My father, John Neylan McBaine, passed away on August 27th, 2008, after an 18-month battle with melanoma. It's appropriate to remember him here because even though it was my mother who was the professional musician, my dad was the one who showed me what it meant to have a true passion for classical music.His particular love was opera. He clearly remembered attending his first opera in 1958 in San Francisco. I believe it was Lucia di Lammermoor, and he remained a fan of the bel canto repertoire his whole life. While he extolled Joan Sutherland and Marilyn Horne, he also closely followed and adored the young, vibrant talent of Anna Netrebko, Angela Gheorghiu and Natalie Dessay. Although he bemoaned that much has changed about opera since his introduction to it in the 1960s, he never complained about the trend towards more beautiful, cinematic divas.
My dad took me to one of the first operas I can remember: a December 1983 performance of Fidelio at the Metropolitan Opera, starting Eva Marton and conducted by Klaus Tennstedt. I was not even seven years old and now, as the mother of a five year old, I am astonished by my dad's willingness to risk offending old-school opera etiquette by bringing such a small child. I remember the event so clearly because it provided material for one of the first entries in my new Hello Kitty journal: I kept the program and noted how we sat in the first row, right behind Tennstedt himself. At the end of the opera during the applause, Tennstedt turned to bow, and he winked at the small child sitting in front of him.
My father remained opinionated and vocal about the state of opera and opera companies until his death. He took pride in helping David Gockley assume the helm of San Francisco Opera in 2007, replacing Pamela Rosenberg of whom he was not a fan. Mr. Gockley graciously attended my father's memorial reception a few weeks ago in San Francisco. Also present at the reception was Ruth Felt, director of San Francisco Performances which my dad supported. Most touching to me was the presence of Philip Eisenberg, confined to a wheelchair. Philip was a prompter and coach at San Francisco Opera and at the Metropolitan Opera for many of the years that my mother was singing at those houses. Philip's friendship dates back to the early 1970s when my mom was touring with Western Opera and my dad was serving as the overseer of Western Opera on the San Francisco Opera board. A courtship blossomed in the back of the touring bus between the bohemian mezzo and the society bachelor. Philip was there then, and he was there for me the night of my dad's memorial.
Although my parents separated when I was twelve and divorced when I was nineteen, opera was always an olive branch in our home. It is hard for me to separate objective critique of the art form from the emotional peace it triggers from childhood memories. I am indebted to the singers, composers and directors -- including my own mother -- who offered the beauty and skill that made my father happy.
