In June and July 2004 I was invited by the San Francisco
Opera to serve as organist for its presentation of Ferruccio Busoni’s
rarely performed Doktor Faust. This opera, composed between 1916 and 1924,
features the largest and most complex organ part found anywhere in the opera
literature. The organ parts in most operas are played by a staff keyboardist,
but in the case of a more complicated score such as Doktor Faust, a guest
organist may be brought in. As this was my first experience playing for an opera,
I decided to learn more about the use of the organ in this genre.
While a number of operas include parts for organ, typically
during church scenes, almost all of them are very brief parts, usually written
as reinforcement to the orchestra rather than as solos. Among the major operas
that include organ are Bluebeard’s Castle (Bartók); I Puritani
(Bellini); Mefistofele (Boito); Faust, Roméo et Juliette (Gounod); La
Juive (Halévy); Cavalleria Rusticana (Mascagni); La Gioconda (Ponchielli);
Tosca, Turandot (Puccini); Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (Shostakovich); Salome
(Strauss); La Forza del Destino, Luisa Miller, Otello, Il Trovatore (Verdi);
Die Meistersinger, Lohengrin (Wagner). Actually, the organ part in Lohengrin is
very small and occurs in the scene prior to the famous Bridal Chorus, which is
itself played by an offstage band (plus the chorus).
As one might expect, the organ parts in Italian operas are
written for one manual without pedals and can be played by any proficient
keyboard person (Tosca, with its pedal part, is an exception). Some of the
German operas have pedal parts, among them being the opening chorale in Die
Meistersinger.
By contrast, Busoni’s Doktor Faust contains more than
four minutes of demanding solo material for the organ, including a solo passage
(Intermezzo) of more than three minutes in length, and two subsequent solo
passages for an additional full minute of playing. (During the Intermezzo in
the San Francisco production, the character playing Mephistopheles was seen on
stage miming the organ part at an organ console in a darkened church.
Unfortunately I could not see this from where I was seated in the pit, but I
heard that his “performance” was very convincing.) The organ part
concludes with a harmonization of Christ lag in Todesbanden in the
opera’s final scene.
Busoni (1866-1924) may have been inspired to write
this extensive part for the organ because of his great admiration for the music
of Bach. However, the organ part in Doktor Faust poses several challenges for
the performer: there is extensive use of double pedals (and not simply parallel
octaves) and awkward cross-hand passages; several crescendi and decrescendi are
called for while both feet are engaged in playing rapid 16th-note passages;
furthermore, the pedal line frequently extends below the range of the modern
pedal keyboard, at one point to an F below low C. All of this is rather
curious, given the fact that Busoni composed concert works for solo organ and
presumably understood the parameters of the organ.
I discussed some of these performance problems with the
musical administrator, explaining to him that various passages were unplayable
as written. He laughed and said, “That’s why we hired you.”
As a solution I suggested that a keyboard-proficient member of the orchestra
assist me in a few of my solo passages. He thought the idea had merit, but the
union requires increased pay to any orchestra member doubling on another
instrument (even for just a few measures), and he felt it was not within their
budget. (Luckily they allowed the celesta player to turn a few pages and push
some pistons for me, but I don’t think they paid him extra.) When I told
the administrator that I might not be able to play all the notes exactly as
written, he smiled again and said, “Do the best you can.”
This stint with the San Francisco Opera was an educational
experience for me, since my normal activities consist more of solo concert
work, church service playing, and academic teaching. All of a sudden I found
myself in the world of highly professional union musicians who were used to
working with each other and their maestro. They had had several weeks to learn
and perfect a highly chromatic and rhythmically difficult score; I was brought
in for one piano dress rehearsal and the final orchestra dress rehearsal.
I was met with some other daunting challenges as well. The
opera’s electronic organ, which left something to be desired tonally and
mechanically, was placed at a far side of the pit, so the orchestra sound was
imbalanced to my ears. The organ speakers were located at a considerable
distance from the console, so there was a significant delay in the sound. (The
San Francisco Opera House was built in 1932 with the idea of eventually
installing an organ; a door near the orchestra pit is still labeled
“Organ Blower,” although the room never contained one.) While I had
a direct line of sight to the conductor, the light on him was occasionally very
dim. I had rehearsed the score and practiced my entrances to a recording of the
work, but in actual performance, I realized quickly that some of the vocal cues
I was used to hearing on the recording were actually sung by a backstage chorus
and were barely audible in the pit. So, other than an unplayable score on a
problematic instrument, and being unable to see or hear what I was doing,
everything was just fine!
Life backstage in an opera house is at least as entertaining
as the action on stage. Singers and instrumentalists mingle in the lounge,
waiting for their calls to return to the pit or the stage. They munch on
snacks, read novels, play poker or ping-pong. My favorite glimpse was that of a
knight in armor, sitting at a computer and checking his e-mail during a break.
I had more than a few nervous moments and even a couple of
sleepless nights until the show opened. In fact, after the first rehearsal I
asked my wife to remind me never to take another job like this again. By the
time the six performances were over, however, I felt differently. I’d do
it all again gladly.
