James Levine and the Met Orchestra, plus Joshua Rifkin at (Le) Poisson Rouge

A great concern of the music world lately has been the health of James Levine. On a recent Sunday afternoon, he took the stage of Carnegie Hall to lead his Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. He had the help of a cane. Then he climbed into his chair, a swivel chair sitting on a podium. And he conducted with great vigor and animation.

The first of the program’s two works was Mozart’s Serenade No. 9 in D, nicknamed the “Posthorn.” This is one of those long, multi-part works written to provide outdoor entertainment. Think of it as music to tailgate to (or not). I have long been skeptical that it should be played, in its entirety, in a concert hall, for people who just sit there and listen. I wonder what Mozart would say, if he could give us his opinion.

James Levine conducts The MET Orchestra / Photo by Chris Lee

In any case, Levine conducted the work superbly. He was at his Mozartean best. From first to last, the score was kissed by what I sometimes term “just rightness”: in tempo, phrasing, weight and so on. This question of weight is important: Levine gives his Mozart a gratifying substantiality. It is a relief from the dorky, popcorn quality of “period practice” (or unthinking period practice, it might be better to say).

I have mentioned that Levine was full of beans. At one point, he did a 360 in that swivel chair. There were giggles and gasps in the audience. A friend emailed me later, “Maybe he should get a seatbelt?”

On the second half of the program was Mahler’s Lied von der Erde, or Song of the Earth. This is a long, emotional and involving work. It requires pacing. You don’t want to spend too much emotion in the early going. You have to observe the arc. You want climaxes to have their maximum effect. Levine knows all this, of course. He respected all the elements of the work: the hurly-burly, the tranquility, the quirkiness. He kept the musical flow going, never letting it be interrupted, never permitting a blockiness or stagnation.

The two soloists were Michelle DeYoung, the American mezzo, and Simon O’Neill, the tenor from New Zealand. O’Neill owns a beautiful instrument, one that has just a little bleat in it. (At least it did on this occasion.) Unfortunately, this instrument could not be very well heard over Mahler’s, and Levine’s, orchestra. In my view, the conductor would have been wise to be a bit more accommodating. DeYoung has a beautiful voice too: warm and enveloping, excellent for Mahler, and Berlioz and not a few others. She sang her songs with intelligence, technical security and soul.

There are six songs within this great Song of the Earth. The final one is “Der Abschied,” “The Farewell.” It was rightly moving, emotionally. DeYoung was sometimes conversational, sometimes inward. Her utterances of “Ewig”—“Forever”—were beautifully simple and unaffected. Levine expressed the mysticism of this song without forgetting musical straightforwardness. Incidentally, you could hear the subway during “Der Abschied.” You can very much hear the subway in the downstairs venue in the Carnegie building, Zankel Hall. Sometimes it sounds like a roar. But you can hear it in the main auditorium too.

Levine is known for long or generous concerts: His concerts are longer than pretty much anybody’s. You get a lot for your money. It occurred to me that the Brahms Requiem, which is just a little longer than Das Lied von der Erde, is often an entire program.

Several years ago, my colleague Fred Kirshnit suggested that we write reviews of concerts before they took place, based on our experience with the relevant performers, and with the music world in general. That way, the public would not have to bother with going to the concerts. He was just kidding, of course. I thought of him when I read something on Carnegie Hall’s website before the afternoon with Levine and the Met Orchestra: “On this concert, these exemplary musicians bring a fresh new energy to Mozart’s ‘Posthorn’ Serenade.” Oh, how did they know? Luckily, Levine, swiveling around, supplied the energy needed.

Five nights later, he conducted Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra at the Met. He was in fine form, musically. He did not take the stage afterward for a bow, however. He waved from the pit. The rumor mill is saying that the maestro will soon announce his retirement from the Met. He has to retire someday, of course. But, to quote a line from Barber’s opera Vanessa, words by Menotti, must the winter come so soon?

A Tinge of Nostalgia

Forty years ago, the pianist Joshua Rifkin recorded Joplin rags for the Nonesuch label. Ragtime enjoyed a huge revival in the 1970s. Because of Rifkin? Well, mainly because of a movie called The Sting, I think. It had a soundtrack of Joplin’s music. Everyone got to know “Solace,” “The Easy Winners” and, especially, “The Entertainer.” And when people went hunting for LPs of Joplin—they found Rifkin.

He taught us how to play the rags, really. He treated them essentially as classical music. He was not frenetic or jazzy in them. This was not honky-tonk material. He let the rags proceed at their natural, often stately tempos. They had an internal logic, mesmerizing. A lot of us wore the grooves off. Joplin was a treasure, and Rifkin was his foremost exponent.

The pianist was in New York the other night, playing at (Le) Poisson Rouge, the club on Bleecker Street. (Don’t ask me to explain the parentheses.) Rifkin played Joplin—and Bach, and a Brazilian composer of tangos, Ernesto Nazareth (1863-1934). He did not play these composers in separate sets. He had them mingle.

He began with the C-major prelude from Book I of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. Then he went right into “The Entertainer,” which is in the same key. (Is “The Entertainer” not one of our national anthems?) In due course, he gave us our first Nazareth tango. These pieces turned out to be real charmers and beauties—and, for many of us, no doubt, discoveries.

Rifkin played the tangos and rags with sympathy and taste. I mean no disrespect when I say that his Bach was not especially distinguished. It was competent. I found myself waiting for the rags and tangos, which were special. I felt a tinge of nostalgia, as I imagine some others did, too. I remembered those rags, and those Rifkin tracks. I could practically hear the crackles. I had forgotten how great the “Magnetic Rag” is. “Magnetic” is the word.

At (Le) Poisson Rouge, you naturally hear the clatter of dishes and other bar-restaurant noises. During the Bach pieces, they sounded wrong, even offensive. During the others—not so much. Joplin and Nazareth, beautiful and refined as they are, can take a little clatter.