strictly of a solo percussionist and bass Wilbur Pauley providing narration both as the leader of the Greek chorus in his natural bass, as well as the dialog of Cassandra, offered in a falsetto, leading to the bizarre-but-captivating effect of one man dialoguing two narrative voices with himself. Pauley's delivery of that mono-dialogue was extremely absolutely spellbinding (he would also do this later on as he took on the role of Athena decreeing the fate of Orestes and the Furies), and its intensity was matched only by the solo percussionist behind him. While a men's chorus and a women's chorus also provided narration and vocal context, it was really Pauley who had the meat of the material, and who stole the show.

In between Pauley's two solos, the men's and the women's chorus took turns furthering the narrative, with the men doing so in the first part of the opera and the women taking over halfway through. The men's chorus was very good, but it was the women's chorus that had the most memorable part of the whole opera. As Orestes is dealing with the torment of the Furies, the 25-30 female voices all sang different, conflicting, discordant notes, shrilly, at the top of their lungs, all at once, in a cacophony so terrifying that I thought to myself (without hyperbole), "Combine this sound with actual feelings of guilt, and this is what hell feels like, right here." I had goosebumps all over my body. I don't know how, but in that one bit alone, Xenakis hit the rawest, most terrifying, most emotional music I've ever heard in my life (and fortunately, that moment is recorded on the 50-minute CD version of the opera).

And that wasn't the only instant of such intensity. Throughout, the percussive music gave the opera a cutting edge that made everything tenser, and as the opera came to a close, the combination of percussion, winds, the men's, women's, and children's chorus (the latter portraying the Eumenides), all joining together at their loudest, resulted in a wash of sound again like any I heard, one that made me want it to never end, so intense, so raw, so emotional, and so unlike anything else I'd ever heard was it. Without question, the music was what made the spectacle such an event, so amazing.

That said, the other portions of the opera were none too shabby, either. I really enjoyed the dance, which surprised me somewhat. The thought of interpretive dance never seemed like it would be that interesting to me. Admitedly, I'd never seen any interpretive dance (save for the Dude's landlord, Marty, and his cycle in The Big Lebowski), and I was amazed by how fit and fluid the dancers were. In some other musical or theatrical contexts, their movements may have seemed ridiculous, but it fit the mood and music perfectly.

As for the (translated) libretto, it was sufficient enough to move forward the narrative in an understandable way. It wasn't particularly poetic in the traditional sense, but it didn't need to be, and Xenakis did a great job of keeping a sense of the Greek poetics of their tragedies in tact. Due to the length of the opera vs. the original plays, there were obvious gaps, but they weren't a detraction; indeed, the flowing, ephemeral, abstract narrative actually went quite well with the visual and musical components of the show, as did the abstract (and apparently completely unrelated) images projected on the screen.

If there was one complaint I had for the opera, it was the space. Miller was amazingly intimate, and so in that regard, it was great - even though I was in the last row of the balcony, the seats were way better than anything I could afford somewhere like the met. Still, part of the choreography called for the dancers to move out into the audience on the first level, and so they were out of my line of sight. Additionally, Miller's balcony is layered in such a way that an elderly woman directly in my line of sight in the first row of the balcony kept leaning forward for a better view, often times obstructing my view with her (unusually large for New York) hair. Still, this wasn't a total loss, as the fact that there was so much going on to watch (the televised images, the choruses, Paulley, the dancers, and the musicians) that I didn't lose any major component of the opera for too long. Still, ground level seats probably would have been much better.

In all, my first opera was a rousing success. Of course, there are few out there (at least that I'm aware of) that are like "Oresteia" in instrumentation, length, or presentation, but I don't really know what they are, so it was something totally new for me. It was hands-down an amazing spectacle and one of the best productions of any medium I've ever seen, period. After the show ended, it was clear that, while the "modernism" of the opera satisfied many (like myself), many others were of the persuasion of "what the hell was that?" or even "ugh - who could like that?!" But I was definitely impressed, and thought all the performers did a great job, especially Paulley and the musicians.

And for those who are interested in some other views (generally by people who know what they are talking about much more than I do), the Times, Opera Today, and this blog all had pieces on the Miller Theater performance.

My Year of Opera - Intro

Like many people, I know virtually nothing about opera, and my experiences with it up to this point have been minimal. In my very young childhood, there were the occasional "operas" on Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, which I absolutely adored. In high school, I saw an English production of Mozart's Don Giovanni streamlined to draw audiences into opera a bit more, and I liked that well enough. Also as a teenager, I got into the music of Philip Glass, and I've remained a big fan of the three operas of his "revolution cycle" (Einstein on the Beach, Satyagraha, and my personal favorite, Akhnaten). Beyond those three youthful instances, though, my contact with and knowledge of opera has not really gone beyond knowing about Brunhilde (which I thought for the longest time was spelled "Brunhilda") and knowing that opera in general was a big production.

However, since moving to New York, I've begun to try to rectify this situation out of a genuine interest to learn more about what was once one of the more popular forms of musical expression. As I work at a university library part-time, I've begun checking out operas from the music library to give them a listen and figure out what I do or don't like and why (any suggestions, anybody)? And of course, with the Metropolitan Opera House only a short subway ride away, I am trying to attend a few operas here and there, albeit with the financial restrictions of a part-time job and a grad student stipend provide. That said, over the next year (or maybe longer), I thought it would be fun (for me, if for nobody else) to sort of go at opera from a layman's standpoint, trying to get into opera from the viewpoint of somebody who knows a decent amount about music but virtually nothing about a major genre that we're all raised with (even if it's to instinctively recoil at the notion of the "high culture" of opera).

Anyhow, consider this post an intro/warning of a new series. Although I hope to go into virtually every opera as uninformed as I can (primarily by not reading of reviews of the performances I'll see), I'll try to include some differing reviews by those who are more informed than I that may raise different criticisms or praises, for those who are interested. Ideally, this will get some interesting discussions going on operas, "professional" vs. "layperson's" views on/perceptions of opera, and which operas are duds and which are not; worst case scenario, this ends up being a vanity project that amuses me and nobody else, and given that that's how many blogs start off anyways, I won't feel too torn up about it.