He`s almost 70 now, but listening to the great rumble in his voice and the thunder in his laugh, you`d never guess that William Warfield has reached the age when most folks are settling into their rocking chairs.
Yet here he is, in his roomy studio on the Champaign/Urbana campus of the University of Illinois, speaking expansively about the pinnacles he has yet to conquer.
”I can`t wait to sink my teeth into a new piece, like the one I`ll be doing in Chicago,” says Warfield, the legendary bass-baritone who will appear with the Chicago Sinfonietta in the local premiere of Ulysses Kay`s ”Western Paradise” at 7:30 p.m. Saturday in Rosary College (River Forest) and Jan. 31 in Orchestra Hall.
”Why should I quit the stage, anyway? What does age have to do with anything? As long as this old voice holds out, I`ll never stop singing.”
And there isn`t any sign that Warfield`s magisterial instrument will be giving out soon. Though most singers hang up their sheet music well before their 60s, Warfield is still jetting around the world at 69, squeezing in concerts and recording dates between his duties as music professor at the U. of I.
On campus, and most everywhere else Warfield travels these days, he`s regarded as something of a culture hero-the rare classical singer who has triumphed in revered concert halls as well as the less-lofty environment of Hollywood.
”Well, yes, a lot of the students around here are familiar with my work,” says Warfield, who became a national name in 1951 singing ”Ol` Man River” in the MGM film of ”Show Boat” and an international star with a 1952 tour of Gershwin`s ”Porgy and Bess.”
”I remember when I first came to the U. of I. in 1974, `Show Boat` was playing at the local movie house, and the kids wanted me to go with them to see it.
”I said, `No, no, I can`t do that-it`s past history.`
”But then they looked at me, all disappointed, and said, `But Uncle Bill`-that`s what all my kids here call me-`how many of us will ever in our lifetime get the chance to go to a movie and sit beside somebody who is in it?`
”And all of a sudden, it dawned on me what perspective they were coming from, and I realized I must go with them. From then on, I started accepting things like that.”
In truth, Warfield probably had to adjust to such adulatory treatment long before 1974. Not only was he among the first Americans to establish a career at a time when European singers were automatically considered superior, but he also managed to smash the color barrier in the `50s, when the world of classical music was virtually shut off to blacks.
”It`s true-it was unusual for a black singer to give a debut in (New York`s) Town Hall in 1950,” says Warfield, whose success was inspired by the earlier triumphs of Paul Robeson and Marian Anderson.
”But, frankly, I didn`t really know how critical that debut was going to be-in fact, if I did, I probably would have been too nervous to sing.
”Instead, I just went out on stage and sang my heart out.”
The next day, Warfield`s life-and the world of classical singing-turned upside down. The critics nearly tripped over each other searching for superlatives, the major artist-management firms started burning up Warfield`s phone line.
”My manager called me the morning the reviews came out,” recalls Warfield, ”and he said to me: `Look, all heaven has broken loose out there.` And it was true.”
Warfield, still a graduate student at the Eastman School of Music, quit his studies for a three-month concert tour of Australia, to be signed shortly thereafter for the role of Joe in the film musical of ”Show Boat.”
”When we started work on the film, I was absolutely starry-eyed,” says Warfield. ”I kept walking around the set asking everyone to explain to me
`what`s this` and `what`s that.`
”The piece de resistance came when I was doing a scene with Ava Gardner, and the camerman said, `OK, we`ll do a two-shot.` And I whispered to Ava,
`What`s a two-shot?`
”She said, `Baby, that`s when just your face and my face are on the screen alone. Just you and me, baby.`
”And I said, `Oh my.` ”
That`s probably just what the studio hands said when Warfield began singing ”Ol` Man River.” Here was an artist who could bring off the song as idiomatically as Robeson had (in the 1936 film of ”Show Boat”), and could do it in one take.
”When I finished that performance, I really didn`t know what all the screaming on the set was all about,” recalls Warfield. ”I had always been taught that you`re supposed to get it right the first time. I didn`t know how many things could go wrong, even beyond the singing, with all those mikes on all of the orchestral instruments, and three or four tape recorders going at the same time.
”When we finished the take, everyone on the set was so excited they called (studio head) Louis Mayer from his office to come listen to the recording. Afterward, he began weeping and said, `I can`t believe it, I can`t believe it.`
”But I`ve always liked to joke that when he burst into tears, it wasn`t so much because of how well I had sung the song, but because of how much money I had saved him.”
Regardless, Warfield (who has yet to hear John McGlinn`s new recording of ”Show Boat”) was on his way, Robeson`s heir apparent as America`s most imposing black singer. For his part, Robeson had inspired Warfield-and countless others-to travel where blacks often were not welcome.
”The first time I ever heard `Ol Man River` was as a kid, when I saw the Robeson movie,” says Warfield, who was born in Helena, Ark and reared in Rochester, N.Y. ”He made an incredible impression on me-so did the whole movie, the poignancy of it all.
”Paul, in fact, use to change the words to `Ol` Man River` whenever he sang it in recital. The original words,” says Warfield, who easily begins to sing his signature tune, ”go something like:
” `I gets weary, and sick of tryin,`
” `I`m tired of livin` and scared of dyin.`
”And Paul changed it to:
” `I gets weary, and sick of tryin,`
” `But I`ll keep fightin` until I`m dyin.`
”Paul made that song into a battle cry.
”Later on, when I was just getting my concert career started, I got to know Paul pretty well. He invited me to come up and talk to him one morning after a recital he gave, and I sat there, in absolute awe of this man, watching him as he ate breakfast.
”It was overwhelming to behold the breadth and size of him, that rumbling, rattling voice. He sat there eating four hotcakes, six slices of bacon, three eggs and so on.
”He gave me some advice, and it was quite simple: `Know your craft and don`t give up.` He was right.”
By the mid-`50s, Warfield`s career was nearly as big as Robeson`s, its scope broadened with his portrayal of Porgy in Gershwin`s opera. Warfield`s fame only grew when his wife, a little-known soprano named Leontyne Price, vanquished the racial barriers in the opera house that Warfield had removed in the recital hall and the musical stage.
Yet no marriage could withstand the strain of two such high-powered careers, says Warfield.
”That, in essence, was the problem,” says Warfield. ”We wouldn`t see each other for months at a time. Sometimes we`d get to meet each other in an airport and shout `Hi.`
”Once, we were both performing at different theaters in Berlin, and we were able to sneak in a dinner together. By the time we walked out of the restaurant, there was a crowd of photographers snapping pictures of us. It was an unusual life.”
Though Price and Warfield divorced in 1972 (neither remarried), they have remained cordial, with the great diva visiting Warfield`s school now and then to perform and talk with students.
Like Price, Warfield never suffered from a shortage of work; as recently as four years ago, he won a Grammy for his recording of Aaron Copland`s
”Lincoln Portrait.”
You might say that, through it all, Warfield`s students have served as his closest family.
”I can`t see ever giving up teaching. It sustains me,” says Warfield.
”Though there`s mandatory retirement at the U. of I. by age 70, I`ve already been invited to teach at other places that don`t have that rule.
”So I`ll be working with kids forever, whether I stay here or not.”
And despite Warfield`s star-status, every so often he runs into a student who puts everything into perspective.
”I had this terrific kid as a freshman, we got along great, and I figured he knew I`d been in the movies,” says Warfield.
”So one day, after he had been studying with me for months, he said, `By the way, the guys at the dorm tell me you`re some kind of big celebrity. Is that true?` ” recalls Warfield with a big laugh.
”And I told him, `Son, you might say I`ve had my moments.` ”
