When I was a teenager and vulnerable to fashion, I was much taken with Bertolt Brecht’s acid observation that those who desire heroes are saps. Now that I have put off childish things, I see Brecht for what he was, and that heroes, like ideals, have their place. In my boyhood, there were many heroes, but two who towered. One was Mickey Lolich, the portly pitcher for the Detroit Tigers. I don’t think of the Mick much anymore; he went on to run a doughnut shop north of the city. The other was Leontyne Price, the soprano. I think about her a lot, and the other week I heard my eighth Price recital.
These recitals have made for 16 or so well-spent hours, and anyone who has attended just one of them can say why. First, there is the voice, a mysterious instrument about which rivers of ink have been spilled for almost five decades. And second, there is the woman herself, whose character seems inseparable from her musicianship. It is often said that a recital with her is a religious experience. That this is often said — a hackneyed beliefsmakes it no less true. A Price recital is a strange mixture of prima- donnafest and church service, with no small amount of personal idolatry thrown in. And in an age that prizes unpredictability and change, they are always, dependably, the same, these recitals.
