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Profundo basso at Spivey Hall
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
RECITAL REVIEW Bass Morris D. Robinson and pianist Caren Levine. Sunday at Spivey Hall. www.spiveyhall.org
Some performers float into town on a balloon of hype, although once you actually hear the person sing, dance or play the xylophone you’re deflated to realize that the artist in question is not, in fact, the greatest who ever lived.
Morris D. Robinson, an Atlanta native with an unusual career trajectory — from college football at South Carolina’s The Citadel to New York’s Metropolitan Opera — made his Spivey Hall debut Sunday with the opposite problem. His managers, publicists and debut album (“Going Home,” on EMI Classics) had awkwardly positioned him as a crossover crooner — a big, handsome voice who offers meek arrangements of great Gospel standards.
Instead, as heard in Spivey’s golden acoustic, Robinson has the potential to be a major singer in a rare (and desperately needed) vocal category: a basso profundo, a deep, deep, unbelievably deep voice that’s lyrical, fluid and godlike.
And Robinson, with energetic pianist Caren Levine, fought the crossover tag on Sunday with a program covering three languages and three centuries, from 18th century Italian (a Mozart concert aria) to 19th century German (Hugo Wolf’s “Three Michelangelo Songs”) to several generations of American English, including the studied eloquence of Leonard Bernstein’s “Greeting,” the Appalachian melancholy of John Jacob Niles’ “Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” and Leslie Adams’ tender “For You There is No Song.”
They closed the formal part of the hour-long program with a rousing version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” in Levine’s zesty arrangement, sounding like Gershwin meets honky-tonk cabaret, a treat to hear. Levine, too, is a catch. Her accompaniments were thoroughtly engrossing and vital, with the on-the-fly allure of brilliant improvisations.
Their one-hour show held nothing especially virtuosic or emotionally demanding for Robinson, but he delivered everything evenly, confidently and with ear-catching (and seat-rattling) appeal. As vocally imposing as a redwood tree, with a wine-dark timbre and a serious approach to singing, he’s a formidable talent but an unfinished artist — a miracle voice of endless potential.
A few mannerisms need to be clipped, such as a tendency to add an umph to the end of phrases, like he’s expelling air from his lungs; he also needs to even out his wide vibrato and get soft, slow passages under control, so he can taper a line smoothly, seamlessly.
Major opera roles for his voice type — Sarastro in “The Magic Flute,” the King in “Aïda” — require deep reserves of sound and majestic control. In his mid 30s, still young for a bass, Robinson has a lot of hard work ahead — in the rehearsal studio, not the publicity department — if he’s to join the top roster of opera stars.
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