Big Deals - singer Thomas Quasthoff; cellist Natalia Gutman

National Review, July 29, 2002 by Jay Nordlinger

Notable performers blow through New York all the time, but, now and then, there appears one who makes you stop and wonder. At the end of this past season, we had (at least) two such performers, one approaching famous, the other less known, but both striking in their own ways, and in similar ways.

We'll begin with Thomas Quasthoff: as remarkable a human being as he is a musician. He is a German bass-baritone, and he has acquired a large following. His concerts sell out, and his records sell fast. He has everything required to be a great singer: a supremely beautiful and adaptable voice; a rock-solid technique; keen musical intelligence; and those qualities that sometimes go by the name "intangibles." When he sings Bach, for example, we're tempted to resort to one of the worst cliches: It is a "religious experience."

It is Bach that Quasthoff sang in New York recently, with the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra. He sang two cantatas -- including the immortal "Ich habe genug" -- and then signaled that he wanted to sing an encore. What, an encore? Impossible after such music! Quasthoff acknowledged as much in his remarks to the audience: but he went ahead and sang one anyway. And it was Kern and Hammerstein's "Ol' Man River" -- kind of the American national anthem for basses (and bass-baritones, for that matter). This was surprising, audacious, and thrilling. Quasthoff's singing of the piece was utterly idiomatic, and suave. Paul Robeson was forgotten.

Quasthoff, in the best tradition of touring singers, knows how to push his audiences' buttons. He's also known to give his American audiences "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," at encore time. A generosity of spirit, and an embrace of all humanity, shine through him.

Then there's the matter of Quasthoff's physical situation. Everyone who writes about him has to consider, I suppose, whether to mention this. I've written about him several times, and never have -- yet it's not irrelevant, to his life as a whole, to the totality of his achievement. Quasthoff is -- to use a shockingly crude term -- a "thalidomide baby." He was born in 1959, and was not expected to have anything like a normal life. And, of course, he hasn't: He has had an extraordinary, exalted life.

Singing is an intensely physical, not to say athletic, act. In a film for German television, Quasthoff described himself as follows: "1.34 meters tall, short arms, seven fingers -- four right, three left -- large, relatively well-formed head, brown eyes, distinctive lips. Profession: singer." When he performs, he stands on a podium. While singing, he sways from side to side, perpetually, sometimes rather violently. Whatever his equipment, and whatever adjustments he has to make, he gets the job done, to put it mildly.

Among his recent discs are two featuring lieder of Brahms, Schubert, and Liszt. (Quasthoff's label is Deutsche Grammophon, as perhaps befits this son of Germany and proud, dedicated professor at Detmold Conservatory.) The voice is plush, but also clean. Quasthoff employs velvet, but also a little metal, if that can be imagined. A natural musician, he grasps the meaning of a score, and text, and conveys it to you. He indulges in no false emoting. He is without eccentricity or affectation. In everything he tries, he is honest and authoritative.

Quasthoff is even bound for the operatic stage, scheduled to appear as Don Fernando in Fidelio next spring at Salzburg. This is a significant and brave step, and the last piece in a complete singing career. Every trite expression comes to mind about Quasthoff: that he is unstoppable, indomitable, an example of human triumph. And it's all true.

He has caught the attention of the broader world, naturally, being profiled in People, Esquire, and Time. He has even been treated to a segment on 60 Minutes -- not the usual lot of the German bass-baritone.

And yet Quasthoff is loath to make too much of the peculiar challenges he has faced. As British music writer Norman Lebrecht tells it, he has been withering about Andrea Bocelli, the Italian tenor who is blind, and a crossover sensation. "Why are big conductors making records with this guy?" Quasthoff said. "I am a teacher, and I know how hard it is to learn classical singing. He is not a classical artist." Asked whether Bocelli might have been formed artistically by the experience of adversity, Quasthoff retorted, "Obviously not formed well enough."

Quasthoff would be astounding enough as a "normal" great singer (!). But surely the conductor Colin Davis has a point when he says, "He is a lesson in life," too. Quasthoff lives a life of heroic dimensions -- whether he likes it or not.

Our second arresting musician is Natalia Gutman, a Russian cellist. Never heard of her? Neither have most people, including those who know something about music. She has not had a big career in the United States, spending most of her time in Europe. Also, she has labored somewhat in the shadow of another Russian cellist, Mstislav Rostropovich, who was, in fact, a teacher of Gutman's. Is there room enough for two? There ought to be.