The Devils and Reardon

"I hope nobody hates music critics," muttered one nervous music critic last week in Santa Fe, N. Mex. "If they dropped a bomb on this place, they'd wipe out every last one of us."

The critics had grounds for apprehension -- but on quite another score. They were gathered for the American premiere of Krzysztof Penderecki's The Devils of Loudun by the Santa Fe Opera, a troupe known for its firm (and rare) conviction that contemporary opera deserves a place right alongside the old favorites. The Devils is a highly unorthodox piece of music. At earlier performances this summer in Hamburg and Stuttgart, it had been greeted with as many pans as praises (TIME, July 4). Santa Fe once more was sho ing its devil-may-care spirit in risking, along with the tried-and-true, the tried-and-booed.

As it turned out, no one need have worried. The Devils was cheered at Santa Fe. There was even help from an unexpected source: precisely at the moment when one of Penderecki's characters shouted "God is dead!" there came a clap of thunder and a storm enveloped the theater. The audience was as impressed by the opera as by the incident. But despite its effectiveness, The Devils seemed episodic, eclectic, and the complex Penderecki (pronounced Pen-der-ete-key) score sometimes trod meekly behind the drama instead of forcefully alongside it. What gave absolutely no grounds for complaint were the performances of Baritone John Rear don and Mezzo-Soprano Joy Davidson. As a sensual priest who is burned at the stake, Reardon in particular gave the production just the sort of personal force it needs.

Once again, the Santa Fe troupe had justified its experimental philosophy. Like many a small opera company, it has neither the money to engage stars nor the patience to put up with their antics. Instead, it has nourished a number of talented beginners who have grown up to be stars in their own highly specialized orbits. John Reardon is one of them. In many ways, moreover, he typifies the new qualities necessary to survive in opera today. He is good-looking. He acts superbly. He will sing nearly anything that lies within his vocal range. He is also willing to learn the most complicated role in -- by old-fashioned standards -- nothing flat. This summer at Santa Fe, he is doing two American premieres (The Devils and Gian Carlo Menotti's Help! Help! The Globolinks) as well as Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte and Puccini's Tosca.

Famous prima donnas are apt to regard a bout with contemporary opera as roughly equivalent to a gargle with sulphuric acid. Modern composers, singers say, don't know how to write. They ruin voices by demanding odd and un-vocal sounds. Though this attitude is widespread, there is evidence that it is less a matter of fact than fashion. Birgit Nilsson, though she sings no contemporary opera at all, points out that composers are usually ahead of performers. Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, she observes, was abandoned as un-performable, "yet nowadays no dramatic soprano can be considered accomplished if she is incapable of singing an Isolde." Beverly Sills, who sang many modern roles before going on to fame in Italian bel canto operas, endorses Nilsson's and Reardon's sensible attitudes. "Contemporary opera kills your voice," she says flatly, "only if your voice is sick to begin with."

Chirps and Grunts. Reardon's voice, at any rate, shows no sign of decay, even though his repertory comprises 90 roles, 30 of them contemporary and 18 of them recerit premieres. In some ways, this versatility is as much a triumph of brain as of voice. "When word gets around that you can read something other than a C-major scale," he says, "people seem to pigeonhole you. I enjoy it, though. I'd go out of my mind if I sang nothing but Tosca and Traviata." Reardon pragmatically divides compositions into only two categories: music and nonmusic. "Some things I won't do," he says. "I once heard Martina Arroyo do a work called Momente by a composer I have forgotten.* She was called upon to make all kinds of sounds, including bird chirps and grunts. Now that I would refuse. You're not singing anything, so why not just get someone who can make noises?"

Composers, directors and conductors from Santa Fe to New York are consistent Reardon admirers--which is fairly remarkable for a Manhattan-born boy who started out to be a bank president. After studying business administration in college for three days, Reardon switched to music, "because those kids were much more fun. I tried to be a pianist," he recalls, "but my hands sweat when I'm nervous, and when your hands sweat as a pianist, forget it. It's like Niagara Falls." He also experimented with composition, but was swiftly urged by his teacher to take up singing instead.

Reardon's good looks and versatile voice might well have doomed him to a career as a Broadway leading man. Beginning in 1952, he moved between Broadway, summer stock and grand opera with bewildering frequency. At one point, he alternated between the New York City Opera and Broadway (including, at various times, New Faces of '56 and Do Re Mi) before finally joining the Metropolitan Opera in 1965 as a principal artist. Now 39, he finds his voice deepening and growing bigger. Two years ago he began to work with former Met Soprano Margaret Harshaw, focusing and darkening his voice.

"I live with my pitchpipe," Reardon admits. "It's the only way to get those intervals into your head and your voice. I get to the point where I can see a page in my mind through the whole performance. If the orchestra or another singer goes off pitch and I try to sing a note, nine times out of ten the muscles automatically go to the right place." Having well-disciplined vocal muscles may be useful for technique and performance. But high standards have more or less ruined live music for Reardon as a listener. "I don't go to the opera or concerts much," he says "because I'm usually revolted by what goes on on the stage. Actually, I sort of dislike opera."

* Karlheinz Stockhausen.

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