The term Wagnerian never applied to me, though Bayreuth holds a special place in the family lore. In the 1950s, a rare honor was bestowed upon my grandfather: along with the other chosen ones, he was permitted to play his violin in the theater’s “mystic void.” (Also known as the pit.) When I went to Bayreuth for the first time on assignment, at 26, I felt a certain pride in belonging, too. Not that anyone told me I should feel that way. It was like a kind of persistent murmur, which stuck with me despite the theater’s 19th-century-train-station façade.
The Mystic Void
Do we still need Bayreuth?
