A Singer’s Guide to the Great Composers: Mozart Pt1
It may have crossed your mind that in all these articles about composers of vocal music, I had inexplicably neglected to write about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I have looked at great musicians from Purcell to Puccini, Bach to Berlioz, but not perhaps the greatest of them all. I suppose this precocious Austrian has been so extensively reviewed, recorded, discussed and analysed, that I was somewhat in awe of even starting to write about him. However, his music has played such a huge role in my life and career that I cannot ignore him any further.
Born in 1756 in Salzburg, he was christened Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, but by the time he reached about 20 he had taken to calling himself Wolfgang Amadè and Wolfgang Amadeus is how he has been known ever since. The Theophilus part of his name means, roughly, “Lover of God” in Greek, which translated into Latin becomes Amadeus, and was really a sort of affectionate nickname which he chose to use for himself. The play by Peter Schaffer ‘Amadeus’, premiered in London in 1979 with Simon Callow as Mozart, Paul Scofield as Salieri and Felicity Kendal as Constanze, although fascinating, is a travesty of history as far as I can make out, and has not helped in our understanding of the composer and his extraordinary short life. Mozart died of an unspecified illness on December 5th 1791, at the age of 35, but left behind over 600 musical compositions, including the operas, ‘Le Nozze di Figaro’, ‘Don Giovanni’, ‘Cosi fan Tutte’ and ‘Die Zauberflőte’, which have come down to us as pinnacles of the Classical music style. The great Mass in C Minor and the Requiem (although unfinished) are two of the finest sacred works in the repertoire.
I have been fortunate to have sung in all of these works over my career, often with world class colleagues, and I hope I can tell you a bit about each, from the singer’s angle.
My first Mozart role was Colas in the early opera ‘Bastien und Bastienne’, which Mozart wrote in 1768 at the age of 12! It was performed as a double bill in the Byre Theatre in St Andrews the year after I left university together with its inspiration, ‘Le Devin du Village’ by the French/Swiss philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau. The flimsy plot revolves around a romantic tiff between a shepherd and a shepherdess, brought to a happy conclusion by the village soothsayer (me), who by means of quackery and mystical hocus-pocus, brings the lovers together again. It was interesting to find that the 12-year old Mozart had already discovered more theatrical and musical skills than one of the Enlightenment’s foremost minds! Colas sings a marvellous spell aria full of nonsense words and quasi Latin phrases (Diggi, daggi, shurry, murry), and I duly received one of the first rave reviews of my career. Later on, I took part in a semi-staged version of his incomplete opera, ‘Zaide’, which was a forerunner to his Turkish Singspiel, ‘Die Entführung aus dem Serail’.
In fact, Mozart wrote many operas or parts thereof in his short life, but there are four which define his legacy- the three Da Ponte Italian operas and the final masterpiece, ‘Die Zauberflőte’. Da Ponte was the librettist for Don Giovanni, Figaro and Cosi, and something of a genius in his own right. As Verdi had Boito and Wagner had himself, so Mozart is made greater by Lorenzo Da Ponte, of whom more anon.
I have a confession here – despite the magnificence of some of the music, I have never been able to enjoy or enthuse about either ‘Idomeneo’ or ‘La Clemenza di Tito’ or even ‘Die Entführung’, so I will refrain from examining these works. Recordings and commentaries are available, so please look at these if you are inquisitive.
I’m going to start with the last, ‘Die Zauberflőte’, or, as we know it ‘The Magic Flute’. Written in Mozart’s final year, and premiered on 30th September 1791, it was written for the Theater auf der Wieden, with a libretto by Emanuel Schikaneder, whose troupe played at that theatre. Schikaneder was an old-fashioned actor manager, friendly with Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven (whose ‘Fidelio’ he initially commissioned), and he himself played the role of Papageno, the comic role in the opera. ‘The Magic Flute’ was the last of a succession of fairy tale operas designed for the theatre, although Mozart took the genre and turned it into a masterpiece.
The main caveat is that the plot is a mess, as the story turns on its head halfway through. At the beginning Tamino and Papageno are sent on their quest to save the imprisoned daughter of the Queen of the Night, at the behest of the three ladies who serve the queen. She has apparently been captured by the evil magician, Sarastro. Assisted by three spirits (boy trebles, if available), conjured up by the Ladies, and given a magic flute and magic bells to help in their quest, the dynamic duo are separated on the journey. Tamino meets a spokesman for Sarastro, who begins to question his beliefs, and discovers some of the powers of the magic flute. Papageno meets Pamina, the captured princess, but is soon attacked by an evil servant, the Moor Monostatos. Using his magic bells, he puts a spell on the Moor’s henchmen, but Sarastro arrives with his entourage of enlightened souls. It becomes clear that Sarastro is a wise and just ruler, and that the Queen of the Night and her Ladies are the “baddies”, although Sarastro displays the prevalent attitudes of the time of misogyny and slave-owning!
The plot now revolves around Tamino’s preparations and ordeals to join the brotherhood, and thus claim Pamina as his wife, while “the baddies”, joined by the evil Moor who has been flogged and sacked, try to get Sarastro killed and Pamina returned to her mother.
The evil ones are defeated, Tamino and Pamina are united in love and harmony, and Papageno, who has been a comic foil for all the highbrow goings on, finds his own soulmate, Papagena, and all live happily ever after, in true fairy tale fashion.
It is clear that the willing suspension of disbelief is paramount in this story, and the added complication of a paean to Freemasonry (Mozart was an active Freemason), complicates things even more. Add in some of the most beautiful music ever written, Mozart at his very best, and you have a curiously unsatisfactory opera which, at the same time, is one of the greatest of all operas!
I adore “The Magic Flute”, and have sung all the bass parts (Armed Man, Second Priest, Speaker and Sarastro) during my career, and much of Papageno’s music in concert. It is, however, notoriously difficult to stage successfully, although my first performances, with Scottish Opera in the 80s, in the magical Jonathan Miller production, were the most satisfying. Miller accepted that all the Egyptian references to Isis and Osiris, and the tests and ordeals Tamino has to endure in the pursuit of knowledge and eventually love, were direct references to the ideals of the Enlightenment and the strength of Freemasonry in society. Therefore, the costumes were designed to reflect the clothes and style of the late 18th Century, and Sarastro’s court was a huge library, a place of knowledge and humanity. The Queen and her followers were seen as purveyors of superstition and, perhaps, feminine guile and sorcery, rather like Ortrud in Wagner’s ‘Lohengrin’. The comedy was totally reserved for Papageno and Papagena, fortunately wonderfully played by Benjamin Luxon and Una Buchanan (initially as a wee Glasgow wifey!). Thankfully, the misogyny and racism in the libretto, typical of the time, were put to one side. Here are photos of my amusing costume for the Armed Man. It looked great, and sounded great to me, but unfortunately, we could hardly be heard, muffled behind all the material and the helmet!
It is a really hard opera to cast, as Mozart was writing for particular singers. His sister-in-law, Josepha Hofer, had an extraordinary range, and, boy, did Mozart write for it. With outrageous coloratura and high F in alt, it is notorious as a killer role. Mind you, the ladies who can sing it can pretty well name their fee! By contrast, the role of Sarastro was written for Franz Xaver Gerl, a true low bass, with several bottom Fs in the score. This is not a very low note for most basses, but, in context, it seems much lower, and I can vouch for that! Tamino and Pamina have cruelly exposed high notes and need to be on top form to succeed.
My two favourite recordings, both from the 60s, have pros and cons, but are both extremely satisfying. The conductor, Karl Bőhm, on DG has a marvellous Tamino (Fritz Wunderlich) and Sarastro (Franz Crass), and I love Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s Papageno, although others don’t. The women are excellent but not perfect. The luxury casting of Hans Hotter as the Speaker (Sarastro’s spokesman) is wonderful. Otto Klemperer conducts a magisterial version on EMI, lacking the spoken dialogue which holds the opera together, and has unequalled singers in Gundula Janowitz and Lucia Popp as Pamina and the Queen, a splendid Tamino in Nicolai Gedda, and a decent Papageno in Walther Berry. His Sarastro is the usually fantastic Gottlob Frick, who was having an off-day, and actually lacks the nobility of voice necessary for the role. Other recordings are available, but these two are my favourites.
Space is beginning to run out here, so I propose to look at the sacred music next and will devote another article to the three Da Ponte operas, as they are too important to rush over.
While writing ‘The Magic Flute’, Mozart wrote the motet ‘Ave verum corpus’ for his friend, Anton Stoll, an organist in the nearby spa town of Baden. It is simply written, reasonably short and utterly sublime, a miniature of Mozart’s mature style (if we can attribute maturity to a 35-year old!). It’s easy to sing and has become a standard for choirs throughout the world.
In 1779, Mozart wrote a version of the Mass in Salzburg. It has become known as the Coronation Mass, perhaps because it was used for the coronation of Emperor Francis II as Holy Roman Emperor in 1792 It’s a lovely conventional work for chorus, soloists and orchestra, which, along with his two sets of Vespers in 1779 and 80, makes for an enjoyable evening’s work for soloists without too much difficult singing. Written for liturgical use in Salzburg Cathedral, the two sets of Vespers are noted particularly for the beautiful settings of ‘Laudate Dominum’ for soprano, especially the 1780 one. It is interesting to think of these works played in Salzburg Cathedral - I sang there in 1974 with the St Andrews University Renaissance Group, and remember in particular, the almost 5 second echo, which made Renaissance polyphony sound beautiful but tricky. I imagine it must have been extremely hard to keep the chorus and orchestra together. Many years later, I sang in a performance of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in St Paul’s Cathedral in London, which similarly was a complete nightmare to keep together. It was a wonderful experience, but perhaps less so for the audience.
Mozart made re-orchestrations of Handel’s ‘Acis and Galatea’ and ‘Messiah’, which are interesting but weird. In fact, I appeared in the Salzburg Festival in 1991 in his version of ‘Acis’, complete with unusual use of horns, bassoons and clarinets. I have never sung in his ‘Messiah’, with a much-expanded wind section. Apparently, Mozart decided that the famous aria ‘The Trumpet shall sound’ would be better with French horn rather than trumpet!
Mozart’s great unfinished Mass in C Minor was written in 1782/3 and is one of my favourite paid jobs in the repertoire. The bass only sings in a solo quartet in the Benedictus, and therefore one gets a decent fee for very little singing. It is a curious anomaly that I can get paid the same fee for the Mass in C Minor (virtually no singing) and Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’ (when I sing almost all evening at the top of my range). In addition, in the Mass I get first-hand pleasure listening to some of the most sublime music ever written for soprano!
The sacred work by Mozart I have sung most often is the famous Requiem. I won’t go here into the story of why it was written, how it was written, who it was written for, or even how it was finished. Suffice to say that, even in the usual completed version by Franz Xaver Süssmayer, it is a work of profound genius, and the tragedy of Mozart’s death before its completion is compensated for by the wonders revealed in its score. The bass has the great privilege to sing the Tuba Mirum section with solo trombone, and the other solo music is so marvellous (and comparatively easy to sing) that my heart leaps every time I am asked to sing this work. I sang it last in September 2019 in Glasgow Cathedral, with John Butt conducting, and with the splendid Mhairi Lawson and Beth Taylor, who will join me later this year to record more music by Ronald Stevenson. That performance marked the last day I had to wear my full back brace after 10 months of recovery from fracturing my vertebra in Vietnam, and the sense of relief combined with my delight in singing this masterpiece was enormous.
Next time, I shall look at the three Italian operas with libretti by Lorenzo da Ponte (one of the most colourful figures of the period!) and assess Mozart’s position in the pantheon of the greats.
