Peter Lindroos (1944-2003)

The following article will appear, translated into Finnish, in a book by Torsten Brander about the great tenor Peter Lindroos.

PETER LINDROOS AND HIS PLACE AMONG THE GREAT TENORS

by Leonardo Ciampa

There is an important difference between publicity in the Caruso era and publicity in the Pavarotti era. Caruso did not have a manager. Caruso didn't “become” the greatest tenor in the world, because he already was the greatest tenor in the world. There were no dissenting opinions. No one in Caruso's day said, “Caruso wasn't that good; he was just OK.” Everyone agreed that he was the greatest – critics, colleagues, public.

Pavarotti had a manager named Breslin. Thanks to the hard work of Breslin, Pavarotti “became” the greatest tenor in the world. Unfortunately, no singer, no critic, no musician – no one who knew anything about singing – believed that he was the greatest. The public believed what they were told. However, they were not given the option of comparison. Had Breslin lined up Pavarotti, Aragall, Gedda, Kraus, and fifteen other tenors, would the public still have voted Pavarotti the greatest? In such a survey, probably Pavarotti would have come in last.

I needed hear only a few minutes of Lindroos's singing to know that he was one of the greatest tenors in the world. He had everything – great voice, great technique, great musicianship, great expression. He was great in every respect that a tenor ought be great.

So why didn't Lindroos become more famous?

Invariably, when one person becomes famous and another of equal talent does not, the reason has nothing to do with music. Events occur. Choices are made. I am not Lindroos's biographer; I am not equipped to explain why his life's path did not take him to the Metropolitan. If I were the director of the Metropolitan and I heard Lindroos sing for a few minutes, I would have said, “He is a very great singer; he shall sing here.” However, the fact that I have an ear does not, in itself, earn me the title, “Director of the Metropolitan.” In fact, having an ear counts for virtually nothing.

The other problem is that overall musicianship is not marketable. If you are a pianist who plays two piano concertos without wrong notes, you can get a New York manager and play 100 concerto performances a year, playing each concerto 50 times. If, instead, you are a composer and an organist and a pianist and a conductor and also a singer, what can a New York manager do with that? How does the manager market you? The better a musician you are, the worse (not better, worse) chance you have of being world-famous. J. S. Bach would not have been world-famous in the 20th century, because no manager in New York would have gone near him.

Rather than dwell on what the world did not recognize, let me dwell on what I do recognize. I recognize that Lindroos had everything. He was one of the most satisfying tenors in the world – satisfying because it was impossible to say, “Something is lacking.” The voice itself was remarkable in its beauty – a beauty that only a Scandinavian voice can have. His diction was formidable; he sang complete operas in eight languages. His technique was that of the great singers of previous generations. In fact, I don't think the Metropolitan would have appreciated his vocal production, which was more akin to the tenors of the 1920s than to those of the 1970s. However, the 1920s technique allows one to sing 1700 operatic performances (which Lindroos did); the 1970s technique does not. Lindroos's musicianship was very strong and imbued every note he sang. His humanity was very rich – he felt the highs, he felt the lows, and this depth of feeling created a wide palette of emotional colors with which he could paint his characters. All of these traits – voice, technique, diction, musicianship, humanity, and Scandinavian genes – combined to produce a tenor, next to whom the Pavarottis and Domingos seem to be utter charlatans.

It is of crucial importance that all of the recordings of Peter Lindroos be made available – so that musicians can study them, and so that music lovers can be blessed by them.

Bach Questions

For many years, prominent Bach scholars including Harald Vogel (to whom I mean no personal disrespect) wanted us to believe that the organs of North Germany and Holland were the "ideal Bach organs" -- i.e., the best organs on which to play the music of the Thuringian master.

Well, Bach wasn't North German. And he'd never been to Holland. Why, then, make these illogical claims?

The answer is quite simple: many of the more Bachian and less tampered-with organs were in the former East and were, thus, not easily accessible to Vogel and others. Part of their data pool was roped off.

Strangely, this rather obvious answer has been disputed by some. An organist working in the former East wrote on a popular listserv:

[Vogel] used to come here p[r]etty often, even before the fall of the wall. It wasn't impossible, just unpleasant.

However, on the website of the Constellation Center here in Cambridge, MA, future home to what promises to be a stupendous Taylor & Boody, one reads:

While playing the music of Bach has been an important consideration in the design of organs for a long time, the relative inaccessibility of surviving instruments in Thuringia and Saxony during the East German period had prevented the research necessary for musicians and organ builders from the West to gain a thorough understanding of the traditions that Bach knew.

Now this situation has changed. Study of these instruments by builders and players has been taking place for a number of years and some of the most important Thuringian and Saxon organs have recently had fine restorations. Because of recent and ongoing research in connection with the restoration process, it is now possible to have a much clearer understanding of the sounds that Bach worked with and how they were produced.

This landmark Taylor & Boody instrument will be modelled after the much-hyped Hildebrandt organ in Naumberg. And it will be a wonderful instrument for the music of Bach. But is the Hildebrandt organ really "THE ideal Bach organ," as their publicity would have us believe?

The afore-mentioned organist in the former East wrote:

As for Naumburg - JSB helped design it, he examined it and found it excellent, and he pulled quite a lot of levers to get his student and son-in-law appointed there.

True, it is likely that Bach thought highly of this instrument. But how could anyone stretch, "I approve of this instrument," into, "This is The Ideal instrument for my organ music"? I know musicians are creative, but that requires something beyond the normal dosage of creativity!

The late, great Stephen Bicknell wrote:

If such an instrument [i.e., a true "Bach organ"] had existed in respect of J. S. Bach himself we would have a far greater understanding of the man and his music. In truth the historical record conspicuously lacks any such instrument. There is no identifiable Bach organ, and despite the hopes of many researchers the possible connection between J. S. Bach and the design of any particular instrument - whether the Trost organ at Altenburg or the Hildebrandt at Naumburg - is at best treacherously tenuous. [...]

From the record of surviving instruments we have none at which he presided. There are several which he played, even a few where he made a formal inspection at the time of their completion. All have suffered from the vicissitudes of time and, even where they have been conscientiously restored, the sounds that can be heard today give only a partial insight into the instrumental world that the great man inhabited.

In the relative absence of any coherent archaeological record the study of the relationship between J. S. Bach and the organ occupies exactly the same imaginary world as the study of Stonehenge, and the results of that study are witness not to Bach's own genius but to the affairs and concerns of those who have made the various studies. [...]

With this in mind I prefer to see the connection often made between Bach and the organ building of late seventeenth century Hamburg - instruments by Arp Schnitger and his immediate predecessors - as being a story of twentieth century preoccupations. First and foremost it is a story of political upheaval. In the division of Germany after the Second World War the Bach homelands of Thüringia and Saxony became relatively inaccessible, their organs and organ culture obviously so. The instruments of Gottfried Silbermann retained their specific cachet, but that widely acknowledged award of distinction was a matter of survival, not of revival. The remarkable craftsmanship in Silbermann's instruments led them to be revered not only in his own time but in following generations too. I would go as far as to say that in the nineteenth century he was the only organ builder of the past whose name was widely known in the international organ world. When the Iron Curtain came down across Europe even Silbermann's instruments fell for a time into shadow, and the idea of them belonging to an indigenous and varied local organ culture passed completely into oblivion. Attention was naturally diverted for a time to the other great area of importance to Bach's understanding of the organ - Hamburg and the North.

This removal of focus from central Germany to the North was also propelled by the engine of twentieth century musicology[.]