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Tales of Levine's musicianship and memory have become part of the classical repertory. One of Levine's first big breaks came in 1971, at the Ravinia music festival, when he was asked to lead a performance of Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony on a week's notice. Edward Gordon, the festival's executive director, telephoned Levine to inquire how well he knew the music. "Will it make you feel any better," Levine responded, "if I say I will do both the rehearsals and the performance without a score?"
Tenor Luciano Pavarotti remembers the first La Bohème he and Levine performed together at the Met, in 1976: "He came out at the last minute, without time even for a rehearsal. It was wonderful, the most wonderful Bohème I ever did." When Marilyn Horne and Levine recorded Mahler's sprawling Symphony No. 3 in 1975, the mezzo turned to the maestro at one point and asked him how he had found time to learn the difficult piece in the midst of his busy schedule. Recalls Horne: "He very seriously told me he had learned it when he was twelve years old."
That is not hard to believe, for significant musical talent usually is revealed early. Success can quickly follow: Herbert von Karajan led his first opera at 20, and Bernstein's brilliant career was launched at 25. "As long as I can remember," says Levine, "I have had a relationship to music that was so spontaneous, so natural and so all encompassing that I can't remember life without it." Even when he is not actually conducting, rehearsing or playing the piano, Levine remains obsessed with music. Says he: "If I am walking in the woods, I am hearing music in my head; if I am in a boat, I may be going over scores in my mind. For me, music is like eating, breathing or sleeping."
In front of an orchestra, Levine assumes a commanding, but still affable mien. His standard rehearsal mufti is blue polo shirt, dark polyester slacks and tan desert boots. A large bath towel is inevitably draped over his left shoulder almost everywhere he goes, to wipe away sometimes profuse perspiration. Levine steps briskly upon the podium, throws open a score and sets to work. He is not an acrobat like Bernstein, or a near telepathist like Karajan; his movements are semaphoric but controlled. Whoosh! Both arms suddenly fly up, and the orchestra visibly tenses, anticipating the downbeat. Slash! The baton in his right hand cuts the air, hissing as it slices down. Crash! As one, the musicians enter with the opening chord. There is no flailing or thrashing, no wasted motion. "Jimmy is a real classical conductor," notes Raymond Gniewek, the Met's concertmaster, who has played violin in the orchestra for 26 seasons. "Only the necessary movements are made, unlike the choreographers and the karate choppers."