Classical music and its celebs

July 6, 1:24 PMSF Classical Music ExaminerScott Foglesong

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In the wake of the orgiastic la-dee-da about Michael Jackson, I'm inspired to mull over the cult of celebrity in the classical music world. It almost goes without saying -- but I'll say it anyway -- that high-voltage celebs of the Jackson stripe are relatively rare in classical music. In particular, the concert music world is far less blessed/plagued with folks who are famous for being famous; we don't seem to have a Paris Hilton type, at least not that I can identify.

But certain individuals managed to become media darlings, despite their working in a field that stands far remote from most people's everyday reality. Actual ability has had much less to do with it than other elements; if supreme musicianship or virtuosity were the only criteria, then Rudolf Serkin should have been a superstar.

After all, there is little difficulty figuring out what made Jackson famous: first the stunningly gifted child star, then the "Thriller" album, then the slow descent into freakshow attraction, always in the camera's eye but for increasingly disreputable reasons. Jackson earned his initial celebrity for solid achievements; he was an electrifying performer, no two ways about it. (Even I -- indifferent at best to pop musical styles, revolted at worst -- recognize the caliber of Jackson's big hits.) His later career, if career is even an appropriate word, exposed the maggotty underside of America's ugly obsession with celebrity.

Although the classical world offers nothing truly comparable, I am nonetheless reminded of Maria Callas, whose finest vocal achievements occurred well before her rise to world fame and whose undeniable star power owed more to her ability to mesmerize her audience and less to any of the attributes normally associated with great singers -- i.e., tonal beauty or vocal virtuosity. Her long decline was nothing like the Jackson creepshow, but it certainly had its moments -- such as her being unceremoniously dumped by Aristotle Onassis, who referred to the "whistle in her throat" that didn't work right any more.

Callas, like Jackson, was prime tabloid fodder. Her last years, during which she apparently sat in her apartment listening to pirated recordings of her live performances, share a sad twilight quality with Jackson. Both, incidentally, lived only into their early fifties.

Callas reminds me even more vividly of Michael Jackson in that I also view her from an outsider's perspective; I recognize her magnetism and her audience appeal, but I do not myself respond. In my expansive CD collection is to be found precisely one Callas recording: the 1953 Tosca, which I value for the contributions of Giuseppe di Stefano and conductor Victor de Sabata, both of whom turn in sui generis performances. I usually skip over the Callas sections; I just don't like the sounds she produces. One hears gush about the "utter truth" of Callas's performance as diva Tosca, but let's get real here: how much "truth" can there be in a trashy, shabby, grubby little potboiler? The fans hear "truth"; I hear cheap histrionics. Tosca is full of great tunes and some nifty choral writing, but intellectually it dwells in a realm somewhere between reality TV and The Perils of Pauline. At least di Stefano offers lyrical magic with Recondità harmonia, and that's all I ask; frankly I couldn't care less what he's actually singing about.

So I fully acknowledge Callas's mesmeric hold on fame, even 32 years after her death, while not myself participating in the public interest.

If Callas resembled Michael Jackson, then Luciano Pavarotti reminds me far more of someone like Dolly Parton -- i.e., a person who is famous, loves being famous, has a sense of humor about being famous, and wears the mantle of fame gracefully. (Only Dolly could quip that it cost a fortune for her to look so cheap.) Pavarotti was a supremely endowed singer, but I think it was that sheer joy he exuded that made him the most famous tenor since Caruso.

I'm personally in a different space with Pavarotti because in his case I definitely get it: I respond to him vocally and personally. Once again I don't really care what he's singing about; I just love the singing. Besides, what's to know about Celeste Aïda? It's your basic love song. He bellows it out with gusto, putting forth fusillades of sonic splendor that buzz the chandelier and irritate my cat. Then there he is as the Grand Marshal of the Thanksgiving Day Parade, exuding megawatts of good cheer and bonhomie. To be sure, his preoccupation with fame compromised his vocal career -- his contemporary Placido Domingo is surely a far finer artist. But Pavarotti had star power in spades, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

I come from an educated but resolutely non-musical family, thus I have a certain insight into that great majority for whom classical music and its concerns are as remote as the Oort Cloud. Mention of Herbert von Karajan, Georg Solti, or even Arturo Toscanini will result in blank stares.

But they've all heard of Leonard Bernstein. Lenny's ultimate posthumous reputation may rest on West Side Story and a subset of his many recordings with both the New York and Vienna Philharmonic orchestras. But to the general public, he was famous for being Lenny: the effusive and sublimely gifted teacher who could give us the skinny on Beethoven and Mozart and Richard Strauss and even Mahler, right there on primetime CBS TV. Lenny, the jetsetting celeb who was as comfortable with JFK and Jackie at the White House as he was with Pau Casals or Aaron Copland. Lenny with his matinée-idol looks, his unmistakable New England accent, his dissipations, his utter style.

Bernstein was born to be famous, I think. Without fame he might have gone to greater heights as a composer (although I rather doubt it) but celebrity suited him. He wore it with distinction, gave the tabloids just enough to keep them happy, and stayed securely in the spotlight -- and in fact still does.

We don't seem to have any honest-to-God celebs in the classical music world at present, at least not sporting the firepower of a Callas, Pavarotti, or Bernstein. That doesn't mean that the publicists aren't trying like hell -- vide Lang Lang -- or that there aren't those who obviously yearn for such fame -- vide Cameron Carpenter. But they're all small potatoes. There is no shortage of fine musicians, to be sure, and/or performers of significant public ranking -- Yo-Yo Ma, Joshua Bell, Daniel Barenboim just to name a few. But the true superstars come along only occasionally, and that's what makes them so special in the first place.