The first lady - singer Marian Anderson

In August 13, an extraordinary open-air concert took place at the Charles Ives Center in Danbury, Connecticut. Under a threatening sky, Jessye Norman sang, Isaae Stem played, and Julius Rudel conducted. In the large audience, there were many famous faces. They had gathered to celebrate the life of an American woman who is one of the nation's true artistic treasures and most admired human beings. The lady herself was there, sitting

in the front row. At 87, Marian Anderson, her hair now white, may not have quite the majestic bearing she once had, but her eyes still sparkle and her voice, when she speaks, is still thrilling.

For those old enough (and there are not so many now) the memories came flooding in: in Salzburg, Toscanini telling her, Yours is a voice heard once in a hundred years"; in Helsinki, Sibelius exclaiming, The roof of my house is too low for you"; and in Moscow, Stanislavsky trudging through the snow to bring her lilacs and beg her to sing Carmen. And who, living then or hearing of it since, can forget that Easter Sunday fifty years ago when, standing at the Lincoln Memorial with an audience of countless thousands stretched out along the Mall before her, Marian Anderson

sang beneath the sky because she was denied the stage of Constitution Hall on account of her race?

For just such reasons, Marian Anderson has become an American symbol-so much so that one may forget how accomplished a singer she really was. The extraordinary range, power, and richness of her voice were wedded to a remarkable musicality. The quick, bright vibrato in the middle range, the seemingly boundless top, and the wonderful depth of the lower notes were all combined into one marvelous vocal instrument.

Miss Anderson's recordings, for me, convey only the shadow of her live performances. (The catalogue of her recorded works is comparatively short, for two reasons: RCA Victor brought her to the studio all too infrequently, and she was usually dissatisfied with her performances.) RCA recently released a new CD 7911-2RG) made from pressings many years old. Much of it (and this is true of her other recordings as well) is very beautiful, but missing is the vocal amplitude that could fill every comer and crevice of any auditorium. And recordings, of course, cannot even suggest the majesty of her physical presence.

Her concerts were never just musical events; they were celebrations of communion. Marian Anderson's art always served a higher purpose. She found a vein of spirituality that went straight from her glorious voice to the listener's hungry heart.

Born in Philadelphia to parents of very modest means, Marian Anderson began singing in public with the choir of the Union Baptist Church. Without bitterness, her autobiography tells of her long and arduous struggle to get vocal and musical training. Such opportunities were generally unobtainable for blacks, but, with the help of many well-wishers (and with constant encouragement from her mother), she persevered.

In 1925, at Lewisohn Stadium in New York, she was selected over three hundred others to sing with the New York Philharmonic. There was some praise, but recognition came

slowly. It was only when she went to Europe, first to study and then to perform, that her career took off. First Norway and Sweden acclaimed her; then Germany and Austria. In Paris, the impresario Sol Hurok heard her in recital. He had dropped in out of curiosity but stayed, as he later said, because he was " mesmerized and enchanted." Afterward, he went backstage and persuaded her to put her future in his hands.

When she returned to the U.S. in 1935 (her leg in a cast as a result of a shipboard accident), she appeared at New York's Town Hall. The next day, the young Howard Taubman wrote in the New York Times: "Marian Anderson has returned to her native land one of the great singers of our time." Hurok immediately scheduled another recital, this time at Carnegie Hall, and, like nearly every Anderson concert for the next forty years, it was sold out.

Today, when racial tensions seem high, 'it is wise to recall how much things have changed since the 1930s. The United States was a very different place then. Our black citizens were decidedly unwelcome in hotels and restaurants, in cafes and concert halls, even in our most cosmopolitan cities. Marian Anderson was the least aggressive of people, but, with the splendor of her singing and the regal

simplicity of her bearing, she brought down barriers in city after city, and opened the way for those who have followed. For the record, it was the Hotel Algonquin that first received her in New York.

No American artist has been as honored as she. She sang at the inaugurations of three American Presidents, the last John Kennedy's. Franklin Roosevelt brought her to the White House to entertain Britain's king and queen. Dwight Eisenhower made her a delegate to the United Nations. She received decorations from the kings of Sweden and Norway, the Empress of Japan, and the governments of France and Finland. With Arthur Rubinstein, Fred Astaire, George Balanchine, and Richard Rodgers, she was among the first to receive the Kennedy Center Honors. Nearly fifty colleges have given her honorary degrees.