Most people live their lives without a single brush with greatness. When they do have such an encounter, they talk about it endlessly for the rest of their days.

I had a number of such brushes.

I feel like the Fuller Brush Man who carried his sample case of brushes and brought them out one by one to display for his eager hungry audience.

I think I’ll talk a little about one of my brushes, with the great George London. He was one in a fraternity of basses great in the world at about the same time like an embarrassment of riches. We had such overlapping careers, Ezio Pinza who showed that Italians can sing low and act so well that after opera they could resound the stage in musicals. We had Cesare Siepi who had a perfect mellow I was fortunate to hear live, in Pasadena. We had Jerome Hines who made American bass voice a staple in the world. We had Alexander Kipnis who gave us Russian depth, and Boris Christoff who embodied his first name, and Nicolai Ghiaurov who gave himself deeply to the world, and Gottlob Frick I loved for his German, and Hans Hotter who took us on Die Winterreise and concurrently operetta. And Boris Shtokolov who made Russia everywhere, and Martti Talvela who specialized low, and Paul Plishka who propped up the Met, and Ruggero Raimondi and too many to mention, like Walter Berry the other half of the power couple with Christa Ludwig, and Otto Edelmann I saw as Ochs, and Simon Estes and Tom Krause and Geraint Evans and René Pape, and Nicola Zaccaria and Owen Brannigan and Giulio Neri and of course Paul Robeson whom I revere and José van Dam and and and really too many to mention, and and and…

And George London who belongs among the top of the list in the Pantheon high of the low.

George London was a singing actor. He stood up out of the shadow of Feodor Chaliapin who began the 20th Century with Russian resonance and established forever that opera is drama and not just sound. He was a hard act to follow. He set the standard as the singing actor and the acting singer. We had at the middle and later of that century Tito Gobbi, the same kind of reputation, who crafted each character so carefully that he designed the costumes and incredible make up and made every performance four dimensional. I saw him every chance I could.

And we had George London. He showed everyone that America does not mean provincial. He was all the bass heroes from Wotan to Boris. He brought quality to television. He became a popular celebrity interviewers liked to talk with. I still laugh at the account of one interviewer who followed him home to talk to his children and asked about his singing around the house, and the answer, “He’s too loud!”

I thank television for letting me experience more of his art. I especially cherish, for example, his way with songs, the perfect characterizations in “Lord Randall” where the mother interacts with the tragedy of her dying son and brings the growing intensity to the heart-stabbing conclusion. Too few artists can give a song its full dimension. [He sang “They Call the Wind Maria” better than I sang it.] I think of Lotte Lenya as Pirate Jenny in The Three Penny Opera. I think of Dietrich Fischer Dieskau in Die Erlkonig, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf as Die Junge Nonne, Maria Callas at her best, those singing actors who brought life to the stage. I have a list, not as long as I could wish, that includes the present. Sometime I’ll review it.

But I’m talking about George London because I had the opportunity to experience him in person, and I want to tell you about it.
And I keep remembering things. Like the worries I had about Mario Lanza and his desire to sing opera on stage and I felt he needed more experience, and then I remembered again my surprise that he spent a year touring in a trio with George London and Frances Yeend. I wish I had heard them.

And when George London’s career ended abruptly because his vocal chords paralyzed, he continued giving master classes. I was so fortunate that Cal State L.A. snagged him, and I was able and allowed to attend. The audience was full, many local students, and the greater invited community. A recording of George London as Boris at the Bolshoi played in the auditorium as people gathered and were seated. Then London himself came out to cheers and applause, his voice still resonant as he began the proceedings. Cal State had selected the students for him to work with. I’ve enjoyed videos of master classes with Maria Callas and Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and Thomas Quasthoff and others, but this was live with George London, immediate, immersive. The students were eager and nervous and grateful and ardent, and knew this could be a transformative moment in a possible singing career. London was generous, kind, insightful, instructive, helpful, supportive. He knew all the repertoire for every singer and voice range, and was able to place each example in its proper context, to expand and explain its significance, and the vocal techniques for each instance, how to meet and surmount each challenge. The audience learned along with the singers.

One particular moment stands out in my memory because it was unplanned and unexpected. An interloper had managed to insert himself unscheduled into the lineup. London was annoyed, didn’t want to work with him because it was unfair to the other legitimate valid candidates. The Cal State officials rushed to smooth over the moment, London reluctantly gave in, and gave the guy a chance. It was obvious to all of us that the interloper had inserted himself with the ulterior motive of claiming he had studied with George London and thus validate his hoped for career for which he was obviously not ready or qualified. He had chosen “ella giammai m’amo” from Verdi’s Don Carlo, a role London was famous for. We were witnessing juvenile bravado, the spoiled brat trying to measure himself against the master. It was like spaghetti sauce served before it was cooked.

The interloper began the first phrase, punching and mimicking the emphasis he had heard on records, a cheap imitation. London stopped him immediately, had him try again, gave him a few words, heard a phrase or two, then dismissed him to get on with the real agenda. We applauded the way London had handled the situation. The interloper probably thought the applause was for him.

It was not long after that that George London died. Too early. I have lucky stars to thank that I was there, near the end, breathing the same air, a brush with greatness, even from farther back in the auditorium, that remains among the memories of my life, treasures, ever renewing.