CONNOISSEUR’S MEZZO-SOPRANO : CHRISTA LUDWIG RETURNS TO LINCOLN CENTER

An interesting thing happened last week at the Metropolitan Opera.

During a performance of the shamelessly glitzy new production of “Turandot,” the audience discovered a retired diva making her way to a seat in the second row. Birgit Nilsson received a stormy ovation just for walking down the aisle.

Then the conspicuous culture-consumers discovered another glamorous prima donna out front. Elizabeth Taylor brought the house down too.

Christa Ludwig also happened to be in attendance that night. Dressed in a simple black pantsuit, the former Brangaene ran to greet her erstwhile Isolde. The audience paid no attention.

Ludwig never was the darling of the unwashed masses. Few mezzo-sopranos are--and, for nearly four illustrious decades, this mezzo-soprano has concentrated on art rather than anything resembling self-promotion.

Sunday afternoon she gave a rare recital at Lincoln Center. This time she got the ovation she deserved.

Doting connoisseurs filled every regular seat in the unsuitably gargantuan Avery Fisher Hall. They took up rows of chairs on the stage as well. When Ludwig strode on for her gracious, no-nonsense entrance, the house greeted her with a friendly roar.

Unlike many a colleague in a comparable situation, she didn’t feign tears, sink to the floor in mock-modest gratitude or blow kisses. She simply beamed, bowed and sang.

Beautifully.

She sang with intimate urgency. She sang with pervasive dynamic restraint that made the inevitable forte outbursts all the more climactic. She sang with refinement and verbal point.

Under the intrinsically tasteful circumstances, her gown--a florid pink and green drape studded with a sea of spangles--seemed something of an anachronism. It represented the only distracting element, however, in an afternoon of lofty and poignant music making.

At this stage of her career, Ludwig could be forgiven if her voice were a bit threadbare or unsteady. Time can take its toll even on the greatest artists. But, in the repertory and ranges chosen here, she sounded astonishingly fresh. The rich Ludwig tone emerged as lustrous and warm, as firm and vibrant as memory insists it was 20 years ago.

On this occasion, she enjoyed the additional advantage of an ideal artistic collaborator. With James Levine at the piano, the word accompanist is woefully inadequate.

Following the example of such conductors as Bruno Walter and Wilhelm Furtwaengler, the music director of the Metropolitan Opera revealed uncommon sensitivity to the singer’s needs, a crucial sense of expressive partnership and a marvelously deft keyboard technique.

Together, Ludwig and Levine brought into telling focus the contrast between the somewhat stern pathos of six Brahms songs and the relative gush of four Lieder of Franz Liszt. Singer and pianist defined the wit and ardor of four Richard Strauss songs with simple strokes. After a particularly affecting performance of “Morgen,” they enjoyed the ultimate accolade--a moment of stunned silence that suddenly gave way to a storm of applause.

They invoked knowing refinement in the muted sensuality of Debussy’s “Chansons de Bilitis,” in the decaying romanticism of four Alban Berg songs and the vast emotional extremes of five songs by Gustav Mahler.

At encore time, Ludwig turned her back on the auditorium and delivered some additional Mahler whimsy directly to the people who had been seated behind her on the stage. Then she offered some comparable Hugo Wolf whimsy to the folks out front.

Finally, she bade adieu with the legato of a very slow, very affectionate and very generous Brahms Lullaby. It was her only flirtation with sentimentality, and, characteristically, she brought it off with style.