by Ann Partridge
My discovery of Thomas Quasthoff's CDs last winter prompted me in May to buy two tickets to his August 10 recital at Alice Tully Hall in New York City. I couldn't really afford them, but thought it would probably be my best opportunity to hear him this year. His recital was scheduled for the day after I finished playing piccolo for a series of outdoor summer band concerts, so it seemed like it would be a nice treat to sit back and listen to someone else perform - especially such a wonderful singer. My only concern was that having invested $85.00 in a pair of tickets to a vocal recital, it might turn out that either I got sick and couldn't go or Quasthoff might be ill. (I am the sort of person who would prefer to bet on a horse race after it has already been run!)
My last two concerts were scheduled for August 2nd and August 9th. I had a little case of nervous ... (well you know) ... before the August 2nd concert, shrugged my shoulders and figured, "What the hey. It's not the first time, and this concert is a challenging one for me." So I played, forgot about it, and went home from work early the next day, sick as a dog, and thinking, "I guess this isn't just nerves." Still, I figured it would be over with in a few days and I would be fine for my next concert and the Quasthoff recital following.
Wrong.
It lingered. I ate alot of rice. It still lingered. More rice. Rehearsal night. More rice. Concert night. More rice and alot of remedies for . . . (Well, you know) . . . lined up on my music stand, while I'm thinking, "Partridge's Law states that you should never go further than 20 feet from the bathroom when you are in this state, and not only did you drive half an hour to be here, but the facilities are at least 150 yards from this band shell, and you are front row center and playing a piccolo and someone is bound to notice if you leap up and run for it in the middle of the 1812 Overture. It was not my all-time best performance, but I didn't actually have to make any premature exits.
The next day, for the Quasthoff recital I was in a similar state. I went to meet the friend who was attending it with me armed with some deli food for him and a bucket of rice for me and apologized for not being able to go to the nice restaurant he wanted to take me to. I didn't want to admit exactly how precarious my state was though, for fear that he might advise me to stay home. (He is a long-suffering fellow who has been playing the piano for me for years and has much more good sense than I do!) Even so, Partridge's Law was running through the back of my mind as we negotiated New York City traffic and found our way to Alice Tully Hall.
I was not reassured when we got there. Our seats were towards the rear of the orchestra and almost dead center. If I had to make a run for it, I would have to climb over 14 people and certainly incur the just wrath of the performers. No doubt about it, I shouldn't have been there. Of course, I took all of my medicine. Of course I knew that I would last ok, just as I had the previous night, but still....
At last, Quasthoff and his accompanist, Justus Zeyen walked onto the stage. I was trapped. This had better be worth it.
They started with Schumann's "Dichterliebe". I could hear that it was a beautiful performance, but I was not imediately being magically transported by it. This was a huge dissappointment, considering the risks I had taken to be there, but it was not their fault. Between cramps and fear of disrupting them, I just couldn't relax. Yet as they continued to perform, they began to pull me out of myself. Quasthoff is the most purely musical performer I have ever heard in my life. For all that he is enormously entertaining and theatrical - shrugging his shoulders eloquently and with perfect timing after "Ein Jungling liebt ein Madchen," for instance - he is not there to show off. He is there to be the voice of everyone in the room. I soon enough discovered myself breathing with him and becoming absorbed in the music. I was with him so much at one climactic moment that his intense attack upset my stomach, yanked me back out of the music and made me turn to my friend at the intermission and say, "I think I need to leave now." He performs with incredible strength.
I managed to hang in there for the second half of the concert and was glad that I did so. He teased the audience a little before his Mozart pieces, ("Abendempfindung", "An Chloe" and "Warnung"). "We have to make an announcement," he said with enormous gravity. "But don't worry, I am not going to leave the stage." The audience all chuckled as he announced that they were changing the order of the Mozart pieces, and then they launched into them. Lovely and absolutely fascinating to a piccolo player (who doesn't have to cope with anything as dangerous as words while playing music) how he manages the whole added dimension of expressing poetry so musically. He is clearly very thoughtful about his text. He would be musical even if he were simply sitting on stage reciting poetry. I know that people are clambering for him to sing opera. I would be just a curious to see what happened if he decided to perform Shakespere.
He finished with a number of pieces from Mahler's "Des Knaben Wunderhorn." By that point, I had pretty much forgotten my digestive ailment. It's a good thing too. I wouldn't have survived the intensity of the Mahler if it had still been bothering me as much as earlier. Even though I really missed the orchestra from the CD recording, the music was tremendous. I still can't quite believe the intensity of it in live performance, and I am thoroughly jealous of Quasthoff's ability to sing equally well during the most forceful and the most delicate moments of these pieces. "Urlicht" was an extrodinary ending to the concert. Absolute magic. The silent pause in the middle was worth anything to have experienced. Especially when he is not singing, he is singing. The silence lingered afterwards as well, before the standing ovation began.
Quasthoff sang two encores, "Widmung" of Schumann and "Swing Low Sweet Chariot." Throughout the recital he had been seated on chair placed on a podium with a music stand in front of him, but for "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" he came out and just sat on the front of the podium without any music. The audience chuckled a little when he began, and again as he produced some of his wilder effects. It was really eerie listening to him sing this not only in excellent English, but with a Southern accent.
After "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," he disappeared off stage long enough for the rhythmic clapping to begin. It got so persistant, that even though it seemed clear that he wanted to end with "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," he was drawn back onto the stage.
Standing at the side of the stage looking very tired (he had been singing for almost two hours), he courteously apologized and begged the audience to be patient with him for not being able to sing any more encoures. He said that four days before at Tanglewood, he had been hospitalized for six hours for an intestinal ailment. I wish I could say that I heard the rest of what he said, but at that point, a certain piccolo player in a bright orange blouse (who would prefer to remain nameless) doubled up laughing hysterically ... and very loudly.
The anonymous piccolo player in question fervently hopes that Mr. Quasthoff did not happen to notice anyone in a bright orange blouse towards the back of the auditorium laughing callously at his very nasty ailment. It's just that by that point in the evening it had been a very looooong day for us both.