Remembering Elisabeth Söderström

I first fell in love with the Swedish soprano Elisabeth Söderström as a teenager listening to a long playing record which my father played frequently. She sounded convincing and exquisite, but at that age, I was unable to learn much about her.

Decades later, I was working in public radio and on a trip to London discovered the BBC had made some spoken word programs with her, and I asked to listen to a couple of them. I did and fell in love with several quite different aspects of her voice - her intelligence, her sensitivity, her sense of humor, and her commitment to the art of singing.

In an instant, I decided that I needed to make a radio program with her...something to help people better understand both the art of song and the art song. Because I knew nothing about music, who better to open my eyes and ears than Elisabeth?

In her recitals, she often spoke about the next song to give the audience a perspective on it and to help deepen their understanding; I believe that she thought very carefully about what she was going to say, and the words were essential to the full appreciation of the performance. Her way of doing this helped the audience appreciate not just the voice and the performance but also the warm, funny, and intelligent person behind the notes.

About the same time, I met the Swedish baritone Håkan Hagegård; he was intrigued with the idea of working with Elisabeth, and then the American accompanist Warren Jones joined our group. I had developed some contacts with Swedish Radio, and they were intrigued and agreed to participate as the lead producer.

And so I fell in love with Elisabeth yet again. We made the programs in western Sweden, in Håkan's local church, and our time together was one of the highlights of my life - to work with highly talented performers, producers, and technicians was such a great privilege. Three one hour programs in both English and Swedish, culminating in a recital at Berwald Hall in Stockholm. I wanted to call the programs "Take Me To Your Lieder," but the Swedes preferred "Sing Me A Song," and they prevailed. (I still prefer my idea [naturally].

Our lunch break was not in the church but in a hostel across the road. The wife cooked, and the husband served, and at the end of the meal every day, Elisabeth would head into the kitchen. After a couple of days, I asked her why she did that. "To thank the cook," she said, adding, "It takes so little, and it seems to mean something."

Elisabeth was a consummate artist who could handle the great gestures of grand opera, but she provided all the little gestures, too. Her eyes were on the stars, but her feet were solidly on the ground. Always.

Hard to believe it was twenty two years ago because the memories are still so fresh. After the series was broadcast, I saw Elisabeth in Stockholm, London, and New York. Eventually she retired after a turn at running the Drottiningholm Court Theatre where she made her debut, and I heard that she had been having some major health problems.

She slipped off life's stage earlier this week, leaving many of us deeply saddened. If you saw her in performance you never forgot her; if you heard her tell a story, it remained indelibly told. No one's eyes sparkled like hers, no one had a laugh like hers. Just being around her made the day special.

She was one of a kind, and I feel triply blessed to have known her a little bit and to have been one of the multitudes of people who loved her for her art, heart, and, more importantly, for her humanity.