The Program at the Philadelphia Orchestra on Thursday included three pieces: Crown Imperial, a Coronation March by William Walton; The Young Person’s Guide to The Orchestra, by Benjamin Britten; and Amahl and the Night Visitors, by Gian Carlo Menotti. Collectively, they were marketed under Amahl, with the other two pieces serving, I suppose, as prolonged appetizers. I shall neither bore you, nor embarrass myself, by attempting to critically analyze the music in these pieces. My ignorance of Western orchestral canon is surpassed only by the active neglect that characterized my own musical studies. I was, in short, the perfect audience for a children’s program (if you can, in fact, call something a “children’s program” when it begins at 7:30pm).
We sat six rows from the front, perfectly positioned to peer up the noses of the violinists. Though I don’t wish to spend too much time on the subject, they appeared well-groomed. I have never sat so close to an orchestra before. Rather than the undefined mass that I see from the rafters where I normally perch, each individual performer comes into stark relief at such a short distance. Their movements are precise, dramatic, captivating. A purely auditory experience becomes a visual one too. And what a pleasurable experience it was.
Crown Imperial, by William Walton
As a piece to set the mood for the evening, you could hardly do better than Crown Imperial. It was both celebratory and triumphant, striking the perfect balance for the holiday season. Every now and again the triangle rang, sending a thrill of Christmasy goosebumps up my spine. The brass section sounded particularly lively. As a former butcher of the trombone, I always appreciate a brass section that doesn’t sound like someone’s draped a wet blanket over the whole group.
The piece is simply fun. It’s bright and alive and can’t fail to put a smile on your face. As someone who consistently falls asleep to orchestral music, I was shocked by my own engagement with the piece. It truly makes you want to stand and cheer, and very nearly makes you wistful for the monarchy, as conductor Bramwel Tovey slyly pointed out at the piece’s conclusion. Never fear, the nostalgia passes.
The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, by Benjamin Britten
Where has this Benjamin Britten been all my life? Scion of an operatic household, I was exposed to Britten at a young age through Peter Grimes, a raucous comedy about a bitter paranoiac, accused of murdering his apprentice, and Billy Budd, a farcical sea-shanty about mutiny, deceit, and execution in the Royal Navy. As a result, I expected an orchestral sort of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, instructing children to learn the names of each instrument or risk having their thumbs cut off with scissors.
Imagine my surprise, then, when this delightful piece of music began. Britten, whom I always imagined as a dour, wizened misanthrope, here created a transcendent orchestral experience for children (and for those of us who are grown, but are still musically juvenile). The music is bright and cheerful, and though undoubtedly complex, is designed to be comprehensible to the listener.
Musical Education
When Mr. Tovey ascended the podium to conduct Crown Imperial, he immediately reminded me of Professor Flitwick, the sprightly charms professor from Harry Potter. Having seen Yannic Nezet Seguin conduct Handel’s Messiah last week, I noticed rather a contrast between that strapping beefcake in his corseted jacket, and this jovial elf with a permanent music-stand-imposed hunch. He proved a mesmerizing teacher through Young Person’s Guide, charismatic and pleasant. He described each instrument simply and unpretentiously before explaining how the strings and the woodwinds would converse with one another, the trombones with the trumpets. I was thrilled to learn that the narration would continue throughout the piece. Many versions of Young Person’s Guide apparently omit that commentary. I can’t imagine why. Mr. Tovey was both charming and witty as he indicated which instruments were playing and disentangled their contribution from the whole. The music gained meaning as he spoke. It was like watching Google Translate in real time.
Bramwell Tovey gave me a rubric for understanding orchestral music that has eluded me for thirty years. I shall remember “And the double basses return to the cellar from whence they came” for the rest of my days. An orchestra aficionado might have found the narration frustrating, but it was so good-natured that only a true Scrooge would complain. As an orchestral novice, I was transfixed. Such coherent explanations never made an appearance in my musical education. I felt downright edified by the end of the piece. Had I heard Young Person’s Guide as a ten-year-old, I might never have tried to use my trombone as a hockey stick.
Amahl and the Night Visitors by Gian Carlo Menotti
At last, we arrived at the main event. Menotti’s opera, written for television, premiered in 1951 and made its way into my family’s VHS collection some 45 years later. As operas go, it’s extremely accessible. For starters, its 50-minute runtime wouldn’t get you through the first act of many operas. I don’t know how to quite describe the music. It was mostly recitative, I think, but I found it significantly more melodic than I usually expect from operatic chatter.
After the cheerful, upbeat first half of the program, Amahl is more languorous, more meditative. It should come as no surprise that the story of the crippled boy and his mother who learn of Jesus’ birth is not a lighthearted romp.
The production was certainly orchestra-focused. Costumes were modernistic and minimal: more allusions to the characters’ roles than any attempt to invoke period or place. The set was similarly spare, with a bench, a chair, a rug, and a few props. This modesty did not detract one whit from my enjoyment. Amahl is a simple story, and benefits from simplicity. Indeed, I found it far more engaging than the film that I remember.
Performances
Amahl: Dante Michael DiMaio is a charming young singer. He has a beautiful, clear voice, and acts the part of Amahl well. I don’t know how old he is, but he may be aging out of soprano roles. When hitting the higher notes, he lacked breath support, making his voice lose the color it had in his more comfortable range. It may, of course, have simply been an off-night, but it might be approaching time for Mr. DiMaio to shift to alto or tenor parts. He has an excellent stage presence and seems a consummate performer.
Mother: Renee Tatum was incredible. She has a voice that blew my hair back at thirty feet, and probably altered the air circulation in the upper balcony. Her long-suffering character was entrancing and gives the show its moral heft. The disparity between rich and poor, and the tension that disparity causes, aren’t exactly problems that we left in 1951.
Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar: I last saw Amahl at least a decade and a half ago, but I do not recall the three kings being nearly this funny. Granted, only a few jokes are dialogue-driven, but these kings’ performances are imbued with such humor that they were truly a pleasure to watch. Andrew Stenson, as Caspar, was fantastic. As the deaf king, he got the lion’s share of the jokes and did a wonderful job with the slightly obsessive Caspar. Vocal ignoramus that I am, I tend to dislike tenors, finding their voices sharp and narrow. Andrew, happily, illuminated for me how full and vibrant a tenor voice can be.
Brandon Cedel, as Melchior, had a rich, clean voice that demanded (and received) rapt attention whenever he began to sing. His role was small, but time seemed to slow when he sang. Man, I love baritones. Well, you’d expect me to. My father, David Holloway, was, or rather, is, a baritone. Are vocal ranges like the Marines? Semper Baritone?
David Leigh, as Balthazar, was similarly magnetic. His voice felt like it was entering my body somewhere around my navel. It was this deep, calming stream of music that settled into my soul like an antacid. David also sported an exquisite mop of curly hair and has a wonderfully expressive face. He looked like they cast him from an actual kingdom. I’m pretty sure I saw him once on Game of Thrones.
I did wonder occasionally how many chances they’d all had to rehearse on stage. I presume that for an orchestral opera like that, you don’t get to enjoy excessive preparation in the performance space. The space the actors occupied between the orchestra and the edge of the stage seemed cramped at times. Several props took a beating. The Birdcage, for instance, after a minute-long discussion of its occupant, received an inadvertent kick and was found to be empty. The parrot, who must have backed out of his role at the last minute, sighed with relief backstage. A couple of stones from the box of gems also found the floor, as did a silver goblet, kicked during the climax. I do not wish to imply that these minor fumbles hampered my enjoyment of the piece in any way. On the contrary, I found them humanizing. The singers handled each mistake with aplomb, responding quickly and (more importantly) smoothly. A little accidental physical comedy in opera is delightful, provided the performers take it in stride.
Overall, it was as fine an evening as I’ve ever spent at the orchestra. The mood was light and fun, the pieces short and beautifully performed. I left the theater with a feeling of immense goodwill and cheer. If there’s a better barometer of success for a holiday program, I certainly don’t know what it is. A small part of my soul wishes that I could tolerate more sophistication: say, a Bach sonata, or (heaven forbid) a Wagnerian epic. Nevertheless, if forced to choose between Amahl and the Night Visitors and The Messiah at the Orchestra next year, I’ll be content to listen to the Hallelujah chorus on Spotify.
The Philadelphia Orchestra plays Amahl and the Night Visitors one more time: on Saturday, December 15th at 8pm.