Rapturous soprano sends ‘Joseph’ aloft
The opening performance of Handel’s oratorio “Joseph and his Brethren” by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra was cruising through its third hour and heading for home, a beautifully rendered collection of arias and choruses done with characteristic zeal under the leadership of Music Director Nicholas McGegan.
That’s when Sherezade Panthaki decided to kick everything up another notch. Maybe three.
In a single aria, the aptly titled “Prophetic raptures swell my breast,” the soprano gave the audience in Herbst Theatre on Thursday, Dec. 14, the kind of magical musical experience we will be remembering and revisiting for years. It was an electrifying, gorgeous display of strong but crystalline tone, sinuous phrasing, astonishing pyrotechnics, and high notes followed by higher notes.
The aria was as varied as it was brilliant — now calling for shimmery, intimate melody, now for brightly athletic coloratura. And it went on and on, as if each artistic climax were simply a new challenge to be outdone, a test of how much beauty and virtuosity could be packed into several minutes’ worth of music.
When it was over, the audience burst into frenzied and extended applause, an admixture of thrilled exhaustion. Until that moment, we had been politely holding our expressions of appreciation until the end of individual acts, but it was obvious to everyone in the hall that this was not the time to stand on ceremony.
Panthaki has thankfully become a regular presence in Philharmonia concerts over the past few years, but — as with the late Lorraine Hunt Lieberson before her — it becomes increasingly difficult to find words that will adequately convey the multifold splendor of her singing. It is full-bodied and rich in coloration, yet her phrases move with all the litheness and grace of a dancer.
She reaches notes that other singers can only eye with envy, and does so with effortless precision. She tears through the most demanding passagework without batting an eye or missing a beat. Her diction is flawless. She’s a phenomenon, and only getting more marvelous with each passing year.
There is no such thing as a bad opportunity to hear Panthaki sing, and that one aria was only the high point of an evening full of delights. But it would be difficult for even a confirmed Handel idolater such as myself to claim that “Joseph and his Brethren” is among his more successful efforts. The libretto, drawn from the book of Genesis, is a scrappy mess, taking one of the Old Testament’s most searing tales and turning it into a dramatically sputtering patchwork. (If you know the source material, you can just barely follow the plot; if not, don’t bother trying.)
In the absence of consistently drawn characters, Handel’s writing tends to revert to the generic — which still means it is full of ingenious inventions and vigorous choral writing. The score includes a rapturous love duet accompanied by two warbling flutes, a deft philosophical essay in music that contrasts the humble joys of the peasantry with the strenuous backbiting of courtly life, and a number of vigorous arias devoted to self-reproach and other moral reckonings.
Yet McGegan and his forces had to work a little harder than usual to sell this, which they did through the traditional resources of rhythmic vitality and formal eloquence. The orchestra delivered Handel’s dark-hued textures with care, and the Philharmonia Chorale, led by Bruce Lamott, served admirably as various Egyptian and Israelite cohorts.
In the title role, mezzo-soprano Diana Moore sounded restrained almost to the point of recessiveness, but there were vigorous, forthright contributions from tenor Nicholas Phan (doing double duty as two of the brothers) and baritone Philip Cutlip (also doubling up, as Pharaoh and Joseph’s brother Reuben). Mezzo-soprano Abigail Levis was a throaty, alluring presence, and soprano Gabrielle Haigh was a sweettoned Benjamin.
But Panthaki, as she more or less always does, stole the show. Surely it’s past time for her to become an even more regular visitor to the Bay Area.