ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1997, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, February 24, 1997 TAG: 9702250143
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DAVID MEMELSTEIN NEW YORK TIMES NEW SERVICE
THERE WAS A TIME when mentioning Marian Anderson evoked a host of images: the Lincoln Memorial, color barriers, civil rights, a slender, graceful presence on stage. Most of all, though, the name conjured up a dark, soulful, immensely musical voice.
It is hard to say what thoughts Marian Anderson, arguably the greatest contralto of the century, brings to mind today. Those who know who she was and what she accomplished surely think only positively of her. But she retired from the stage 30 years ago and died in 1993, at 96.
Though older generations remain cognizant of her triumphs, her importance may be less apparent to younger people. In an age in which the collective memory is rapidly diffusing, absence from the public eye can have devastating effects on the perception of a person's importance. And death, which once elevated significant cultural figures to the status of secular saints, now often serves as a coup de grace in obscuring their legacies entirely.
On Thursday, Carnegie Hall will help redress the balance by presenting an evening in tribute to Anderson. Ostensibly, it acknowledges the centenary of her birth, which occurred Feb. 17. But this celebration is about
more than noting a milestone; it is about honoring that rarest of creatures: a great artist who was also an outstanding human being.
For many, Anderson's spirit lives on despite her death. The Carnegie celebration, consisting of a concert conducted by Robert Shaw and oral reminiscences by the likes of Roberta Peters, William Warfield and Isaac Stern, gives music lovers an opportunity to consider the importance of this beloved singer. Through April 6, Carnegie Hall's Rose Museum is presenting a parallel tribute, an exhibit of Anderson memorabilia, which includes personal papers, photographs and artifacts.
|n n| In a sense, there were two Marian Andersons. The first was the artist whose haunting, impassioned singing prompted the great maestro Arturo Toscanini to proclaim, ``A voice like yours is heard once in 100 years.'' The other was the model citizen who quietly but effectively helped the nation confront its own racism.
To many, her story is well known. Born in Philadelphia in 1897, Anderson fell in love with music at her family's Baptist church. She had no formal music lessons until she was 15, but her church generously established a fund for her education. In 1925, she won a contest that afforded her an appearance with the New York Philharmonic at Lewisohn Stadium. That event secured her a management contract, but bookings were scarce, and success in America eluded her. Reluctantly, she embarked for Europe, where her gifts were immediately embraced.
She gave her first European concert in Berlin in 1930. She then toured Scandinavia, where she met and impressed the composer Jean Sibelius. In 1935, she appeared at the Salzburg Festival and encountered Toscanini.
She returned to the United States that year, firmly established as a world-class artist. When Sol Hurok presented her at Town Hall, she won raves. Howard Taubman, in The New York Times, called her ``one of the great singers of our time.'' A year later, she became the first black singer to perform at the White House, and in 1938, she gave 70 recitals in America, then a record for a singer.
But it was an event the next year that catapulted Anderson into the history books. She hoped to perform at Constitution Hall in Washington, but the Daughters of the American Revolution, who owned the hall, barred her because of her race. A furor ensued, during which first lady Eleanor Roosevelt resigned from the organization.
Hoping to defuse the situation, Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes offered Anderson use of the Lincoln Memorial for her concert. She accepted, and 75,000 people, including members of the Supreme Court and Congress, showed up on Easter Sunday to demonstrate their support and hear her sing.
The conductor James DePreist, Anderson's nephew, is proud of her achievement on that occasion and later, but he believes that her role as a quiet civil rights crusader has tended to overwhelm her importance as a singer.
``I think that in many ways Aunt Marian's artistic legacy, her musical legacy, was obscured by the symbolism surrounding that Easter Sunday concert,'' he said from his home in Portland, Ore. ``Her celebrity in the struggle for African American equal rights has taken center stage far too often for my personal taste. It has not enabled people to focus on the music-making as much as they should.''
|n n| In retrospect, the Lincoln Memorial concert might appear to have been the zenith of Anderson's career, but it was merely one of many triumphs, large and small. Her Metropolitan Opera debut, in 1955, was another. She sang Ulrica in Verdi's ``Ballo in Maschera,'' breaking the Met's color barrier.
In a sense, though, it was too little too late, for Anderson was a month shy of 58 by then and no longer in her vocal prime. She included arias in her later recital programs, but Ulrica was the only role she ever sang, and the Met was the only operatic stage she ever graced.
During the decade remaining before her retirement, Anderson entertained many thousands at countless recitals. Recognizing her special status, President Eisenhower appointed her a delegate to the United Nations Committee on Human Rights in 1958. In yet another milestone, she sang at President Kennedy's inauguration in 1961.
Anderson's social legacy is evident in the gradual erosion of discriminatory laws and customs in this country. Her musical legacy rests not only in the memories of those who heard her sing but also in numerous recordings.
Some have likened an Anderson performance to a religious experience. Hyperbole aside, the comparison makes more than a little sense, for there was an ineffable quality to her artistry. Although she was unmistakably a contralto, her voice on record possesses a disarming, hypnotizing ring that, coupled with her fast vibrato and high top, makes her singing arresting and unique.
In his book ``The Grand Tradition,'' the English critic J.B. Steane noted that Anderson's voice captured ``the kind of yearning happiness-in-melancholy which often proves elusive.'' Although Steane was referring specifically to a Brahms song, the description could as easily apply to everything Anderson sang.
Her repertory was surprisingly broad for a concert singer, but then it had to be, since she was denied expression on the operatic stage for so long. In addition to assorted opera arias and songs, Anderson delighted in the music of Bach and Handel, Scandinavian folk songs and what were once called Negro spirituals.
In these spirituals, products of bondage, Anderson was, and remains, unrivaled. In much the way that Artur Schnabel brought Schubert's piano sonatas to a wider public, Anderson elevated the songs of slaves to high art. She sang them at the end of her recitals, often as encores.
Some believe that her programming of these works signaled a subtle protest against racial injustice. In any case, the innovation has endured; many American singers now include spirituals as part of their programs.
|n n| DePreist may be right in calling for a more balanced appreciation of his aunt's twin achievements. To be sure, others in the musical community have echoed his feelings.
But in a world in which few heroes remain unsullied, Anderson continues to stand tall. That alone could account for her revered position as a civil rights pioneer. Reluctant as she may have been to pave the way, she demolished barriers, and innumerable black singers have followed in her wake. Would we now know the sopranos Leontyne Price, Jessye Norman and Kathleen Battle, and a host of other talents, were it not for Anderson's achievements?
``She inspired me from the first moment I heard her voice, and this inspiration continues and grows,'' said Norman, who will perform in the Carnegie Hall tribute. ``Miss Anderson soared above the thicket of racism and repression with a smile in her soul and joy of life in her every song. This is inspiration indeed.''
With the opportunity that a centenary presents, many more will doubtless express similar feelings. The mezzo-soprano Betty Allen, president of the Harlem School of the Arts and long a friend of Anderson's, insists that the contralto would feel uncomfortable about all this attention and praise.
``She was always embarrassed at fuss, you know,'' Allen said. ``She was really very modest. It was just simply the way she was. I remember we were once talking about a trip she had taken to London. She said that when the people there stared at her, she thought her stocking seams must be crooked.''
In all likelihood, the spectacle of a Carnegie gala would have unnerved the ever-dignified Anderson, but perhaps, just this once, she would have allowed her fans to express their gratitude overtly.
David Mermelstein lives in Los Angeles and writes about the arts
LENGTH: Long : 157 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: 1. During her long career, Marian Anderson grew from aby CNBconcert singer to symbol to national treasure. At left, she is shown
in a 1940s studio portrait. 2. Below is a photograph from the Easter
Sunday 1939 concert. 3. (headshot) Anderson.