|
A tiny sturdy
figure trudged down the back alleys of Chicago’s rowdy northwest
side. It was bleak winter, grey and gusty. A winter such as only
Chicago knows. Dark strips of ice lined the curbs. Ice that wouldn’t
leave the scene until well into April. An iron hard world.
The lad pushed
past the Armitage Avenue car barns just as dusk was closing in, his
heavy bag of Chicago Americans forcing him to lean forward as he
went. Homeward hurrying strangers barely noticed him as they bucked
the biting winds that swept in from the Late to the east of the
darkening city. The boy ducked into a doorway, lowered his sack to
the step, removed one of his gloves which sported cracked
leatherette gauntlets bearing a red star and buckskin fringe. He
fished in a pocket of his sheepskin coat and finally drew out a
folded newspaper clipping. Carefully he unfolded the scrap of paper
and examined it in the pale light of a street lamp. It was a dim
smudged photograph of Enrico Caruso clad in his Pagliacci costume on
the stage of the Met. Dust swirled in the doorway as the boy held
the scrap of paper up to his eyes for a long moment. Carefully he
refolded it, tucked it back into his pocket, tugged on his icy
glove, hoisted his bag to his back, leaned into the night and was
gone. It was young Shel Silverstein and the long long trip had
begun.
Next we see him
living in a dingy garret in the Schwabing district of teeming prewar
Munich. Generously sharing his lodgings with a slim dark Indonesian
girl, Silverstein clearly showed the ravages of long arduous years
of study on too little food and rest. A rare photograph of the
period shows Silverstein as a gaunt young man with strangely burning
eyes hunched over a liter of beer in a Munich Brauhaus. A fur cap of
Russian cut pulled down over his ears, a large meerschaum clamped
between his teeth, he seems to be staring straight into the soul of
his beholder. At his side is a large blonde woman who is apparently
holding some sort of small furry animal on her lap. It could be a
cuffieta as the photograph is somewhat blurred. At any rate her high
cheek bones show her to be of simple peasant Slavic stock. One gets
the impression of a quick and fiery temper. This is significant in
light of further developments too well known to document here. His
work at The Conservatory had caused a sensation in musical circles
and Silverstein was already becoming a legend. There are a few who
were fortunate enough to be present at his debut in Milan as the
romantically tragic Don Giovanni who will ever forget it. Once in a
generation an artist of first magnitude appears full blown and
instantly communicates with his public. Silverstein’s delicate
phrasing and breathtaking technical brilliance coupled with his
superb acting talents led the usually conservative Italian critics
to a veritable competition among themselves in a search for
adjectives. Overnight he took his place among the all time greats of
the operatic world.
The excitement
that attended his long awaited debut at the Met surpassed that of
the much advertised Galli-Curci fiasco. Twenty four hours before his
scheduled appearance long lines of eager ticket seekers blocked
traffic from 34th Street up to Times Square. Extra police
were called out and the city quivered with excitement and
anticipation. Wild rumors spread that Silverstein had taken an
overdose of sedatives, had threatened to cancel his appearance
unless Toscanini publically apologized for an unfortunate remark
made at a rehearsal, or had eloped to Montreal with a woman wearing
a green knit dress.
As curtain time
approached unscrupulous ticket brokers were turning down offers of
$500 for a pair of seats in the parterre section. Glittering
limousines bearing New York’s 400 drew to the curb in front of the
old Met as mounted police vainly tried to keep the surging crowds
back of the barricades. New York spent a sleepless night.
It is tragic
that Silverstein was never recorded before his unfortunate accident.
However on this, his recording debut, the shadows of his once
glorious instrument remain. The storied technical prowess and
magnificent control that has long made Silverstein’s name a byword
in the Green Rooms of the world are still here and in full flower.
Attention
is called to the lacelike delicacy of the attack shown on
Go Back Where You Got It Last Night as well as the fulsome irony
displayed in Silverstein’s matchless interpretation of Who Walks
in When I Walk Out? The influence of the Italiant
tessituro
school is much in evidence in Broken Down Mama.
His masteryof Early Welch Part-singing is dramatically brought into
full play in I’m Satisfied With My Girl.
Music lovers and
critics alike will welcome this recording into the library of the
world’s great music and unforgettable performances.
*Bettman
Archives
Jean Shepherd
Garmisch-partenkircken, Oct. 1959 |
