Ravel

Boston had the honor last week of being first to entertain Maurice Ravel, French composer, come for his first U. S. visit. She received him royally, gave him her best when she put her Symphony at his disposal, turned out then in great numbers to hear him conduct his own works in a manner almost as gratifying as their own Koussevitzky's. Manhattan heard him next and as pianist under the auspices of her pro-musica society. She rose to her feet when he came on the stage--a slight, aristocratic figure with graying hair. She listened to a program made up of works she had heard long since and approved, pronounced him at the end of the evening far more impressive as a composer than as a pianist.

Maurice Ravel heads the list of contemporary French composers. He was born in a mountain village near the Spanish border, went early to Paris, where the music of the Parisians took possession of his soul. The War also took him and made him a truck-driver.

Now 52, he lives away from the world in the forest at Montfort-l'Amaury, concerning himself with the creation of music: for grown-ups his orchestral valse, his mocking Tziganes, his naughty I'Heure Espagnole; for children, his lovely Mother Goose suite and l'Enfant et les Sortileges--a happier balance than his contemporaries have found. In the U. S. for three months, he will conduct the New York, Boston, San Francisco and Cleveland orchestras, will appear also in Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, St. Paul, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Denver, St. Louis, Houston and Philadelphia.

Baronet's Baton

All the world has laughed at the name of Beecham--first at Joseph the father, who made a fortune at pill-making, winning a baronetcy thereby, then at Thomas the son, who squandered it* in the name of music, and wheeled about to mock the entire British public for its lack of appreciation. Some three thousand wanted to laugh one night last week in Manhattan when Sir Thomas lifted his baton for his U. S. debut with the Philharmonic Orchestra. He had come on calmly enough, like a slick little middle-aged banker surveying his premises. Then he stepped on to the dais, right-about-faced, and the show began.

Arms sideways RAISE. He took each position as if to a bellowed command. Trunk forward BEND. He dipped way over the 'cellos. Sideways LUNGE. That was a pale little passage for the violins. Right arm upwards RAISE. It was for the tympanist to see him. Rotate the trunk and arms in regular count. That was for the full band. He postured this way and that, flung his body into a dozen foolish positions. For five minutes and more the audience sat in a smothered giggle. Critics were delighted to see a new conductor who would make good copy.

But Handel interfered, with three pieces brought by Sir Thomas to the U. S. for the first time, edited by him, played by him surely and subtly, with immaculate rhythms. Then came the compatriot Delius with The Walk to the Paradise Garden from A Village Romeo and Juliet--and the maneuvers on the stage were forgotten for the results they attained. Sir Thomas the showman had become Sir Thomas the poet. True, he lapsed a little in the Tschaikowsky B Flat Minor Concerto, but then the Concerto with all its noisy trappings was for Pianist Vladimir Horowitz*, and served him accordingly. Sir Thomas came back with Mozart's C Major Symphony, Berlioz' Chasse Royale et I'Orage, Wagner's Meistersinger overture. The audience stayed long after he was through, cheered him, regretted unanimously that he was to conduct only four concerts.

New Carmen

In the spring of 1922, Geraldine Farrar left the Metropolitan Opera Company and automatically several of the Farrar operas disappeared from the repertoire. Carmen lingered on, endured several musty performances and snuffed out like the rest. For Carmen may have a handsome Don Jose, a swaggering Toreador, a wistful ingenue for Micaela, but if there is no soprano hot-blooded enough to ape an untamed gypsy and sufficiently magnetic to project her titillating arias across the footlights and into the far reaches of the theatre, Merimee's story becomes cheap and long-drawn, Bizet's tunes trite and shop-worn.

Singers able to breathe life into the role have been few and far between. First there was Minnie Hawk, a very ladylike Carmen compared to her successors. Then came Calve, whose realistic interpretation won her the name of being the first singing actress. Farrar made her Carmen a hoyden as incalculable as the wind, kept it popular in Manhattan to the end of her regime. Mary Garden has done similar service in Chicago. Last week for the first time, the Metropolitan presented the Carmen of Maria Jeritza.

There had been countless conjectures. She was not the type, everyone agreed, but she had the magnetism. Her Carmen might be contrary to every tradition, but it would be effective.

The performance provoked discussion. The musty old sets had been discarded for new ones by Joseph Urban. Edward Johnson was a handsome Don Jose. Lawrence Tibbett was a swaggering Toreador. Editha Fleischer was a wistful Micaela.

Jeritza whose turbulent, golden, hot-blooded loveliness has always been a notable attraction for the truly discerning connoisseur of grand opera, perhaps failed to personify the sudden, mercurial, fate-defeated Carmen. Critics could not forget that she was more Czech than Spanish, that her French was bad, that she was unfaithful to detail, that the "Habanera" should never have been sung from a wheelbarrow nor the "Sequidilla" from the garrison table. They postponed their verdict. But the mass of the audience perceiving these aesthetic errors, clapped and cheered after every act. After the last, they tossed their roses to the stage.

* It is estimated that Sir Thomas has lost more than a million pounds in his various musical enterprises.

* Russian pianist also making his U. S. debut.