A Salute to Maazel

Dietlinde ran to me with elegant urgency.  “My husband must see you immediately.”  My corn fed, Iowan face must have betrayed my panic.  How had my greatest efforts disappointed the man whose powers on the podium were superhuman?

It was 2010.  Tim Myers – one of my closest confidants – had vouched for my comprehensive training although my resume was meager.  On Tim’s recommendation I found myself working as Lorin Maazel’s associate conductor: preparing a new production of Puccini’s Il Trittico at the Castleton Festival, a nascent undertaking inventing itself day by day.

So when he inquired simply, “Levi, do you know the texts to these operas?,” all I could mutter in reply was, “I do, Maestro.”

“Good, then come back this afternoon for the extra orchestra rehearsal I’ve just scheduled.”

“Yes, Maestro.”

He hadn’t minced words with the young orchestra that morning when he barked, “My stubbornness is greater than your incompetence!”  After this, and to the chagrin of the musicians, he had scheduled an extra orchestra rehearsal on the afternoon of the premiere.  Now all conductors sing – mostly badly, and I sing with gusto at the privacy of my own desk, but I am in no way an actual singer.  So it was for the orchestra’s sake that I stood center stage singing – all parts! – of the Trittico led by that magic stick of Lorin Maazel.  I sang Luigi from my loins, Gianni Schicchi with bravado, and I also sang the female roles – Lauretta’s “O mio babbino caro,” with daughterly manipulation, and Suor Angelica’s “Senza Mamma” as if I were Renata Scotto, with whom Maazel actually recorded it.  At the conclusion of Suor Angelica (yes, it should be the last of the triptych, so as to send the audience home in spiritual transcendence,) the orchestra acknowledged my croaking as if I were Pavarotti reincarnated.  Maestro’s handshake and curt “Well done” were higher praise than I had ever received.  Thus began the three extraordinary summers I spent at the Castleton Festival, during which time Maazel poured into our eager ears and minds his 70-plus years on the greatest podiums of the world.

Any two or more members of the Castleton family who happen to meet away from “the farm,” as the Maazel estate is affectionately dubbed, are instantly bonded by the “Castleton Spirit.”  I imagine this idiom was coined by some enthusiastic intern trying to foster a sense of community in the burgeoning festival.  But whether originally contrived or organically conceived, the Castleton Spirit is as real as a golden Rappahannock sunset.  It is the spirit of instrumentalists, singers, conductors, stage directors, stagehands, interns and administrators working together to create something from nothing: Mahler and Puccini performed by “the undisputed best” where only a few years ago cows grazed, all under the aegis of the Maestro who for over seven decades was revered by most, respected by all, worshipped by some, and feared by not a few.

Maazel had achieved perhaps everything possible for a single musician to achieve in life, but he had never done what most do their entire lives in some form or another: teach.  He wasn’t a natural teacher, and he often couldn’t explain his legendary stick technique, at least not in terms of mere mechanics.  Instead he taught “the craft,” the innumerable individual skills that go into “the profession,” (both terms he used regularly).  He lamented the decline of the profession: that modern conductors no longer know the languages of the operas they conduct, that the fundamental skill of fluently reading a score is a rarity, that the basic study of harmony and counterpoint is neglected, that the exacting standards of the giants of his youth (especially de Sabata and Toscanini, whom he always called “Arturo”) have declined.  And despite my probing for him to name names, he gentlemanly remained silent, though he didn’t hide his approval of Gustavo Dudamel.  The single skill of the craft that he enigmatically taught was “projection.”  This was certainly in the stick technique, but it was more in the mind.  It is the telepathic capacity to “project” an impulse that compels musicians to follow.  Projection – more than any other skill in the craft – is what he constantly pushed me to hone.

Those who had known Maazel for decades always said that Castleton brought out the best in him.  Once, in the interest of getting a job done with insufficient rehearsal time, I spoke to some talented but raw singers with unmerited harshness.  On my way into the orchestra pit the next morning, Maazel pulled me aside to advise me to release my impatience and lead with encouragement.  His generosity of spirit was evident on the podium as well.  The sound of palpable, youthful love is emblazoned in my mind’s ear because of his inimitable rubato in Mascagni’s Intermezzo.  And when the Castleton Festival Orchestra inspired him, the blue-hot joy of An American in Paris had never been as Gershwinesque.

Over those three summers I shared orchestral and operatic programs with the grand old man, and he invited me to conduct the lighter repertoire.  So in counterpart to his L’Enfant et les Sortilèges and Carmen, I was given productions of Weill’s The Seven Deadly Sins and Sondheim’s A Little Night Music.  But possibly more enriching than sharing the podium were the countless hours spent in conversation.  For an artist sometimes lambasted by the press for seeming aloof, he relished the company of us young conductors eager to learn the craft, especially my colleagues Blake Richardson, Matthieu Mantanus, Tim Myers, Brett Mitchell, Rafael Payare and Ha-Na Chang.  Our revelry felt like a secret society with complete access to the master.

So we were only amused when, in a moment of frustration with the young orchestra, he shouted, “You’re going to bring about what my colleagues have long desired: my early demise!”  We guffawed at the bon mot, because we knew with complete certainty that he would work for a few more decades.  And today – this morning – as news of his tragic passing rippled through our secret society and the whole world, our shock is tempered only by the undiminished flame of his (Castleton) Spirit.  We salute you, our beloved master, our Maestro.

Levi Hammer - July 13, 2014