A Battle Of Adjectives

PHOTO: Associated Press

The little people in Dallas – my two older grandchildren – generally begin their seven-minute trip to pre-school with a comment on the day.

The younger – the redhead – will usually remark, “Mommy, it is a beautiful day!”

“Yes sweetheart, it is indeed a beautiful day!”

Her brother – only 15 months older – rejoins, “Mom, it is a handsome day!”

“Yes sir! It is a handsome day!”

“It is a beautiful day!”

“No, it is a handsome day!”

“A beautiful day!”

“A handsome day!”

This battle of adjectives continues without resolution until they arrive to the distraction of another day at pre-school.

There is today. It is a sad day with the news of the death of Joan Sutherland, the renowned soprano.

When it comes to descriptive terms and Dame Joan, the only adjectives that could be argued would be those associated with any which disparage her ability, her achievements, and her good natured decency in a world famous for histrionics. As Brian Kellow would state in the article on her death in OPERA NEWS, “Sutherland ……was a model of consistency.”

There is just nothing bad to say about Dame Joan.

I first encountered the remarkable voice at a spaghetti feast in the home of my vocal coach sometime in 1962. A recording had just become available. We listened in absolute awe. The resulting comments of that evening centered around the general theme, “I cannot not believe this amazing instrument.”

It was unbelievable. After her debut at La Scala, the normally overly critical Italian press dubbed her, “La Stupenda!”

I last saw her on stage in a production of Donizetti’s Anna Bolena at Lyric Opera in Chicago in the mid-eighties. It was still unbelievable.

In contrast to the antics of Maria Callas, who had reintroduced the “bel canto” (beautiful song) to the opera world, Sutherland was sane and sensible. She never failed to live up to her audience’s vocal expectations. This “presbyterian” approach paid off in a long and celebrated career.

The career was void of controversy. There were no firings, no process servers meeting airplanes, no trysts on yachts off Greece, and no t-shirts sported by any casts which read, “I SURVIVED THE BATTLE.” Did you get that, Kathleen?

However, for this gifted singer, it was not a direct path to glory.

Sutherland, owing to her physical stature and on the advice of early voice teachers, felt that she would have a career in the ponderous melodies of Wagner. She admitted to seeing herself as a Kirsten Flagstad. I cannot imagine Dame Joan’s expansive chin strapped into a horned helmet. The glare from the breastplate would have been problematic, as well.

But thanks to the perceptiveness of Richard Bonynge, her vocal coach and accompanist at the Royal Academy in London, she was guided toward the upper register and toward the elaborate melodies of the bel canto composers. Bonynge, who would become her husband and favored conductor, taught her the intricate ornamentation required of this genre. Her trills were legendary. If you can listen to only one example of Joan Sutherland, I would recommend the 1964 recording of Bellini’s Norma. The “Casta Diva” is beyond belief.

The story goes that before the transformation to a coloratura had been completed, Sutherland stopped by the Metropolitan Opera in NYC in 1957 on her way from Vancouver to London. She auditioned and was accepted as a “stable soprano.” In any opera, there are many roles filled out by the “resident” singers of the company. The stars – big names – are the ticket sellers; the stable singers provide the backbone. She was offered $1,500 a week at that point. She declined the offer and when she returned triumphantly in 1961 as Lucia, she was paid almost 10 times that each time she walked on stage. Thank you Mr. Bonynge!

Sutherland’s voice had one peculiarity – well, actually two. Her diction, even when singing in English, was problematic. She did nothing to hamper the purity of her tone, so often you could not understand her words. She also used a “high tongue” position which did not impact her, but did do havoc for any number of singers who thought they could get away with it. Only Joan!!

Since Bonynge was often her vocal coach and critic, the two of them worked out a system where the voice was a "third" entity in the marriage. The voice could be discussed without it being personal. "Didn't you feel the voice was a bit under pitch today?" That can really ruin most marriages.

Sutherland was very conscious of her weight and stature on stage. As a result, she insisted on bringing her own costumes for opera productions in which she was appearing. While there were some concessions to the wishes of the production, the design and line of each of her outfits was styled to play down her width. Often, there was a lighter color material down the middle of the dress, with darker panels to the side. “Hey, look at me, I’m slim!”

But nobody cared. That voice did it for the world.

It was said that during rehearsal breaks she could be found backstage knitting for her grandchildren. She was unassuming, a regular person with the greatest voice of the century.

She was beautiful!

She was handsome!

She was both, and more!

In December, I will pull out “The Joy Of Christmas” and fill the house with the sounds of Joan. I will not understand many of the words, but that will not bother me in the least. It is about the voice!

Thank you Joan Sutherland.

It Is What It Is

Olivia is going to Venice. Italy is nice in October.

I have been to Venice. I have not met Olivia, but I understand that she is a pig. That is not a derogatory statement; she is literally porcine. My grandchildren know her well through the various books that chronicle her life. The youngest one in Florida attended a party this past weekend to launch the latest book in which Olivia travels to the city of canals.

As she was getting dressed the little one kept mentioning they were heading to a pet store. Her dad corrected her, “We are going to a book store!”

“We are going to a pet store,” she insisted.

“We are going to a book store.”

This continued all the way into the Olivia event at the local Border’s.

The little one is headstrong.

Perhaps she gets it from her grandfather. I am headstrong, but I prefer to cloak it in terms of passion. One of the many things about which I feel great passion is my church – one of the quirkiest places you will ever encounter, but also one of the most remarkable.

While the building itself is a fair example of the “arts and crafts” design of the 1930s, it is not an architectural treasure. I think of it as much like Warren Buffet’s house out in Omaha: What you see on the surface does not give you any idea about who dwells inside.

In my “physical” church there is dust on the windowsills. There is no air-conditioning in the hot summers of Chicago. The quality of the stained glass windows is uneven. The Sunday bulletin may even have typos that inadvertently have us “Praise God for our heavenly hots.” (That shocked the more menopausal of the congregation.)

The “fellowship hall” is encumbered with tables that prevent true fellowship because there is no custodian to put them away before Sunday and then put them back in place for a “welcome meal” that feeds those in need each Wednesday night. The same tables hold the notes of the mission group that wrestles with plans for the projects they are impacting the futures of those in need a half-a-world away.

The storage closets may be full of useless debris, but the people that often leave them ajar so that visitors peer in and make incorrect assumptions have a heart for social justice that runs deep and strong.

It truly is a very special place. A place with a heart of love.

However, my church is again in the throes of searching for a new minister.

We recently lost our pastor who, after a two-year stint, failed to connect with the congregation. He came to us from 23 years in the northern reaches of the USA – a small town of only 300 or so inhabitants. At the time of his arrival, our congregation, on Easter, would represent 2/3 of that village and in further contrast we are located in an area of seven million people.

It would have been culture shock for anyone – a difficult transition.

It proved to be overwhelming true for him since he perceived our congregation as merely a social group. He indicated he didn’t enjoy “smoozing.” Since he was unable to relate to his flock, there was never a connection between them and their “shepherd.” Worship services were void of the passion that his congregants needed to be prepared for life in such a world as ours.

Life at church became a routine of weekly occurrences; events seemingly unrelated to reality. Sparsely populated bland encounters for the most part.

One Sunday, as I left church, I overheard a member say – applying the great quote that Dorothy Parker said of Katharine Hepburn in the play, The Lake – “that worship service ran the gamut of emotion from A to B.”

His disconnect set in action a malaise within the congregation that finally resulted in agreeing to disagree. So now we look again for a leader.

WANTED: Intelligent, articulate minister with a vision. Requirements: a passion for faith, hope, and charity and an infectious zeal to share this freely with others. A people person!

Is anyone there?

When I think of great possibilities for us, I am drawn to the teachings of one of the great “revivalists” of our age, the English preacher Leonard Ravenhill. He is, of course, long gone. While Mr. Ravenhill was a profound teacher on the subject of prayer, he was also one who chastised our laidback approach to our faith. In attempting to illustrate our lack of enthusiasm for our beliefs, he once remarked, “you should never argue with a man who has had an experience.” If you were certain that you talked with an extra-terrestrial on your way to the office today, it would be foolish of me to try to change your mind.

Think about that. What you experience, you believe!

The oldest of the little ones, the four-year old in Texas, is now having weekly forays into the Christian faith. In chapel at his pre-school, the minister does a series “The ABC’s of Church.” For the letter “A,” he chose to talk about angels. For his visual, he showed the children a painting depicting a traditional angel with wings.

“That is not an angel, that is the tooth fairy,” my grandson interjected.

Never argue with one who has had an experience!

Recently I discovered David Platt, a young minister in a large Baptist church in Alabama. The discovery was thanks to David Brook’s column, “The Gospel Of Wealth,” which appeared in the New York Times, September 10, 2010.

While I am miles apart from Platt’s fundamentalist theology, I am impressed with his zeal – his passion – for his beliefs. His book, “Radical: Taking Back Your Faith From The American Dream,” (Multnomah Books; 1 edition May 4, 2010) attempts to show that Jesus’ teachings radically differ from our prosperity mindset. I have not read the book yet; it is on order.

I have watched several videos of Mr. Platt and am taken with his thesis. I am drawn to his degree of passion. He is no “all smiles with the perfect teeth and hair” of most of the mega-church pastors on the scene. He is not preaching the prosperity gospel. Instead, he challenges his listener to give everything to the poor. This young man is all business and his business is about living a life that is totally in tune with the teachings of Christ. Radical?

David Platt has had an experience.

This past Sunday, my great choir sang an anthem based upon Ralph Vaughan William’s tune, KINGS WESTON, and the words of Caroline Noel’s great hymn “At The Name Of Jesus.” To my thinking, it is the perfect hymn to embody what I believe – to embody my experience.

It is my faith captured in seven verses of 6565D meter.

But the tune which I associate with the text is also profound. Vaughan Williams builds the melody sequentially and finally reaches a peak from which the final phrase falls back to the beginning note. I can easily imagine Ralph sitting and pondering this great text back in 1925 before placing pen to manuscript.

It is a tremendous combination of music and word.

In our rehearsals, I chided my choir to imagine a heroic moment – a Scarlett O’Hara, fist clenched, dirty faced with streaming tears, all backlit moment – all in an effort to try to impart the passion of this great hymn. Sing it like you believe it; like you have experienced it!

As liberals, we are afraid of too much enthusiasm; too much emotion. We have to keep our cool.

Last Saturday, as the youngest little one emerged from her session on Olivia, she walked into the main area of Border’s.

She looked around for a moment.

Her father heard her remark quietly, “A pet store…………..with books!”

It is what it is.