Rufus Wainwright and City Opera join forces
City Opera arranged one of the weirdest musical evenings I have ever attended. The evening was a combination of pretentiousness, vulgarity, sincerity and sweetness. City Opera dubbed it “Rufus Wainwright Goes to the Opera!” That exclamation point seems to try a little too hard.
The event was part of the River to River Festival, and took place in the Winter Garden Atrium down at the World Financial Center. Outside, unionists were stopping concertgoers and handing out leaflets. They were not dressed like typical unionists. They were wearing tuxedos, and some of them were playing instruments. These guys were members of the City Opera orchestra, protesting changes being made by George Steel, the company’s general manager.
Rufus Wainwright at the River to River Festival opera event. Photo by Michael McCutcheon
Inside, there was no orchestra, just a pianist, and an excellent one: Kevin Murphy, head of City Opera’s music staff. There were also four singers from the company: a soprano, a mezzo-soprano, a tenor and a bass-baritone. And there was, of course, the star.
Rufus Wainwright is a singer-songwriter who crosses over into classical music sometimes. He has written an opera, Prima Donna, commissioned by the mightiest institution in the field: the Metropolitan Opera. The Met dropped it, however, apparently because the libretto is in French, and the Met preferred English. City Opera will perform Prima Donna next season.
The program in the atrium was a hodgepodge. There were excerpts from standard operas, selected by Wainwright, if I’m not mistaken. They included such gala favorites as the duet from Bizet’s Pearl Fishers. (Wonderful stuff, all.) There were also two excerpts from Prima Donna. And there was a sprinkling of Wainwright pop songs.
If you have not experienced him, you will want to do so, at least once: Wainwright is a piece of work, a diva, almost a happening. He’s full of camp, and full of himself—but full of himself in a sly, self-knowing way. Near the beginning of the concert, he said, “We’re going to hear some of the most beautiful music in the world—my songs.” He delivered this line with winking appeal.
The crowd that turned out for him was enormous, standing room only. They did not pay—the concert was free—but I have a feeling they would have. Before Wainwright appeared, a man talked to the audience, introducing the event. I didn’t catch his name or affiliation. He marveled at the size of the crowd, then said, “Thank you so much for showing up for classical music!”
Allow me to make two quick points: 1) The crowd did not show up for classical music, exactly—it showed up for Rufus. 2) Classical-music presenters, at all costs, should avoid Sally Field mode: “You like me, you really, honestly like me!” It’s embarrassing.
Next to take the stage was George Steel, the City Opera GM. He made a puzzling remark, which went roughly as follows: “We’re leaving Lincoln Center and going back into New York, and we’re giving City Opera back to the people of New York.” Lincoln Center, as you know, is very much in New York. And how exactly were “the people” deprived of City Opera when it was at Lincoln Center?
Steel went on to praise Rufus Wainwright in the most extravagant terms: “one of the greatest living songwriters,” “passionate about opera,” “brilliant about opera.” Sometimes, it’s best to let audiences decide for themselves. Constant puffing, constant hype, is a bane of the classical-music world.
Wainwright made his appearance in a tuxedo jacket, tuxedo shirt, little black shorts and sandals. He began with a song of his called “Damned Ladies”: pleasant, chromatic, with a rocking accompaniment. (When singing his own music, Wainwright accompanied himself at the piano. Kevin Murphy handled the rest.) He sings decently, innocuously, more or less in tune. Like many another pop artist, he gets a sullen, earnest look on his face when he sings. Do you know this look? Also, do you know how a pop artist will scrunch up his face, as though the act of singing hurt? Wainwright does that.
All evening long, he talked to the audience, often in a mumble. Sitting in the second row, I had a hard time hearing him. Still, he said many interesting or witty things. Looking out over the vast atrium, he commented, “I’m feeling a Tiffany vibe.” He was referring to the 1980s pop star Tiffany, who often performed in malls. “Bring it to the masses,” Wainwright added, almost under his breath.
He made introductory remarks before each operatic item. The first was “O don fatale,” from Verdi’s Don Carlo. Wainwright told us he didn’t know what “O don fatale” meant. (“O fatal gift.”) This rather undercut Steel’s statement that the star was “brilliant about opera.” The next item was “Che gelida manina,” from Puccini’s Bohème. Wainwright had trouble, not with meaning, but with pronunciation.
Which isn’t everything, of course. Plenty of people can pronounce Italian without being able to compose a decent pop song.
Or an opera, of any quality. As I mentioned, there were two excerpts from Prima Donna. The first was sung by the soprano on hand, and the second was sung by the composer himself. The excerpts were similar in character: pretty and transparent, with an Impressionist sheen, or a minimalist wash. They were also a bit long and repetitive. During the second excerpt, audience members thought Wainwright had ended, so they applauded. He kept going, smiling at them.
Soon after came the “Evening Star Song,” from Wagner’s Tannhäuser. Wainwright said he could “relate” to the opera’s title character, “a very arrogant singer, who thinks he’s better than anyone else.” He also said that the “Evening Star Song” had a “crossover quality.” I cringed at this remark—but then thought, “You know, he’s right, in a way.”
Wainwright sang his song “Who Are You New York?”—another pretty number, although I wish I could insert a comma in the title—and also his “Vibrate.” The latter song followed the “Habanera” from Bizet’s Carmen, and uses the same rhythm.
The grand finale was the quartet from Verdi’s Rigoletto. In his preamble, Wainwright mentioned a famed American baritone, Cornell MacNeil—although I think he said “Colonel MacNeil,” as in Colonel Sanders. I’m picking on Wainwright a little. But his blasé approach to the evening had a strange charm, and his love of opera was obvious, and right.
There is no doubt that City Opera wants to be cool—and wants opera to be cool. Good luck with that. I always say, there’s a reason they call popular music “popular music.” Classical-music people are forever on the defensive, forever apologizing, forever wanting to be loved, by “the masses” (to use Wainwright’s words). They also cast votes of no confidence in their art form.
Thus, the New York Philharmonic opens its season with a new jazz work by Wynton Marsalis. (He may call it a symphony—a “swing symphony”—but it’s still a jazz work.) Thus, Carnegie Hall hires as its composer-in-residence a jazz composer, Brad Mehldau. Aren’t there plenty of opportunities for jazzmen, in the jazz world? Shouldn’t classical-music institutions promote—you know, classical music?
Rufus Wainwright is a fun and talented guy, and his adventures on the classical side are probably to the good. But if classical music hangs its hat on pop artists and their coolness—on that which is trendy, and ephemeral—we’re doomed.
