Last-minute Walküre in Bayreuth

On a hot summer's evening in Paris in 1988, two French friends phoned me from a Bed and Breakfast in Bayreuth, Germany. Marc and Pierre were  preparing to go to the opera. Nothing new - Marc and Pierre spent their lives preparing to go to the opera. Or in the case of Pierre, the more emotional of the two, recovering from going to the opera. Pierre lived his "vie lyrique" as he described the abiding passion of his life, at a very intense level.  Joan Sutherland's final "Lucia" left him too moved to speak for 24 hours.  "Parsifal" in virtually any production would leave him in a week-long state swoon. And that evening, there they both were, Pierre, the emoter,  and Marc, the organizer in a Bed and Breakfast just a few yards from the Festspielhaus. The following day would see the beginning of "Der Ring des Nibelungen." This Ring cycle would also mark the debut of a respected but not particularly well-known British bass, John Tomlinson, in the role of Wotan.

I did know Tomlinson's work. I had seen him sing to his coat as Colline in La Boheme at the ROH, and in the much more spectacular role of Baron Ochs in Strauss's Rosenkavalier at ENO. I knew that this was a Titan of a man onstage. Tomlinson, as  Wagner's flawed and troubled god,  could it seemed, move the character away from the gloomy, stately old man of some earlier productions and bring his volcanic energy to a much younger incarnation. I'd told my French friends as much. Thanks to Marc, the organizer, they had applied for Bayreuth tickets a couple of centuries in advance and were headed for a local bierstüberl in happy anticipation of an early sausage supper and a great evening of opera.

I, on the other hand, seem to lack the bit of the brain that plans. I had no ticket to Bayreuth but, as an Air France employee, I did have free air travel. Two minutes into my conversation with Pierre and I knew that I had to jump on a plane to Nuremberg and ride a train to Bayreuth where I would take my chances at getting a last minute ticket for the following day's Walküre..

Next day, there I was, walking for the first time in my life up the green hill to the Festspielhaus. I would like to say that I was moved and excited but, in truth, I was frazzled by the travel and anxious that this was a barmy undertaking that would leave me locked outside the theatre.  A small part of me hung on to a hope that I would get a returned ticket. Looking at the stately opera-goers headed up the hill was heartening. Many of them were quite old, some a tad infirm. Surely somebody would keel over before Die Walküre started?

Mark and Pierre were happily anticipating their evening. So, I saw at the top of the hill, were scores of hopeful, would-be opera-goers. Ticket hunters were everywhere and all more organized and alluring than I could ever hope to be. There were women and a few men dressed as Brünnhilde. There were several Wotans and  even a couple of Hundings. Some people had drawn cartoons on posters explaining their need for a ticket. Others held up simple banners. I had nothing.

The trumpeters came out onto the Bayreuth balcony to summon the audience. Marc and Pierre wished me luck and disappeared inside. So did most of those resourceful hopefuls. Soon, the bustling little square in front of the theatre was empty -except for me and the Bayreuth fire engine, oh and an English couple with their teenage son who had drawn lots: one act per family member.

I lost heart and drifted back down the hill to have a cup of tea on a patio next to the  more ornate old Margrave theatre. In all my years of opera-going, I had never failed to get in at the last minute. I would always declare airily that: "Wagner (or Puccini or Verdi or Strauss) knows I love him and will look after me." They always had but now, in his spiritual home, Wagner had abandoned  me.  Forlorn and disappointed I wandered back up to the theatre. I even walked round it a couple of times, thinking that I might be able to hear something, anything but all I could hear was birdsong and the distant hum of traffic. The audience spilled out. Pierre and Marc were in a state of high excitement. "Tomlinson est epoustouflant!" cried Pierre. "C'est un Wotan volcanique! Titanique!" Well yes, I knew that. "C'est la plus grand soirée de ma vie lyrique!" added Pierre never a paragon of tact.  And back they all went inside - all except me. I wandered around the lovely gardens on the hill, admired the flower beds and tried to take consolation, as did all my great composers, in nature.  But roses and beech trees and blackbirds brought no comfort that evening. I debated returning to the B and B but I couldn't resist returning to the Festspielhaus one more time. The audience flooded out into the gardens again. Pierre was in near-swoon again when, Marc, ever calm, logical and organized said, "Now that you are here, why don't we see if you can, perhaps, just look inside the theatre?" He led me towards the door and up the stairs. Nobody stopped me. I was walking up the stairs inside the Bayreuth theatre! Soon I was in the box that Marc and Pierre were sharing with two other people. The auditorium was empty during the long meal-length interval. I could gaze at the theatre and imagine all that I was missing. I had settled for doing just that when I heard Marc asking a passing usherette if "Madam could, perhaps, just stand at the back of the box for the last act?" "Why would she do that?" asked the usherette, "when the other people went home and she can sit down?"

I was in! And I was in for  Wotan's great farewell, what I consider, the most moving and beautiful passage in the whole Ring Cycle if not in the whole of western music.  The lights dimmed, I took my seat. I did not, of course, see Barenboim making his way to the podium. This was, after all, Bayreuth where he was probably in blue jeans and t-shirt under the roof that Wagner himself had decreed should be installed over the orchestra pit. So in the absolute darkness that is Bayreuth, I waited for the arrival of the Valkyries, and, later for Wotan/Tomlinson himself.  I would like to say that I sat thrilled and moved beyond description. I would like to say that, as for Pierre, it was the greatest evening of "ma vie lyrique." However, the shock of my sudden arrival overwhelmed the performance itself. Throughout the Valkyries ride and the first entrance of Wotan, I was too stunned to take in much of the action onstage. And when I did...when I finally did.....

Well, the Kupfer production was thrilling in its energy and drive but visually his use of geometric, laser-lit shapes was disappointing and unexciting. As for Tomlinson, well he played Wotan as he would continue to play him for most of his career - as a raging,  foaming at the mouth, mad-dog of a god.  Alas, and how heartfelt is that 'alas', I never quite agreed with that interpretation. Vocally, back then, the man was stupendous and  tireless. Neither he nor any of the other singers were served by a production that, while exploding with energy, still lacked visual excitement. Dark, dark sets and dreary laser cubes of light replacing Wagner's flames. For me Sir John found his Wagnerian calling when he went on to pour  that unflagging drive and energy into Hans Sachs in Graham Vick's gorgeous production at Covent Garden. There we had one of the greatest performances of the 20th century.

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Wagner Encounter in Canada's Kootenay Mountains

I was driving back to Vancouver from Nelson, British Columbia one October afternoon and had decided to take the route up past Ainsworth Hot Springs towards Nakusp and on through the mountain to Vernon. It was a day and night of torrential rain. I stopped and soaked in the Springs, visited the sweet little town of Kaslo and was fiddling with the CD player in the rental car when I came to New Denver.

The afternoon was darkening and the mountain range that lined my route was disappearing into low cloud. I pulled into New Denver in the hope of finding a cup of tea and a decent cake, and soon saw that this was a small one-street town. The autumn colours gave it charm. As I was driving down the main street, my eye was drawn to a photo of a man in a shop window. His was an Edwardian face that I thought I knew: CS Lewis? Elgar? What on earth would they be doing in the middle of rural BC? I did a U turn, parked the car and got out to look.
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The Edwardian man was none other than Arturo Toscanini - his face gazing sternly out from a CD cover. But by now, it was the adjacent window that had my attention. The Dream Ring" was the title of a box CD sitting in dead centre. Somebody, whoever it was who owned this surprising little shop, had, as far as I could make out, created his or her idea of a perfect Ring by mixing various singers into one dream performance.

The shop also served as the information centre for the nearby provincial park which went by the name of, and I am not making this up, the Valhalla provincial park. The shop was closed but a lone woman was walking along the street and seemed to be heading towards it. I watched her approach. It was one of those rare days when we seem to be aligned with whatever it is that runs our universe. Of course, this lone woman would be headed to this particular store, of the score of businesses on the street. And she was. But she was the wife of the maker and mixer of all that recorded music. I sensed that she didn't quite share my enthusiasm (not surprising really. I was in a state of high excitement. Toscanini and Richard Wagner in the shadow of the Valhalla Provincial Park!) She let me in and let me look around. Her husband, Richard Caniell, had worked for RCA in New York, where he had attended most of Toscanini's concerts. Caniell is the founder of Immortal Performances Recorded Music Society www.immortalperformances.org - a non -profit organization that offers some stunning Toscanini performances along with that Dream Ring - Mr Caniell's fantasy mix of the greatest voices of the Golden Age of the Met into a virtually seamless recording. Kirsten Flagstad, Lauritz Melchior and Friedrich Schorr's Wotan. I had maxed out the Visa and couldn't afford the Ring but I decided to take that 'Edwardian man' that I'd glimpsed in the window, along for the rest of my ride through the driving rain and the mountain passes. I purchased an "Arturo Toscanini - all Wagner" featuring Tannhauser, Tristan, Walkure, Lohengrin and Gotterdammerung with a rehearsal segment from 1947.

As dusk settled, Arturo Toscanini and I set off - he giving fairly good-natured instructions to the orchestra and croaking along with the music, I, negotiating some hair-raising bends in the battering wind and rain ad zero visibility. The maestro, Lauritz Melchior, Helen Traubel and I arrived safely several hours later. I like to think that some other great spirit, the creator of all that glorious music was overseeing our progress. After all, surely he must , waft by the Valhalla Park from time to time.

"Wagner without Fear" - my favourite guide to Wagner

This is not a new book. I was surprised to see that the first edition goes back to 1998 but William Berger's "Wagner without Fear" is one of the most enjoyable, informative, loving and entertaining books on this very trying genius that I have ever read. I picked it up at Seattle Opera last summer. I was in town preparing a feature for BBC Music Mag (US edition) on Seattle's ongoing, rather astonishing passion for Richard Wagner. I'd taken in a Ben Heppner recital, the International Wagner Voices Competition and a knock-out Aida with my best-ever Amneris, Stephanie Blythe. For the sake of my bank balance, I try to stay away from the shop at Seattle Opera. Their Ring-related stock is tasteful, often beautiful, sometimes amusing. There's a little corner for second-hand books on opera that often throws up a treasure I can't afford. And anyone passing through should treat themselves to Seattle education director Perry Lorenzo's insightful and entertaining CD guide to the Ring.

But this summer, I wandered in - I always do, and there was William Berger's 442 page guide to Wagner. I'd intended to save it for the bus journey back up to Vancouver. It looked like a dip-in kind of a book. I read it in one go. Berger welcomes us to the art of Richard Wagner and takes us on through his 'strange life and career', all the operas, guides to 'Wagner Issues' (anti-Semitism, nationalism among others) Wagner on CD, Wagner on Film, Wagner Soundtracks and rounds it all up with "Making the Hadj" - a pithy guide to a trip to Bayreuth.


If this all sounds like standard fare for a Wagner guide, Berger's combination of vast and deep knowledge with a sense of humour and an awareness of how uncomfortable and absurd Wagnerian ecstasy can be, make this the one book to buy for any of your friends who are contemplating a plunge into the Wagnerian ocean. Not only does he explain the plots and tell the reader what to listen for musically, he also provides sections such as: "Basics: When to Eat, Drink And Visit the Restroom", "Lobby Talk" (In Walkure this is "a note about horses and music") and, my favourite, the refreshingly honest: " Rough Spots and How to Get Through Them."