Kay and George attended the sold-out New York début of Alma Mater at the Adelphi Theatre on March 1, 1935. Kay had attended rehearsals prior to her trip to Reno but had not experienced the full show with Balanchine’s bold costumes, perfected choreography, and lighting. Its tone impertinent, its musical style eclectic, her ballet strutted and swanked across the West Fifty-Fourth Street stage. George grinned. She had tapped a vein of the musical mother lode, that precious ore that alloyed entertainment and art. Kay tried to summon a feeling akin to elation, or at least pleasure. She had fulfilled her father’s dream. And yet.
It helped when she and George clinked champagne flutes at Sardi’s and a couple of strangers stopped by. Most likely recognizing George, they gushed, “you must be Kay Swift. Loved it.”
The next morning, John Martin of the New York Times poured ice water all over her hangover. Alma Mater, he proclaimed from the top of his concrete-and-glass soapbox, was “really a revue sketch rather than a ballet.” George Balanchine’s new company, the American Ballet, was “a colossal waste of time and energy, and evidence of the decadence of the classic tradition as it is found in certain European environments, examples of what someone has aptly called Riviera aesthetics.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean, George?”
“Artists aren’t allowed to eat prime rib, or ride in automobiles, Kay. Haven’t you seen La Bohème?”
Kay reread the review. What if John is on to something? Maybe the tone of Alma Mater, or the concept itself, is indeed snide or shallow. She had always suspected as much. But contrary to Romantic myth, real artists did not labor in isolation, burning their overcoats to warm their garrets. Real artists in America today knew how to negotiate with the business people who could promote their work: music publishers, show producers, and stars like George Balanchine. When the world’s most celebrated choreographer calls you, you pick up the phone. If he is bankrolled by a Warburg who, like Jimmy and others in their clan yearns to prove his mettle in the fickle domain of the arts, well, then, as Scott Fitzgerald observed, where the money goes, there goes the culture. Even an artist with the power of a George Gershwin usually had to write not what he wanted, and not necessarily what audiences expected, but what Broadway producers imagined audiences wanted. Porgy was an exception, but he would have to finance it himself. It amounted to an experiment, the riskiest venture of his life. She shook her head, emptied her cup, and entwined her fingers with his. “The audience liked Alma Mater, though.”
“They were nuts about it.” He glanced at the clock. “I have to clean up. Porgy tryouts. We’ll need you at the keyboard.” He could now play the entire score but he wanted to listen from the point of view of the audience. He frowned, sniffed, and looked around. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“Something burning?”
She shook her head. George and his hallucinations.
George had already selected his Porgy and his Bess but his producers, known as The Theatre Guild, were not comfortable with his choices. They had expected his name and clout to attract the likes of Paul Robeson and Josephine Baker, both of whom had auditioned in his apartment while Kay sojourned in Reno. Instead, he had picked two unknowns. Porgy was to be played by Todd Duncan, a young baritone from Indianapolis who taught at Howard University in Washington, D.C. Anne Brown, a pretty Juilliard ingénue, would personify Bess.
To demonstrate the astuteness of his choices George had invited Todd, Anne, and members of the Theatre Guild to his apartment. They sat on his Frits Henningsen sofas and armchairs, sipping Cristal Roederer champagne in Lalique flutes and munching on canapés. The singers faced them, sheet music in hand. Kay accompanied on the piano. Anne wailed a searing “My Man’s Gone Now,” Todd lit up the room with “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’,” and together they sang the love duet, “Bess, You Is My Woman Now,” their voices slithering over unexpected, nonparallel paths. Neither Todd nor Anne sang in the grand opera-house manner of a Gitta Alpár or a Lauritz Melchior. Nor did they belt the tunes like Broadway headliners. They performed with the naturalness and simplicity of well-trained neophytes. Kay, representing the orchestra, participated in their dialogue, answering and adorning their melodies.
This was the first time that Kay and George heard professional singers perform the showstopper, “Bess, You Is My Woman Now.” Long before Todd and Anne’s concluding harmony faded, supported by a final high chord on the piano, everyone’s eyes glistened. George glanced at Kay, who smiled back with relief.