Being Turned On By The Opera: Die Walküre, my mother, and Jonas Kaufmann

My mother, lord love her, has long regarded--and listened to--my opera obsession in more or less suffering bewilderment, or more or less bewildered suffering.  More than one broadcast was curtailed by a long-suffering maternal: "Darling, can you turn the screaming off?"  In a brave spirit of zeal for wider experience, though (and for understanding her crazy daughter,) she has come to the opera with me before: to Cenerentola, known as "the pretty one," to Turandot, "the elaborate one," and, now, to Walküre.  After Turandot, I had promised that we could go to a show on her next New York visit, and I wouldn't make her try opera again.  How I got from there to loaning her my handkerchief during Wagner is a story which I offer not only for your entertainment and edification, Gentle Readers, but also for your consideration as a case study in opera audience development. Because I am, now, allowed and even encouraged to get her to try this opera thing again, as long as it's a "nice, dramatic one" like Walküre.

From the cover of the CD that started it all...

When visiting my parents, I sometimes (well, frequently) take opera CDs with me. Jonas Kaufmann's Romantic Arias was greeted not with a long-suffering "Can you turn the screaming off?" but a maternal response far closer to "...Who is that?"  I told her with evangelical enthusiasm.  The credentials and career events were listened to politely; the CD has been listened to again and again.  And again.  Why Kaufmann and not another? Why this CD, when my mother tended to listen to opera with more patience than pleasure?  I asked her these things, and was told that it helped to have "the most beautiful parts" as a point of entry, and that his voice was... my mother hesitated for an adjective, and settled on beautiful.  I began hinting about this season's Walküre approximately a year ago.  My mother said she might be interested.  I played her the Todesverkündigung with Melchior and Flagstad, and told her that the story of Siegmund and Sieglinde was basically like that of a romance novel (you see how shameless I am.)  She agreed to come. I explained that Walküre did not have arias (on purpose!), but claimed boldly that the whole thing was like an extended Most Beautiful Part.  My darling mother averred that she had few expectations beyond seeing and hearing Jonas Kaufmann.  As late as the day of our evening out (for the performance of the 28th,) she was plaintively wondering aloud whether this opera would work for her.

Next to me in the darkness during Act I, tiny intakes of breath marked the sympathetic following of Siegmund's misadventures.  In the first interval, once she could speak coherently, she said that her favorite moment had been the orchestral passage signaling the coming of spring.  In her idol she was not disappointed.  I swear she nearly cut off circulation to my fingers during Act II.  Afterwards, when she'd finished using my handkerchief, she asked how Act III could possibly not be anticlimactic. Still trembling myself, I mentioned the Ride of the Valkyries and reminded her of the Wotan-Brünnhilde confrontation to come.  "Yes..." my mother sighed.  Then she remembered that Sieglinde still had to find out she was going to have a baby, and cheered up a bit.  I gave her the handkerchief again at the end.  "Oh, Lucy..." she breathed.  "I know," I said.  We applauded. We left the opera house arm in arm.  My mother occasionally said again, "Oh, Lucy!" or observed that they all acted as well as singing.  I concurred that this was great. Wasn't it terrible when Wotan held out his arms to Brünnhilde for their last embrace, and then he made her mortal and she collapsed?  Terrible and wonderful.  "And Siegmund touches Sieglinde as though she's precious!"  I agreed.  And we happily dissected and compared our favorite bits over our post-opera supper, and over breakfast the next morning.  So, apparently, more than four hours of Wagner dealing with questions of free will, divine and human law, and the nature of love itself is my mother's accessible opera.  The woman never ceases to amaze me.  She had one more question after the opera: "Remind me: when do tickets for Kaufmann's recital go on sale?"