The Reluctant Heldentenor

To fill the gigantic mold of a Wagnerian hero, a tenor should 1) have a voice big enough and resonant enough to soar over the timpani-tempered Wagnerian orchestra, 2) be robust enough to support swooning Wagnerian sopranos, and 3) preferably be named Lauritz Melchior. At the Metropolitan Opera last week, a topnotch revival of Wagner's Die Walkuere (conducted by Karl Boehm) offered the audience a dramatic tenor who ideally fulfilled the first two requirements and made the third one seem unimportant. The tenor: 33-year-old, Canadian-born Jon Vickers.

Tenor Vickers made an inauspicious Met debut earlier in the year in Pagliacci, later scored a notable triumph as Florestan in Fidelio (TIME, Feb. 8). His performance last week in the role of Siegmund prompted some of the loudest and longest cheers heard at the Met this season. A solidly constructed man (5 ft. 9 in., 215 lbs., chest 47 in.), Vickers is a passionate, convincing actor; his voice is heavy but admirably flexible, capable of varied and subtle shadings. It was at its most spectacular when it surged over the orchestra in Siegmund's furious outbursts, but it was also wonderfully expressive in the quieter waters of the first act's tenderly lyrical Winterstuerme, wichen dem Wonnemond. Vickers received stirring if somewhat uneven support from Sopranos Aase Nordmo Loevberg as Sieglinde, Birgit Nilsson as Bruennhilde, and a whole troop of excellent Valkyries, but he was plainly the star of the evening. Soprano Nilsson: "I hope Vickers will be for me what Melchior was to Flagstad."

Tristan: Later. Vickers has other ideas: he does not covet the role of Heldentenor. "I have no intention," says he, "of becoming a Wagner specialist. I love Wagner, but I want to sing for 25 years, not ten years. I want to keep my Italian roles, because Italian caresses the voice while German exploits it." Moreover, Vickers refuses to jump into the role of Tristan, as his public and press have urged him to. No dramatic tenor, he reasons, really reaches vocal maturity until he is 38 or 39, and for a part as taxing as Tristan, it takes a few years beyond for "the artist to mature in the role."

Tenor Vickers' soberly practical attitude toward his success stems from the fact that it took a long time coming. At home in Prince Albert, Sask., Vickers sang "in every church choir in town," but planned to become a doctor. When he graduated from high school (his father was a school principal), he found the colleges jammed with returning veterans, turned to clerking in Safeway and Woolworth stores, eventually became a tool buyer for the Hudson Bay Co. department store. When he was appearing in an amateur production of Naughty Marietta, the Toronto Conservatory heard of him, gave him a three-year scholarship. But Vickers, who had a horror of becoming "another run-of-the-mill radio singer," decided after eight years that he would go back into business. "The press always said, Mr. Vickers gave his usual fine performance,' and I knew I was on the way down."

At 55: Exile. What changed his mind was the offer of a Covent Garden contract. He became a success in London, won raves for his Aeneas in Berlioz' The Trojans (TIME, June 17, 1957), was the sensation of the European festival circuit, including Bayreuth. He signed with the Met a year ago after rebuffing several earlier feelers from General Manager Rudolf Bing ("I told him that as long as he felt it was necessary for me to audition for him, I knew I wasn't ready for the Met").

Vickers, who still yearns sometimes for the business world, has charted his musical career with the care of an efficiency expert. Says he: "I always remember what Caruso said: 'With a beautiful voice it is not hard to reach the top. But to stay there, that is hard.' I want to stay there --but not a day past 55."

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