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Seen and Heard International
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Rick Perdian |
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Liederabend: New York, Carnegie Hall, 20. Januar 2018 |
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Kaufmann and Deutsch Perform Die schöne Müllerin at Carnegie Hall
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I have an indelible memory from a decade or so ago of Jonas Kaufmann in the
Zurich Opera’s production of Humperdinck’s Königskinder. That is when he was
garnering praise from every corner; the Financial Times gushed that he was
‘young, reckless, beautiful’. He and soprano Isabel Rey were downstage on
their knees, exhausted from their wanderings and just about to eat the
magical bread of death. I don’t remember a set in the final scene of the
opera, if indeed there was much of one, only Kaufmann kneeling, his face
etched with despair.
He had sung magnificently throughout, but it was
his connection with the role and his innate simplicity, honesty and dignity
that moved me so. Those attributes were crystallized in that one moment. I
have heard him since and at times felt that those qualities may have faded
with time and fame, but not on this occasion. Kaufmann is no longer either
young or reckless, but his voice is still beautiful and, as Schubert’s
ill-fated miller, I was again stirred by the raw emotion of his singing and
his innate naturalness on stage.
That is not to say that that
everything was perfect. He struggled vocally at times, especially early on,
in negotiating the passaggio of the voice, fudged some high notes, and the
bottom of his range was barely audible. In his final encore, ‘Der
Lindenbaum’ from Schubert’s other great cycle, Die Winterreise, his low
notes had to be taken as a matter of faith.
What does that amount to?
Just a few seconds of singing, but this was a song recital and the devil
does rest in the details. Would I be as forgiving if he were not still so
handsome and the voice perhaps even more burnished and beautiful?
It
was in ‘Die liebe Farbe’, when he sang of the maiden’s love for the color
green, that I again experienced an artistic moment of truth with Kaufmann.
Love had transformed the naïve young man into a suitor brimming with
confidence; however, after an outburst of jealousy, he once again was
humbled and turned inward. When Kaufmann sang of a grave covered with green
grass, it was with tears in his voice. The ebullience, even defiance, that
had been there just seconds earlier was gone, the miller’s fate was clear.
There were other moments, such as a turn deftly executed in ‘Wohin?’ or
the lovely sotto voce at the end of ‘Der Neugierige’, that just took your
breath away. I have perfection scrawled across the texts of ‘Morgengruss’
and ‘Pause’ in my program. In the final song, ‘Des Bachs Wiegenlied’, the
brook’s admonition that the maiden, the hunter and even the flowers dare not
gaze upon the forlorn lover was rendered by Kaufmann as a benediction upon
the man now in its watery keep.
Helmut Deutsch was Kaufmann’s partner
in this dialogue between voice and piano. No technical mishaps marred his
playing: his consummate artistry was on display throughout. Their first
three encores were his moment to shine — the delicacy and sparkle of ‘Der
Jüngling an der Quelle’, the quicksilver mood changes in ‘Der Musensohn’ and
the freedom and fancy of ‘Die Forelle’ — and Kaufmann seemed to accede in
that. In ‘Der Lindenbaum’ the eloquence of Deutsch’s playing was equaled by
Kaufmann’s poignant singing. The promise of rest was their farewell to
Kaufmann’s New York fans who had not heard him in four years.
And so,
do those few smudged passages and vocal glitches matter? Most certainly, but
I will trade technical perfection for honest and direct communication any
day. The former is commonplace enough, but the latter is increasingly rare.
Kaufmann is such an artist, and a few slips are easily forgiven.
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