A scene from Act I of Verdi’s Aida (Marty Sohl / Metropolitan Opera)

A couple of years ago, the musical-theater society at the University of Bristol, in England, decided to put on Aida — not the opera by Verdi but a musical by Elton John and Tim Rice, which is based on the opera.

You remember the story of Aida, don’t you? Ethiopian princess is a slave in Egypt. She falls in love with the Captain of the Guard, but the Egyptian princess is also in love with him. Oops. Worse, the captain loves the slave, not the princess he is supposed to serve. Big trouble.


Well, the University of Bristol’s Aida never got off the ground. Why? Because of student protests. The protesters figured that white students would be cast in the show, which would be an injustice to real-live Egyptians and Ethiopians. The musical-theater society canceled the show, saying, “We would not want to cause offense in any way.”

This kind of thing will kill art — kill it dead. That’s what I said in an essay I wrote, “Killing Aida: A mortal threat to art.” In the clash between identity politics and art, someone must die. And, increasingly, identity politics has the upper hand.

Why am I bringing up all this now? Last night, I attended a performance of Aida — Verdi, not John/Rice — at the Metropolitan Opera. (Review to come soon.) In the role of the King of Egypt was Ryan Speedo Green (coolest name in opera, probably). In the role of the King of Ethiopia was Quinn Kelsey.



Ryan Speedo Green is an American from Virginia. He is black and grew up rough, very rough. I interviewed him two years ago. Wonderful, interesting, talented guy. You can read about him in Daniel Bergner’s book Sing for Your Life: A Story of Race, Music, and Family. As for Quinn Kelsey, he is an American from Hawaii. Extraordinary singer.

Shouldn’t Green have been King of Ethiopia, rather than of Egypt? No, no. For one thing, the Ethiopian is a baritone role, and Green is lower than that. (So is the King of Egypt.) But for another — if you go by race in opera and other art, you are cooked, cooked, cooked, as I stressed in my essay, a kind of cry into the night.