Eras are marked by the passing of time, institutions and in our most notable case, elections. Sometimes, however, the lifetime of a certain person is so remarkable that we mark as an era the beginning and ending of what that person offered the world. Such is the case with the lovely and peaceful passing of our friend Robert Merrill.
On Saturday, Oct. 23, at the Merrill home in New Rochelle, N.Y., Marion Merrill decided it was time for bed. She went down the stairs to the basement, where the American icon of opera—and most recently, baseball—was watching a game on television. He’d been down there a long time, and Marion was prepared to wake him from his comfortable chair, to help him, now moving slower than in past years, to bed. He looked asleep and peaceful—but upon trying to stir him, she realized he was gone. The doctor reported that the look of calm on the great baritone’s face meant there was no pain in his passing.
How appropriate.
Robert Merrill was the personification of an era in operatic music. His beauty of voice was undeniable.
“I always felt it was the most naturally beautiful voice God ever created,” said bass Samuel Ramey, upon hearing of Merrill’s death.
You trusted the sound. It stood for the most wonderful things about opera: clarity of tone, beauty of phrasing, and joy of singing. That joy was always part of who Bob was. He knew who he was and how he existed in the world—always positive, always grateful, always open to people and their stories.
“I love talking to people,” Bob told me one day at a restaurant near his home. “See all these people? They all have a story. I’m thinking of writing a book about them.”
The members of Bob’s community loved him, and were always ready to have a conversation with the honorary Yankee. His remarkable career was self-evident, but it is the later years that showed the man. He would sing a high note at the drop of a hat, proud that “I still have chops.”
For international opera director Fabrizio Melano, Bob was the quintessential New Yorker.
“He embodied everything that was best about this city. It was a thrill for me to have known him as a teenager, having guided Bob and Marion around the Forum in Rome on their honeymoon—and then, later, to actually direct him when I began my career at the Met.”
That was the way it was with the Merrills: you always felt you were with family. They were so easygoing and comfortable. When I had the pleasure of interviewing Bob for CS some years back, I remember the “tag team” they presented. Bob would talk about his career, and Marion would add to it. Between the two, they made a perfect circle. His answers to questions about his first passion, baseball, were especially charming:
MZ: Would you have preferred to have been a ball player for the Yankees?
RM: Absolutely. I would loved to have been a professional big leaguer, but I wasn’t good enough. People that I played with later would say, “You know, you’re lucky you had a voice, because you’re not a very good ball player!” I would have missed singing because ball players’ careers are short. If I were playing now, though, I would be a millionaire!
MM: But he’s had the best of both worlds, because he had the singing career, and now is working with the Yankees.
RM: When I walk out there and see the stadium—and by the way, when I was 8 years old, once or twice a year they would take us to the stadium and let us in to sit in the outfield. I saw Babe Ruth—well, that was the Caruso of ball, and I never forgot that feeling. But still, even now, when I go out there I feel like a kid again!
Bob’s childlike demeanor and humility were part of his charm. My husband, Sherrill Milnes, remembers the first time he encountered the great baritone, at the Metropolitan Opera.
“As intimidated as I was to meet this great singer, Bob smiled, stuck out his hand, and with a wink, said, ‘Welcome to the Met, there’s always room at the top!’
“It made a young singer feel very comfortable.”
When we heard Bob was gone, Sherrill called Marion right away to offer our love and support. Her first comment was: “Sherrill Merrill.” This was the running joke between the Milnes and Merrill houses. When I told my sister I was going to marry, her question—tongue in cheek, of course—was, “Are you going to marry Sherrill Merrill?” When we shared this story with Bob, he kindly offered an autographed photo of himself to my sister for Christmas, signed “To Vicky, much love, Robert Milnes.” She was both embarrassed and amused.
That was Bob. He would quip all the time, even when you didn’t expect it. When Sherrill called to humbly ask Bob to pay tribute to him at the Players Club, Bob replied, “Are you kiddin’? I’d love to. After all, I grew up on your recordings!”
What a card!
My favorite recording, ridiculously enough, has become a family tradition in our house. It is of this lovely man, of Jewish persuasion, singing Christmas songs. I think I found it in a bargain bin at Walgreens. I especially enjoy an original song called “The Birthday Party of the King.” It’s a tune, sung to a track, that has lovely words but is mostly unremarkable—except that the great Robert Merrill is singing it. The nobility of that sound gets us every time. From the first words: “Christmas trees are brightly lighted, in the air the angels sing,” Sherrill and I begin to cry. After the first hearing each year, we usually called Bob just to say hello and thanks. We’ll miss that this year. At least we still have Bob’s sound. That sound makes you a believer. Speaking of believing, The Merrills’ rabbi put Bob’s passing best as he told it to Marion: He’s up there with the angels right now, most likely leading the choir.
(To hear a sample of Robert Merrill’s great voice, go to www.operas-are.us where Mike Richter has posted samples of his singing for a few weeks.)
