Prima la musica, poi le parole

Publicity

I have been subsisting on Met and La Scala moviecasts and not much else — plus starting a new job here — which is why proper posts are a bit thin on the ground. I have a few in mind (most of them admittedly centred on Cheryl Barker) but in the meantime, a few bits and pieces elsewhere worth a plug.

A blog
For those who've not found it already, let me point you towards Score Desk, bloghome of CaroNome, "the world's first ever teenage-opera-singing-ballerina-blogger".  With Sieglinde apparently disparu, a couple of other favourites fading away and Parterre populated by some depressingly cynical and nasty commenters, she's a much needed ray of sunshine. Bright, funny and infectiously enthusiastic.

A soprano
I spend enough time chez Opera Australia that I have my favourites not just among the soloists but among the chorus as well. Chief among those is Jane Parkin — sister of the slightly more famous David — who always strikes me as someone who ought to be plucked from that chorus line and given a solo role. She was impressive in the McDonald's Aria finals last year, not just because she sang well (you'd have to figure most of the chorus could do that, or they wouldn't be there) but because her repertoire, her approach and her stage presence were all suggestive of an interesting and individual artist. Plus she's exactly the kind of soprano Opera Australia is serious need of, and thus worth developing. The only evidence I can offer you is this hilarious clip from, of all things, a pop science show. It's at least reflective of her star power, if not perhaps of her vocal abilities.

A recording
The Netrebko-Villazon behemoth hardly needs any marketing assistance from little old me. Just the same, their recently released La bohème is really, really good — and this coming from me, confirmed unfan of La bohème. Inevitably it is The Anna & Rolando Show, not so much an egalitarian ensemble piece, but in fact probably the more thrilling for it. She always seems to sound better with him beside her, he is swoon inducing with or without her and they make a pretty damn appealing couple on record. It's a little odd that Deutsche Grammophon, with its impressive stable of stars, couldn't come up with a more impressive Musetta than Decca's Nicole Cabell, who is outclassed here. Still, this is pretty top notch; it's a Bohème that makes me not detest Bohème, and that's saying something.

A DVD
After last Sunday's Met moviecast, I walked out of the movie theatre, took a bus into the city and immediately bought the DVD of La fille du régiment from the Royal Opera. I needed a permanent souvenir and this is as close as it comes. There are subtle differences between this and the Met incarnation, but it is equally terrific. Natural comedienne that she is, Natalie's improvisations change with every performance; I suspect you could watch her do it twenty times and she'd give you something new in every one. Juan Diego is as exruciatingly talented as ever and just as adorable; he was perhaps in even more fluid voice at the Met, but quite frankly, with Juan Diego, you're just comparing wonderful with wonderful. The only major difference is Dawn French as the Duchesse de Krakenthorp, who is a scream; less haughty than Marian Seldes but much, much funnier.

Moi-même
This is weeks old now, but while I'm promoting things — if you've a desire to read me in slightly more sensible, less overflowing mode, a piece I wrote about the rivalry between Lully and Marc-Antoine Charpentier appeared in Pinchgut Opera's April newsletter, available here. Pinchgut's 2008 production is Charpentier's rarely (ie practically never) performed opera David et Jonathas, which, despite containing far too many boys, promises to be another gorgeous success.

Once, twice, six times a goddess

I am not falling into my old habits, traipsing across countries or oceans at the drop of a hat in mad pursuit of Australian sopranos. I'd have been happy with my five Sydney Arabellas but since the opportunity of a sixth in Melbourne was offered, I was of course delighted by the prospect. There is no such thing as too much Cheryl Barker. Nor, for that matter, is there such a thing as too much Arabella — at least not this Arabella. John Cox's production is just as endearingly elegant in either setting. The principal cast is thankfully unchanged, which has meant double duty for a couple of the singers — Milijana Nikolic and Lorina Gore sang Adelaide and Fiakermilli respectively on Friday night, then Ulrica and Oscar the following afternoon, a feat for which I most definitely doff my non-existent hat.

The performance I saw was the last of the run. It seems my timing was just right — as I understand it, Peter Coleman-Wright was announced on opening night as singing through a chest infection and subsequently cancelled the next three performances. His cover was Warwick Fyfe, and I concede that, while Warwick's far from a favourite of mine, I can actually see him making quite an effective Mandryka — but the dizzying chemistry of Cheryl and Peter could not, I think, be recreated with half the partnership missing. And since that electricity is one of my favourite aspects of this Arabella, I'm very grateful indeed that Peter was back in health and on stage, as buoyant and teddybearish as ever.

Cheryl Barker was exquisite because she is always exquisite, because being exquisite is what being Cheryl Barker means. No change there, except in the details — no two of her Arabellas have been exactly the same, she is a living, breathing character whom Cheryl creates afresh with each performance. As ever — in Arabella and elsewhere — her voice grew warmer, more expansive, more secure and more enthralling as the evening progressed. She has nailed this role; I hope for the world's sake she's given opportunities to sing it elsewhere.

Failing that, let's just keep her singing it here forever. I'd happily let her lissome, spine-shivering singing keep right on sending me a little further round the bend with every phrase. By the time she says, with perfect coquetry "die drei sind lustiger" I'm already half gone, and at that point we've barely begun. I don't need to point out the aching beauty of the duet with Zdenka; if you don't feel it, then you've a heart of stone which no amount of pointing out could fix. Her "Mein Elemer" is a quicksilver tour de force. "Und du wirst mein Gebieter sein", well, I've already waxed lyrical about this —  Peter and Cheryl in duet radiate true love, vocally and physically, with a sincerity almost too potent to bear. She handles the Act Three confrontation with clarity, passion and towering dignity, a commanding presence and yet delicate, lovable and so, so, so beautiful. From opening night in Sydney to closing night in Melbourne, all this has been true of Cheryl throughout; but then, that's just what she does. She's Cheryl. (I'm mad about her. Is it obvious?)

Production, cast, consuming gorgeousness of Cheryl, all this was unchanged. One thing, however, was very, very different in Melbourne — the choice of tempi. I heard Lionel Friend conduct the opera once here in Sydney, when Richard Hickox was home with a virus. There, he was a proxy Hickox. In Melbourne, he is his own man and his conception of this opera is markedly different. This was fast. Sometimes pleasingly so; sometimes not. In parts, Friend's lightning dash did a nice job of draining off a bit of excess syrup (though I don't find this opera as saccharine as some do) and there were times his zippy recitatives did aid the pacing of the piece. All in all, though, he was too fast for me. A good portion of the glow of Arabella emanates from its ecstatic dwelling on gorgeous melodies, and I think it's okay to allow to just sit and radiate for a little while, no need to keep pressing on and on. Not that he denied us all luxury, not at all — but nevertheless I couldn't help but feel a certain impatience simmering beneath even the most drawn out passages.

The other issue with this fast forwarded Arabella — more obvious to me because I had the performances under Hickox for comparison — was its detrimental effect on the staging. Everything was happening faster, which meant that the carefully measured stage business which seemed so well matched to Hickox's performances, now appeared rougher and more rushed. There was a moment when Zdenka had to blurt a final line more or less over her shoulder, just to get off the stage in time. Arabella re-entered the room while the door was still swinging shut behind Matteo. I think Theodor was singing about his bills before even looking at them. And the depictive Act Three prelude turned from fervent to chaotic; evidently Hickox and Friend have very different visions of Zdenka's First Time. The change of pace, while awkward, isn't ever vastly problematic, and if, like a sane person, you've only seen the production in one city or t'other, I don't suppose it's a problem at all. Having seen it at both speeds, though, I can say I absolutely prefer the slower version, both musically and theatrically. Still, I'm pleased to have heard both, as there was much to love in Friend's reading and in the fluid, fabulous playing of Orchestra Victoria, ably assisted by a far kinder acoustic than that of the Opera Theatre.

And it seems I was not the only blogger making the Sydney-Melbourne Arabella road trip.   Marcellous was there too, and his post makes more detailed mention of the brisker tempi — apparently Friend's reading of the score took about fifteen minutes off Hickox's time, which seems a pretty significant difference. Marcellous attended the same performance I did, which does make me wonder if he might perchance be the distinctively dressed gentleman whom I often see at concerts and opera here and whom I also happened to spot filing into the State Theatre on Friday night. But no, I suppose that kind of coincidence only happens in opera, not in real life. 

Good news, slightly less than good news

Slightly less than good news first. Via Iron Tongue of Midnight comes word that Ewa Podles has withdrawn from SF Opera's Ariodante. Ewa, don't leave me! Her replacement is none other than Sonia Prina, who sings Orlando for Opera Australia two months later. I've been terribly excited about the chance to hear Sonia over here — international singers at her level are a rare treat in these parts — but in place of Ewa? Not quite the same thing. I'm sure she'll be glorious. But I'd still have loved a chance to hear Ewa, Force of Nature, in person. Oh well.

The good news, however, is that I've had an excellent answer to one of my questions. I asked if anybody who knew who the TBA Rodolfo for the October season of La bohème would be. And, lo and behold, an anonymous comment tells me it will be Carlo Barricelli! This is in fact precisely the answer I'd hoped for. Carlo was seriously impressive in Il tabarro last year and I was very much disappointed by his absence from this year's season. Let's hope subsquent seasons will be able to make even better use of him; but for now, a Rodolfo will do. This boy may just be destined for very very Big Things; a comment on Parterre a little while ago mentioned he'd been covering Rodolfo at the Met, which is a bit impressive. So, looks like I'm off to yet another Bohème. Such is life. Thankyou for the tip, Anonymous!

Fille in HD

I haven't died or quit. I've been in Melbourne. Seeing, as it happens, a sixth and final performance of Arabella. About which more soonish, but for the moment I have a head full of Natalie.

This afternoon was the final in the series of Met in HD moviecasts, the one I was waiting for right from the start, the one which caused me to actually jump for joy when I read that it was coming — La fille du régiment with Natalie and Juan Diego. For all intents and purposes, my favourite soprano and my favourite tenor, and both of them jawdroppingly in their element. It was worth all the anticipation and about 99% of all the advance hype.

My only real difficulty was choosing with whom I should fall deepest in love. Natalie is outrageous and brilliant, a manic little powerhouse full of extraordinary talent and perfect comic timing. Juan Diego is preposterously adorable, just as charismatic as she is and gifted beyond all imagining. I was perhaps even more enchanted by him than by her — can you believe it? — simply because while my ecstatic response to the wonder of Natalie is pretty much a given, my experience of Juan Diego hasn't been quite so extensive. It never surprises me that Natalie is a knock out, it's what I expect; Juan Diego still has a few breathtaking thrills up his sleeve where I'm concerned. Naturally everyone went nuts for his "Pour mon âme" but it was his "Pour me rapprocher de Marie" which knocked me sideways, with the kind of legato likely to leave one in a puddle on the floor — and an interpolated D-flat to boot. We were told it was coming in the intermission interview:

Renée: Oh, I didn't know [there was a D-flat in that aria]!
JDF: Oh, of course is not written, but I put it.

Of course he does. And so he should.

What can I say about Natalie except that she's Natalie? Everything has been said, either by me or by the whole world. She's so fantastic it hurts. She throws her voice all over the place in the dialogue, only to shine and sparkle her way through her arias and ensembles. Her oddball Marie is the stuff of genius, and only she could pull it off so perfectly. Natalie wants a revolution in opera as theatre; whether you're joining her army or not, you have to admire the woman for at every moment practising what she preaches — she is the ideal poster girl for her own campaign. Her expressivity is astounding; she looks crestfallen, you feel it; she grins and it's utterly infectious. Having established herself as my favourite soprano, Natalie becomes one of my favourite actresses too.

This Fille could probably manage to be quite satisfactory if it was nothing beyond a vehicle for its two stars. But there's so much more. So much more. Laurent Pelly's production is playful and clever and I love it, from the war map sets to Marie's gravity defying ponytail to the inspired hilarity of Tonio's triumphant Act II entrance on a tank. And I love the detail of it — the potato Marie takes in Act I as a souvenir of the regiment, for instance, returns in Act II — but green, and growing roots. Pelly has created genuine comedy, the kind that doesn't force itself upon you but simply rolls along in its brilliant way and happens to be hilarious.

Felicity Palmer is just completely wonderful as the Marquise de Birkenfield, apparently relishing every moment of the role. Alessandro Corbelli's Sulpice looks to have stepped straight out of a propaganda poster; he's initially a bit grotesque, but that fades pretty quickly and by the end he's hard not to like, in a silly, rotund sort of a way. Donald Maxwell is a gorgeously haughty Hortensius. I adored them all. What joy to have a comic opera peopled entirely by such funny, funny performers who, almost incidentally, all sound great too. Marian Seldes has an appalling French accent but makes a suitably terrifying Duchesse de Krakenthorp.

This, like the Glyndebourne Giulio Cesare or the Arts Florissants Les Indes Galantes, is one of those productions which so bursting with wonderful stuff that I'm dying to share as much of it as I can — and yet I know, of course, that all the magic would lose its glitter in the telling. There's no describing such things; they need to be seen. So thank god/Peter Gelb for the HD broadcasts; otherwise we'd never have had the chance.

Various

• Despite appearances, my experience of the La Scala Series La traviata was not All About Angela. There were other things. I liked Ramon Vargas and his voice a lot more in Alfredo than in Rodolfo. (And I liked him well enough there, but his Alfredo was just a bit more mellifluous and a bit more charming and, well, a bit more not La bohème.) Roberto Frontali's Germont père had the easiest flowing sound of the principal trio. The production is super traditional and kind of gorgeous; I liked it — Violetta gets fantastic frocks and I want to live in their country house. The La Scala Series experience is not as glossy or as full of features as the Met in HD moviecasts — sound and picture are both a bit scratchier, there's less sense of the audience, and there are no backstage shots and Conversations With Renée (or equivalent) — but still highly satisfying and, in its no frills way, sometimes a bit more immediate and exciting than the Met series. My hat is off to Greater Union Bondi Junction — screenings are in a smallish theatre, exactly the right size for the audience and for this kind of show. I didn't think any movie theatres still did reserved seating, but they do; seats are more steeply raked and further back from the screen than at the Chauvel, which, coupled with the small size of the theatre, means there are really No Bad Seats. The popcorn is brilliant, none of this upmarket (and admittedly tasty) "popped in olive oil" business like in Paddington; here it's your trademark fake butter flavour and a world of salt. Bought from a gargantuan snack bar.
  
• I don't suppose anybody out there has any idea who's singing Rodolfo for OA when La bohème returns in October? The website is still listing him as TBA. Otherwise it's basically a dream cast — the best people from the two casts we had earlier in the year. Amelia Farrugia as Musetta, José Carbo as Marcello and the scintillating Antoinette Halloran as Mimi. That's probably enough to make me see it again (yes, even though it's Bohème — I'm taking my Antoinette opportunities wherever I get them) but I'd like to know if they'll have a Rodolfo to match. Any clues welcome. Offer them anonymously if you like.
  
• Speaking of the scintillating Antoinette Halloran — any Wellington readers manage to attend her recital in the wonderfully named Sings Wellington series? Gorgeous Lieder in the first half and Poulenc's La voix humaine in the second. If you did — I am jealous. And a little in awe. I think anyone just performing the Poulenc is a bit special, but to do it with piano only and after already having sung the first half of a recital? Wow.
  
• Everything is booked and (touch wood) unjinxable now. So, my official schedule for San Francisco, in case anybody will be there and would like to say hello/stalk me (not so much the latter) is as follows:
  20th June — Lucia di Lammermoor
  21st June — Ariodante
  22nd June — Das Rheingold (matinée)
  23rd June — Lucia (again)
  24th June — death by exhaustion (presumably)

Spider and fly

So apparently this what I do on weekends. I go to the Eastern Suburbs to watch Ramon Vargas watch Angela Gheorghiu die.

With the headband and her hair out in Act Two, she even looks like Veronica Lodge. If she's Veronica then maybe that makes me a weird amalgam of Betty and Archie. As aware of her dangers as the former, as blissfully able to ignore them as the latter. No, that's going an inch or two too far. Angela hasn't completely consumed me and I don't believe she ever will. Nevertheless, she has bewitched, bothered and bewildered me more thoroughly than I thought likely — actually, before last weekend's Bohème, I didn't think she could do those things to me at all. That, to my surprise, has flown out the window and now her Violetta has stopped it, for the moment, from climbing back in.

There is so much baggage and back story with Angela. It is impossible to approach her with total innocence. I've spent years forming opinions of her that are only half related to her musical significance. And I'm not about to apologise for that, or try and back track. Very little that I have seen, heard or read of Offstage Angela has caused me to like her. Even during the Met Bohème moviecast, when I was enchanted by Onstage Angela, her non singing persona did not attract me. But rumour breeds rumour, misperception breeds misperception; we have to assume that some of the negativity is baseless. At the same time, I think it's clear that some, at least, is not. She hasn't the ebullient sweetness of Renée or the generous, immediate likeability of Glorious Joyce. Neither, I imagine, is she completely blackhearted. Is she likeable at all, though? I don't know. Do I like her? I don't know, and it depends what you mean. Incorporating all that baggage and back story, adding my own observations of her backstage antics during that Bohème broadcast and the hard-to-articulate impressions of her during this afternoon's La traviata — I don't think so.

But what if everything extra were cleared away? If I had never heard even the briefest mention of this Angela Gheorghiu until the opening credits today, had never seen her or heard her sing until her "Flora, amici", then maybe I'd write something like:

I've just seen this soprano sing Violetta at La Scala and she was captivating. Not perhaps the most aurally luscious Violetta of my life, better suited to the long lines of Act Three than the froth and coloratura of Act One but that's alright. And I'm nitpicking because her singing, whatever else it was, was always interesting. Her acting varied between devastatingly detailed and offputtingly melodramatic but there was a certain something in her stage presence which encompassed both these extremes, allowed her to flow from one to another without losing her magnetism. Occasionally she was completely over the top — has anyone ever made the "aaar" in "E tardi" so very very very long? But then in other moments — Dio mio, she was exquisite. Had I been in a different mood, had I had reason not to like her, I suspect finding fault would be easy. But I was in the mood I was, and I was happy to enjoy whatever kind of Violetta — and whatever kind of Verdi — she felt inclined to throw my way.

Well what do you know, I've gone and written it anyway. She divides me in two. Good twin, bad twin; rational awareness, irrational besottedness. One the one hand — you can practically see her drawing lifeforce from applause, which is a little disturbing. "Sempre libera" really did seem to tax her and I had the impression she was pushing and pulling tempi all over the place. Violetta's illusory "rebirth" just before she died was appallingly overacted. And on the other — I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

This was what it was. Angela is what she is, like her or hate her, pursue her or run a mile. And I? I fall into both categories simultaneously, or else I'm somewhere in the middle, toss'd like a ship in a Vivaldi aria. About the rest of world and time, I've no idea and I'm not about to go making rash declarations of anything. All I can tell you is that for the duration of this Traviata, Angela entrapped me. And I knew it, and I loved it.

More movies

Have I been living in a cave? I didn't think so, but I'm more than a little surprised I hadn't already heard about this. The "La Scala Series" — cinema presentations of recent productions from La Scala (and a couple from Venice and Florence) — is being screened in a selection of Greater Union cinemas, including one near (well, near enough) me. Why hasn't this been bigger news? Or is it just me? I found out because I've ended up on the mailing list for Opera Queensland and happened to notice an ad for screenings in that state. I followed the link and discovered they're happening in Bondi too.

And they look pretty fantastic. The program detail links on the Greater Union site don't seem to work, but there's more information here, courtesy of the distributor, Arts Alliance Media. My timing is perfect, thank god — I'm just in time for a La traviata this weekend starring none other than the bewildering star of my last post, Angela Gheorghiu. A week ago I might have wished for somebody else but for now her ambiguous fascination holds and I'm curious to see her Violetta. I've seen her famous Covent Garden performance on DVD, but that was years ago, and if I'm completely honest, while I enjoyed it, I wasn't overwhelmed by it the way the rest of the world seems to have been. But now the prospect of Angela is semi-alluring and I suspect that (even if against my will) I might get a bit more of a thrill this time around. Or not, but we'll see.

Also, Maria Stuarda! Which makes me happy in itself but comes with a dynamic duo as a bonus — Mariella Devia as Maria and Anna Caterina Antonacci as Elisabetta. Yes please! Mariella is somebody I forever reading about but haven't yet had an opportunity to enjoy. The darkly fascinating Anna Caterina, meanwhile, is somebody I already know and adore.

There appears to be an Aida featuring Roberto Alagna, which is intriguing. Pre walk-out, presumably. The chance to hear the rest of La rondine appeals; the name Fiorenza Cedolins rings bells, though I'm not sure if they're good bells or bad bells. What else? A Forza conducted by Zubin Mehta, with Violeta Urmana and Marcello Giordano — not bad. Il Trittico, which as far as I can tell may or may not include lovely Barbara Frittoli as Angelica. Paoletta Marrocu, who I remember as a strange and terrifying Lady Macbeth to Thomas Hampson's funny looking (sorry — he did sound wonderful) Macbeth, is Giorgetta in Il tabarro. Those are pretty much the only names I recognise but that's no indicator of anything; in fact much of the appeal here is the chance to hear singers I don't know — one of the disadvantages of living in this half of the planet is that, without travelling, it's hard to know much about anyone without a recording contract. The final production in the series is, lo and behold, a Tristan und Isolde! So unless I finally go and buy myself a recording in between, both my first and my second Tristan will be enhanced by popcorn. Did I mention this one has Waltraud Meier? It does. I like her a lot, based on nothing more substantial than her appearance in James Levine's Anniversary Gala. Michelle DeYoung reappears as Brangäne. Ian Storey is Tristan and I can't shake the feeling that his name should mean something more to me than it does.

Of course, all this does mean that I have to start going to Bondi in my weekends, which doesn't have me wild with joy. But suffering for art is part of the deal.

La bohème, or, The Strange Fascination of Angela Gheorghiu

For whatever reason, La bohème and I have just never got on. I know the rest of the world loves it madly, and believe me, I have tried but it is no use. From "Sono andati" to the end is fantastic, the rest leaves me cold or at best lukewarm. Go ahead and judge me, but I can't do anything about it. It does become a bit more tempting with one of my special favourites singing in it, I admit. Aldo di Toro as Rodolfo, Mirella Freni, Cheryl Barker or Antoinette Halloran as Mimi — I can't deny these are attractive prospects, but even they can't make me adore the opera as a whole. I'm sorry.

And this weekend's HD broadcast didn't even offer such a lure. My relationship with Angela Gheorghiu has never been a very happy one. Her singing has never moved or amazed me, and her antics and interviews don't exactly cast her in a very appealing light. Just as with La bohème itself, thousands adore her and for me it just isn't a happening thing.

Until today. Sort of. There was something strangely compelling and attractive about her Mimi. Strangely is the operative word. Hers was an unusual Mimi; maybe not a Mimi at all. She made vague mention of Murget during her intermission interview as her precedent for a less than pure and innocent portrayal of Mimi — that's as may be, but I suspect her characterisation was less about fidelity to the source and more about Angela doing what she was in the mood for. And yet, this is all a bit beside the point. I found her fascinating and really quite lovely. I felt myself falling under her spell, in fact.

But I also felt that I could see her casting that spell. She's a good actress but there's no way she's going to get lost in a character — Angela is first and foremost Angela, and that means a diva in the old fashioned and grandest sense. I think she knows exactly what she's doing — every turn of phrase, every vocal climax, every delicate, pathos filled gesture and adorable smile, it's all of it calculated to make her audience adore her. Somehow, though, seeing all this happen doesn't do much to lessen its effect. I knew I was being manipulated, but it still worked — in an odd way, seeing the mechanism of diva at work just added to its potency.

So the upshot of all this contradiction is that almost despite myself, I loved every minute of Angela's Mimi. She was downright strange, but mesmerising, and her voice, which has never moved me before, suddenly seemed the most gorgeous, fascinating sound this performance had to offer. But it was her performance I loved. The rest was harder to be bewitched by. Her interview with Renée Fleming was bizarre — like watching Betty interview Veronica. She seemed determined to show how much she adored Renée and to be as flamboyant and quirky as possible but it was all a bit undignified and insincere. She returned from her between-act curtain calls and every time played up for the camera, but it seemed a studied attempt to be adorable, a conscious imitation of the faces Anna Netrebko made for the camera, perhaps.  The most telling moment came as the cast prepared for their final curtain call. Ainhoa Arteta stood there actually crying, wiping away tears and obviously trying to gather herself together. Angela breezed past, humming merrily to herself. Ainhoa was emerging from real, sincere immersion in the emotion of the piece; Angela was emerging from a gala night of Being Angela.

The intangible magnetism she possesses does at times overshadow the rest of the cast. I felt this especially in Ainhoa Arteta's "Quando m'en vo" — as vivid as she was, somehow when Mimi joined in at the end, she took over. It almost seemed as if Puccini had written it that way simply because Angela had sent him a message from the future asking him not to let her thunder be stolen outright by such a showy aria. Ramon Vargas seems like a sweetheart and made quite an attractive Rodolfo but was not overwhelming. Ainhoa Arteta made a singularly unlikeable Act Two Musetta but was completely endearing in Act Four, and her vibrant and shiny voice is certainly the kind of voice I like. The rest of Rodolfo's bohemian circle were all very good and plenty of fun, though I couldn't ever shake the impression of a bunch of healthy, well-fed middle aged men who ought to have been living sensible, grown up lives, not huddling in a dingy Parisian flat and acting like teenagers. I'm sorry to use descriptions like "very good" and leave it at that — perhaps they deserve better — but I'm afraid I just can't get ravingly excited. It's La bohème. There it is.

The intermission feature was the same old thing. I adored Renée as always — she's without a doubt the hostess with the mostess. As always, I got teary at the sight of Natalie in the trailer for La fille du régiment. I liked that Joe Clark the technical director was wearing a tie which matched one of the Act Two canopies. I fell momentarily in love with Tatiana Troyanos during her brief appearance in the Zeffirelli montage. And of course, the quotable line of the night came from Maestro (and cartoon Italian) Nicola Luisotti during his chat with Hostess Renée.

Renée: This orchestra could play this opera in its sleep. How do you keep things fresh?
Luisotti: I sleep with them.

From the ridiculous to the sublime

How could I resist this?

Dorothy Dorow performs Music For Coloratura Soprano, Flute & Piano. I picked it up because the spine was intriguing, but it was the cover — and the bargain price — which clinched it.  Regrettably, the recording itself is only intermittently as hilarious as the cover. As I understand it, it was in modern music that Dorothy Dorow spent the bulk of her career; I can only hope she responded better to that repertoire than to this. In a series of 18th, 19th and 20th century coloratura showpieces, she is resolutely dull and mechanical; the fun only comes when the music gets so ridiculously frilly that her solemn execution of it is hilariously incongruous. My favourite track is her own composition, "Dream". The text, also by Miss Dorow consists of the word "Dream". The piece is a pastiche of various modern styles; it involves some moaning, some snapping of fingers, even a bit of bossa nova. It could almost be a joke but her comments in the liner notes and her straightfaced rendition suggest it is not. I'd love to give it to Patricia Petibon to sing, though — she'd turn it into an uproarious masterpiece. Otherwise this is just mindbogglingly boring, really. It's all very well to treat these as essentially displays of technical mastery, but that doesn't mean they can't be aurally appealing too. Hitting all the notes is no fun if you do it so charmlessly. Compare and contrast Dorow's Morse Code treatment of Eva dell'Acqua's "Villanelle" to Natalie's fluid, shimmery recording of the piece on her Vocalise; or her dry, tedious "Lo! Here the gentle lark" with the version on Yvonne Kenny's Homage to Melba, sung with a spring in her step and a smile in her voice; indeed, when she finally makes it through the very last flight of fioratura, you can hear her laughing. Now that's the spirit in which this kind of repertoire needs to be sung.

And if I couldn't resist that, I certainly wasn't going to say no to this.

This is pretty early for Anne Sofie — the recital dates from 1989. The contents aren't quite as bleak or as unrelentingly wintry as the Oh So Sibelius cover art, though the lyrics certainly contain their fair share of snow and longing. There's the odd sliver of jubilation too, though. I don't need to tell you how well suited Anne Sofie is to this repertoire. She's in gorgeous voice, but then, when isn't she? Her singing here doesn't quite attain the utter lusciousness of, say, her Grieg songs; but it's also free of the (dare I say it?) occasionally offputting idiosyncracies of her more recent recordings — the Abba CD (I know, I know, it's mostly not Abba, but I still have to call it that) and her Music for a While; not her Terezin, though, because that is an out-and-out masterpiece. She reaches surprisingly operatic heights here, but as usual it's still that perfectly formed and ever expressive middle of her voice which provides the true thrills. The dramatic "Flickan kom infrån sin älsklings möte" has long been a favourite song of mine — I learnt most of the words (phonetically, that is) from Karita; Barbara Bonney's has been known to quite literally stop me in my tracks when appearing on Shuffle. Anne Sofie, true to form, sings it magnificently; but to be honest, on this CD, I like her best in lilting, languid mode. Hers is a voice to bask in. And luckily this recital offers plenty of opportunities to do just that.

Räntchen

A question for knowledgeable Wagnerians. Could one of you explain to me, please, the origin of the deeply irritating and misleading "woman in horns" image which, along with caricatures of Luciano Pavarotti, seems long to have been the stock illustration — verbal and visual — of opera. Who is she, and who gave her horns?

I mean, I assume she's meant to be Brünnhilde, but as far as I can see, Brünnhilde's helmet has wings, not horns. After all, she's a Valkyrie, not a Viking I stand corrected — an email from somebody who, unlike me, actually knows (a lot) about these things points out that Valkyries are, in fact, Vikings. I guess what I meant was that she's not one a cartoon Viking warrior; anyway, Vikings apparently didn't go about it horned helmets either. Every time I come across an instance of this — especially from a source which ought to know better — I want to scream. The "woman in horns" exemplifies all that apparently drives people away from opera, so why oh why do I see it on products (books, CDs, etc.) apparently designed to draw more people in? Why not a photo of Anna Netrebko in her Salzburg Traviata dress? Maybe not exactly that, but you know what I mean — if you're trying to convince people to abandon their preconceptions, stop perpetuating the damn things. Surprise them. Say yes, this is opera too and it's not nearly so laughable or so disconcerting as that creature in the horns.

I've been troubled by this for a while. Well, forever really. I bring it up today because I've seen a newly published book by Brian Castles-Onion titled Losing the Plot in Opera. A (very) quick flick suggests it may actually be quite readable and not infested with myths and clichés — the first page I opened to at random mentioned Anna Moffo, which is a reasonably good sign — but the cover caused me (and this isn't poetic license — I was unobserved at the time) to stomp my feet like a two year old and seethe. I don't blame Mr Castles-Onion for the cover. I do blame Exisle. Look, I understand that it's a very recognisable image. A large woman in a cheap Viking costume makes people think opera even before they read the title. It doesn't follow, however, that this is a happy state of affairs. Time for a change — it has to start somewhere.

Update: As the above-mentioned email and comments below indicate, the whole question of horns, both on Vikings and on Wagnerian characters, is evidently far more complex (and downright interesting) than I had imagined. Not at all a simple case of black-and-white anachronisms or error. But the other half of this rant remains unclouded; however complex her horns might be, the woman wearing them still ain't a fair or useful representation of the infinite variety of opera.

Have diva, will travel: American edition

As some of you may remember, two years ago (to the day, as it happens) I announced that I was throwing caution to the wind and flying to the other side of the world in pursuit of diva.

Well, I'm doing it again. My Canadian grandmother is flying me over to Vancouver for a visit. On the way home, I'll spend five nights in San Francisco. The timing is obscenely good. I'm almost jealous of myself.

I'll see my first Das Rheingold, with a cast which includes a serious and long term favourite of mine, the gorgeous Jennifer Larmore. And since I like doing things in order, I'm pleased that my first live Ring opera happens to be the first one.

I'll see Handel's Ariodante. The cast is overwhelmingly starry. Susan Graham sings the title role. Ewa Podles — Ewa Podles!!!! — is Polinesso. And as Ginevra, the woman whose disc of Italian arias was one of the main reasons I fell in love with opera, the woman who essentially introduced me to the concept of bel canto, the ever beautiful Ruth Ann Swenson.

And. I will see. Natalie Dessay in Lucia di Lammermoor. If you read this blog with anything even approaching regularity, you can perhaps begin to imagine just how significant this is for me. Just writing it makes my eyes water. What kind of state I will be in upon seeing her live, and in Lucia, I don't know. Natalie. In Lucia. Repeating it doesn't make it any less mindblowing.

So that's the plan. I fly in June. Meanwhile any suggestions about what to do with the rest of my time in fabulous San Francisco — or insiders' tips on SFOperagoing, for that matter — are of course heartily welcomed.

Tristan und Isolde

Alright, I will deal with the bad things first and in doing so, rid myself of them.

1. Try again, Barbara Willis Sweete. I occasionally saw your point with the split screens. But save them for DVD. They ruin a live broadcast. I may be mistaken, but it's my impression that the appeal of these broadcasts for most people is that they give some sense of what's it's like to attend an opera at the Met. Fifty million little boxes don't achieve that. Quite the opposite. She said something to Peter Gelb about allowing the audience to choose what to see, but in fact, her direction gives us less choice — we have her vision imposed upon us instead. She also said something about offering "relief" from a "static" production. Excuse me? How dare you? Plenty of people have managed to film plenty of similarly "static" operas without resorting to all this ridiculousness. I took to closing my eyes as soon as the frame started shrinking, which worked relatively well but I still resent being obliged to shut my eyes to Debbie. Others were angrier even than I was; I witnessed quite a heated discussion among five women waiting for the loos, all of whom hated in the direction to varying degrees.

2. To the man beside me who started picking, pontificating and finding fault less than a second after the music had ended — have you no soul? It's Tristan und Isolde, for god's sake; is that seriously your immediate response? Also, nobody asked you to interject loudly during Susan Graham's conversation with Sarah Billinghurst. It's a moviecast, not a town hall meeting. Also, if you're going to ridicule Natalie Dessay, at least get her surname right.

3. I bought one of the Chauvel's famous ice cream sandwiches. When I opened the packet, it went flying, rolled under five rows of seats and ended up at the front of the theatre, coated with fluff and dust and totally inedible. This made for exactly the combination of tragedy and comedy you'd expect. I wasn't about to buy a second.

Spleen vented.

The all-encompassing good thing is, of course, Tristan und Isolde itself. And I am in my usual Wagner predicament — the kind of elated rambling I lavish upon everything else seems irrelevant and inappropriate in the face of this sort of music. Experiencing Wagner isn't like experiencing opera, it's a trip to another world. My usual concerns disappear and I'm transported and transfixed. I'm sure I've said these things before, but that's inevitable. My encounters with Wagner are infrequent but as a rule transcendent. And this was Tristan und Isolde, for heaven's sake. My very first Tristan und Isolde ever. Imagine that. As always with Wagner, I just wish it was longer and that there weren't intervals. Although really, I'm not sure Wagner and time have much of a relationship. Objectively the operas are long, but to me it always seems that they just take as long as they need to in order to be what they are, which is perfect. Neither fast nor slow paced, just Wagner paced. I really don't know if this makes sense. Wagner does not make me make sense.

I love Deborah Voigt for various reasons but still didn't know quite what to expect from her Isolde. She was beautiful. No, maybe there isn't quite so much billowingly silky voice to get lost in now, but I don't care. And never having seen her in action before, I was surprised by her grace and simple, believable stage presence. At the end of the Liebestod I would have preferred the theatre to stay dark and silent for a good five or ten minutes, to let me have a bit of a cry and gather myself back together.

As for, in the words of Gilligan's Island, "the rest" — Robert Dean Smith sang a good Tristan, and that in itself is no mean feat. He was really quite jawdropping in the last act. I would have liked to have seen Ben Heppner or Gary Lehman, but no matter. Matti Salminen was amazing as King Marke. Michelle de Young was a pretty wonderful Brangaene. Oh, look, I don't have a word to say against any of the cast, that's so not the point.

Susan Graham lacks the slightly mad adorability of Renée Fleming as intermission host, but still did a pretty charming job of it. The interview with Debbie was the best; Debbie is a very funny woman, as I already knew.

Despite the split screens, I would almost go back for a second helping. Debbie's Liebestod would be reason enough. But the encore screening is, of necessity, on a weekday morning, so out of the question. Anyway, I've finally had my first Tristan. More, I suppose, will have to follow.

Natalie in HD (also Peter Grimes)

Peter Grimes in a moment. I need to talk about Natalie first. When Renée Fleming hosts the Met in HD intermission segment, I become a swooning Renée fan. So try to imagine my state upon seeing Natalie Dessay — my Natalie — in the same role. At least I knew in advance that she was hosting; had I not, my joy may well have been audibly uncontainable. Instead, I just did what I usually do when I see Natalie. I sat enraptured and burst into silent tears. It's almost become more a physical reflex than a precise emotional response — Natalie appears and I well up immediately. I really do love that woman. She is hilarious, more than slightly insane, completely adorable and phenomenally, breathtakingly talented. It's the last of these qualities which make the rest so meaningful.

And it was a slightly strange experience to share her with a crowd. I felt curiously possessive as I heard the rest of the theatre fall laughingly in love with her. I thought, what do you all know? She's my Natalie. And I wanted to say, yes, she's very French and funny and a little bit scatty here, but do you all realise that she's also one of the most fiercely intelligent singers of her generation? Do you realise she is not only sweet and charming, but also just terribly important? That when John Doyle talks about the importance of singers who can act, and says "you know that more than anyone", he doesn't just mean "you, as a present day opera singer", he means "you, as Natalie Dessay, a defining figure in opera as theatre"? Some of them probably do realise all of this. Some, I suspect, do not. And I don't know what to wish — all at once, I want everyone to know the fullness of her fabulousness and I want to keep her all for myself. And neither is practical or possible.

Everybody's favourite Natalie moment — it was mine too — was her repeated attempts at pronouncing "Aldeburgh". Followed immediately by a Very BBC presenter from BBC East who immediately pronounced it properly. She also asked Donald Palumbo if he beats the chorus. And there was this pearl for Maestro Runnicles. "You are from Scotland! Donald is from Scotland! Benjamin Britten is from England! Do you feel a special connection to his music because of this?" Asked by Renée, it would probably seem quite a normal question, but the wonderful strangeness of Natalie gives it an air of amusing silliness. We also loved her Tales From the Crypt introductions of "the horrible story...of...Peter Grimes"; the second of these actually earnt her a brief ovation.

And in between Natalie's hosting duties, there was an opera. It's rather unfair of me to introduce it like that, because in fact, Peter Grimes was kind of stunning. I love Benjamin Britten quite madly and yet our acquaintance is still rather limited. But everything I get to know strengthens my affection, and Peter Grimes is no exception. The depth and multicoloured darkness of it, the evocative orchestral textures and Britten's ever perceptive and gorgeous writing for the voice — all this fascinates and enchants me. There is something about Britten which just naturally agrees with me. I'd not heard Peter Grimes before but I certainly plan to hear it again. Sadly, as this is the only one of the HD broadcasts not to sell out, it's also the only one not getting an encore screening. It's also the only one I've felt inclined to see a second time.

Britten deserves first credit for my immediate attraction to this opera. Next, Donald Runnicles who brought it to such excruciatingly exquisite and occasionally brutal life. And then the wonderful Anthony Dean Griffey. I know him from his Mitch on the DG recording of A Streetcar Named Desire. His Grimes has that same careful combination of tremendous power and lyrical fragility, with the added bonus of having first rate music to sing. He clearly has got to the heart of this character, loves him even, though he's not the easiest man to love. He told Natalie that he felt he'd spent his entire life preparing for the role, and it shows. He was, in a way, quite beautiful.

I'm also happy finally to have had a chance to see Patricia Racette in action. All I've had to go on previously were a couple of Met radio broadcasts, but this was a far better showcase. She's serenely lovely here and in radiant voice. Her Embroidery Aria had rather more brilliance and clarity than Renée's, the only other rendition I've ever heard. She's magic in the scene with the boy as well. (And I have to say, I'm so pleased Britten let this boy be a mute role.) Of course, I also loved it when she and Jill Grove, finding they had walked into shot behind Natalie's interview, promptly linked arms and strode through like a couple of characters from Little Women. Speaking of Jill Grove — another happy revelation! I've only previously heard Jill as Tisbe on the DVD of Cenerentola with Cecilia. Much more to sing here and a far more interesting role, and she's rather wonderful. Yes, it's a rather broad American accent to hear from the landlady in an English seaside village, but no matter.

Naturally there were a few little cheers and, come curtain call, a special round of applause, for Teddy Tahu Rhodes. These Australians seem to imagine he's theirs. It was a nice change to see him with plenty of clothes on, and to hear him singing something other than Stanley — eight Streetcars had me feeling I'd heard enough Teddy to last a lifetime, but he really does make some pretty fantastic sounds as Ned Keene. I honestly can't tell if he can act or not, but there's something innately appealing about him, and I'm not talking about the pin-up stuff. He's likeable. His voice is a little unusual, not for all tastes or all moods, but it was quite resplendent here. But I'm wondering whether he's much of an accent person; Ned Keene sometimes sounded rather like Stanley, and yet not American — so perhaps his Stanley wasn't particularly Southern. I thought he was at the time, but then, my attention was mostly elsewhere.

John Doyle's production has received a fair bit of ambivalent and downright negative comment. I actually liked it a lot, it seems a good match to the atmosphere of the score. Dark, menacing, oppressive. I don't mind the chorus just being lined up across the stage, to stand and sing at the audience; it highlights the implicit attacks they're making, and maybe reflects the way the villagers exist in Grimes' psyche. I am, however, very glad indeed that the so-called "Wall of LGBT Role Models" was deleted early on from the finale. Actually it might have been weirdly interesting to see, but I just cannot fathom how anybody could possibly have thought it should be included in the first place. I thought it sounded absurd when I read about it; now that I've actually seen the production, the thought of it is bewildering — it would be a strange idea in any production, but here it would seem a completely incongruous concept, since nothing preceding it seems to emerge from the same interpretive angle. At least, I didn't think it did; this seemed to me, symbolic set design aside, a pretty non-interventionist production, happy to keep the opera ambiguous, open simultaneously to multiple interpretations without choosing one point in particular to hammer. So suddenly making that point at the end seems bizarre to me; thank god they (whoever "they" might be in this case) thought better of it.

Next up is Tristan & Isolde. I had considered booking for two (or even three!) screenings of this, just for the pleasurable pain of it — well, that and so that I could say that I had. However, having read of Barbara Willis Sweete's crimes against camerawork in her filming of it, I'm resisting. Six split screens? I hate to think. So even though it's Wagner, and even though it's Debbie, I think once will be enough.

Pilgrim's Progress

Obviously I can't let Opera Australia's concert performance of The Pilgrim's Progress pass without some kind of blog comment. After all, it did involve practically the entire Opera Australia roster. This is not a review as such — I'm writing one of those, when I figure out how on earth to do it, for NZ Opera News. But no sensible print review is going to be able to mention every single singer — there are too many of them (forty-one solo roles!) and too much else about the piece and its performance to talk about. So that's what I thought I'd do here. A sentence at least — often more, because that's what I'm like — for everyone involved. Here goes.

Conal Coad started things off nice and solidly as John Bunyan himself, with gratifyingly clear diction. There was no text provided in the programme, and the Concert Hall can't do surtitles, so we were at the mercy of the performers if we were to have a hope of understanding what was going on. Alan Opie as the Pilgrim began sounding suitably burdened; later his singing grew broader and more lyrical as he moved towards serenity and peace. To do him justice I'd have to mention him about twenty more times in what follows. So just take it as read that he responded brilliantly to all the piece's shifting moods and sang with persuasive passion throughout. And while I'm making sweeping statements — stellar contributions throughout (that's completely an understatement) from the Bach Choir and the Opera Australia Chorus. Shane Lowrencev, who is nine or ten feet tall at least, was a commanding Evangelist. The Four Neighbours were pretty great, with their quickfire cries of "Danger! Back!" — all reappeared later in other roles, with the exception of Graeme Macfarlane, a bit of a shame as a mark in my programme indicates I rather liked him. The Three Shining Ones were Lorina Gore, Taryn Fiebig and Pamela Helen Stephen, who appeared from on high — meaning through a door into the stalls behind the orchestra. A pretty coup de théâtre though it did make them a little difficult to hear or see. It also required them to walk in solemn procession all the way down the steps to the stage in high heels which I was especially impressed by. Audience members in lower heels fall down the stairs quite often. They blended beautifully and wore appropriately sparkly frocks. Henry Choo had the first swoonworthy solo of the evening; this kind of repertoire would seem to be his ideal home. Barry Ryan as Watchful, the Porter followed him with a solo almost as swoonworthy and sung almost without accompaniment. Michael Lewis was sort of frighteningly intense as A Herald, partnered by appropriately triumphant trumpet solo. And speaking of scary, Richard Anderson's unseen, gravelly Apollyon was menacing in the extreme. Two Heavenly Beings then swept in, the shape of Hye Seoung Kwon and Catherine Carby. For my tastes, Catherine was the more genuinely heavenly of the two — she's fast becoming a Mezzo I Like A Lot — but Hye Seoung was very sweet. Kanen Breen, previously the Neighbour Pliable, reappeared in Vanity Fair as Lord Lechery, amazingly resisting the opportunity to completely over-act. He sounded more comfortable vocally than he was a while, even in Vaughan Williams' vastest moments not as swallowed up and tiny as he was in Arabella. Andrew Moran, Charlie Kedmenec, Tom Hamilton and David Corcoran all enjoyed themselves as a group of shady characters. I think I might be beginning to see why the judges so enthusiastically named David Corcoran winner of the McDonald's Aria. Lorina Gore had a chance to slip back into character as Fiakermilli to sing Madame Wanton, though the shining charm of her Fiakermilli wasn't quite so much in evidence here. Alongside her was Pamela Helen Stephen as Madame Bubble. I like Pamela Helen Stephen and only wish there was more of her in the Sydney season — she's Carmen in Melbourne but as far as I can recall, this is her only Sydney appearance for OA this year. Please, Maestro, more nepotism! (Pamela [or does one call her Pamela Helen?] is married to our illustrious Music Director.) Abraham Singer — yes, A. Singer is a singer, and I don't imagine that joke has ever been made before — was brief but effective as Pontius Pilate. Another appearance by David Corcoran as the Usher; I hope those judges are right about his potential, lord knows this company needs another convincing Italianate tenor in its stable. And then Conal Coad as Lord Hate-Good. I liked him better as Bunyan, where he was obliged to be serious; his evil as Lord Hate-Good was a bit much and a bit too buffoonish. Antoinette Halloran made her long-awaited (by me, at any rate) appearance as Malice, and in her Antoinette way, immediately commanded the stage. The little she had to sing sounded fabulous. And there were a million people (well, almost) on stage and all kinds of things going on, but there is something about Antoinette which draws the attention. That said, Dominica Matthews was also pretty commanding, dominating the ensemble with the kind of contralto which Must Be Obeyed. There's a very distinctive Dominica Sound, and it's growing on me. Henry Choo is back, as Superstition. In my programme, I've written "again, swoon" and that doesn't really need elaboration. Richard Anderson is a bit less scary the second time around, as Envy. Matthew Clark has an interminable solo as the Woodcutter's Boy. My apologies, I cannot abide boy sopranos; no doubt he's a good one but I'm afraid I just wanted him gone. When he was, Kanen Breen was back yet again. This time in the most characterful of his roles, Mr By-Ends. This piece really is a good choice for him. The oiliness which irritated me no end in his Elemer is completely right here, and in any case, more refined. His wife, Madam By-Ends was lovely Catherine Carby, gleefully misbehaving. And after all havoc and raucous mischief of the Vanity Fair scene, we moved into its polar opposite — a totally gorgeous, serene and perfect encounter between the Pilgrim and Three Shepherds. Henry Choo was lilting as ever. Shane Lowrencev also good. But oh. Joshua Bloom. Here was the highlight of my evening, the moment of enraptured enchantment. What can I say? We know I'm his fan, despite his not being even slightly a soprano. He has one of the most beautiful voices I know of, male or female; and I am happy to find that he is as utterly engaging in solemn mode as he is in comedy. While I recovered, a few non allegorical solos. Solo Soprano was Hye Seoung Kwon, more compelling than she had been as a Heavenly Being; it was a nice change to hear her in something which required real thrust and power rather than smiling prettiness. Pamela Helen Stephen in her third frock of the night was a passionate Solo Alto. As the Solo Tenor, Kanen Breen back yet again — I've said all I need to already. Then more Lorina Gore, on the quiet side as the Voice of a Bird. And David Corcoran as a Celestial Messenger which means the Pilgrim's journey is over at last. Conal Coad as John Bunyan returned, a little woollier before but still making his point. Then a silent re-entrance from Alan Opie and the piece comes to its radiant conclusion.

Tubular belles

What is a long weekend for, if not for sinking happily into the tar pit that is YouTube? And what is a blog for, if not for pulling you down there with me? An assortment of video treasures I can't help but share. (My apologies for the atrocious title, but once it had occured to me, I couldn't shake it.)

I started out trying to watch as many renditions of Desdemona's Willow Song as I could find. Evidently I am a masochist — this aria makes a mess of me every single time. A couple are audio only, but no less devastating for that — Anna Moffo is so delicately perfect you can practically see her anyway and, in her own way, Maria Callas kind of renders visuals unnecessary too. Lovely Barbara Frittoli (long time girl crush of the one and only vf) is another heartbreaker. Renée is surprisingly out there and powerful in concert at the Chatelet, despite wearing a truly inexplicable amount of clothing. (I heard her again tonight, on the Met broadcast of Otello and, well, there's no other way to put it — I burst into tears like a toddler.) But nobody, chez YouTube at least, can touch Mirella. Nobody else's high A# stabs me quite so painfully. I have perhaps mentioned my foolish habit of listening to Mirella sing this aria on my iPod, meaning that I find myself suddenly staring intently at the ceiling in public places, so as not to make a weeping fool of myself. And she's upsetting enough with audio only, but watching her makes it much worse. [Postscript: I just found Renata's. So maybe I'll declare a tie.]

Speaking of Mirella triumphans — I followed my Willow Song kick with a "Con onor muore" kick, and Mirella wins again. Not without stiff competition, though. Victoria de los Angeles is small and sweet but steely and determined. Renata is my first ever Butterfly (actually that's not true, but it might as well be), though it's a shame this clip doesn't actually include those opening words — everybody else I've heard sings them, but Renata speaks them in that distinctive, sonorous voice of hers and it's completely chilling. Anna Moffo makes another appearance, this time with visuals. But Cristina Gallardo-Domas is a rather frayed disappointment, and while I don't suppose she can be blamed for the weird death throes (yes, we get it, she's dying like a real butterfly, enough already) they're still offputting. Getting back to Mirella, though — I can't believe I'd never seen this before. It's unlike all the other deaths of Butterfly. She makes him watch. This took me entirely by surprising and it's quite beautiful while at the same time totally horrifying. (Speaking of horrifying  — forgive me, Gert, but I'm really not sure about the facial hair Placido is sporting there.)

So after all the above, I needed more Mirella. (I always Need More Mirella. It's a good rule for life.) I love this excerpt from her film of La traviata. The extreme close up of her eyes is a bit strange, but it also highlights just what a powerful actress she is — all the emotions you hear in her voice, you see in those eyes. In an odd sort of way, I also love this, from Act One of Fedora. Apparently Mirella breaks embargoes as well as hearts: that clip marks the first time I've heard even a note of Fedora since June 2006.  Above all, I love her Tatyana (Part One and Part Two). This is a revelation to me, but really shouldn't be — it's from the gala re-opening of the Zurich opera house, a concert I grew up watching. And yet I've very little recollection of this. There is a possibility it was on occasion fast forwarded (which is evil, I agree, but I wasn't the one holding the remote, I swear). Anyway I find it totally spellbinding. And there's no staging, no props or costumes. Just Mirella and the music and that's all you need.

Who else? This month, as noted, is All About Arabella for me. And believe it or not, not just Cheryl's Arabella. Karita is her glamorous, fascinating self here (with Thomas Hampson, endeavouring to deserve her) and here (with Barbara Bonney, looking like Le Petit Prince). I mean, she's clearly not trying to be a 19 year old Arabella, but who cares? It's not exactly a conventional staging in any other respect either. An old favourite of mine is Renata's "Voi lo sapete" — she's radiantly beautiful, her singing is sublime, but what it's really all about is that wail at the end, which has to be heard to be believed. There is the inimitable magic of Beverly Sills — in magnificent duet with Carol Burnett (both of them in top form), a totally age inappropriate and totally amazing Daughter of the Regiment and, maybe best of all, on the Muppet Show (Pigoletto, of course). Another more recent wonder, likewise full of sunshine — Glorious Joyce, as an unbelievably beautiful Rosina. And as my parting gift, though I've no doubt linked to it before, here's this. One of my favouritest things ever, and likely to stay in your head for hours if not days.

Diana

As you may have noticed, I'm in the midst of a bit of a mania. So every now and then I have to slow down and remind myself that I can also just like a soprano, without going totally mad and making declarations left, right and centre. The soprano I have in mind is Diana Damrau. I wrote about Arie di bravura a little while ago. She's a discovery I'm very happy finally to have made, and so I made the effort to keep things going and bought two more of her CDs — two live lieder recitals, both on the Orfeo label. And as I say, she is a reminder that sane appreciation can still be plenty of fun.

The earlier of the two discs is a Late Romantic programme from the 2005 Salzburg Festspiele. There is one track, I must admit, which does send me slightly round the bend — her "Das himmlische Leben" is, well, heavenly; one of the best I've heard. She sails through a pair of Strauss' Brentano Lieder with just the effortless grace you'd expect. Diana reminds me a lot of Sandrine Piau, and yet in Strauss' Mädchenblumen, which also appears on Sandrine's exquisite Evocation,  I realised I'd never actually confuse the two. There are four encores, listed only inside the booklet and not on the back, which is a nice touch (it meant they took me by surprise, as encores ought). Maybe I'm strange but one of my favourite aspects of this recital is her charming spoken introductions to the songs. She enjoys herself here and it is infectious.

The other recital was recorded a year later. It features both the Schumanns, both the Mendelssohns, plus Brahms, Liszt and Chopin. And is delightful. As usual, I take greatest pleasure in the (Robert) Schumann. One of my favourite Mendelssohn Lieder is there too, "Neue Liebe" (a favourite because it was just about the first Mendelssohn Lied I learned, and I was addicted to it, thanks to Kathleen Battle.) There are hints of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf in her lieder singing, and I mean that in only its unambiguously positive sense; nothing mannered here, quite the opposite, but sensitivity and immaculate tone and diction are qualities they happily share. She's chirpy and adorable in Brahms' "Vergebliche Ständchen", another big favourite of mine — there was a time when I could not start the morning without watching Elisabeth's performance of this song (on an EMI Classic Archive DVD) at least once. Once again, the encores are a particular highlight. Liszt's "Es muss ein Wunderbares sein" seems to be a standard for Diana, as it appears in both recitals; she finishes up with a very sweet and pointedly sleepy rendition of Brahms' Wiegenlied before sending everybody home to bed.

For the moment I have no plans for a post proclaiming Diana Damrau the Best Soprano in the World Ever and my Utter, Utter Favourite Glorious Revelation and so on. You know me, so this may change. But I like her. A lot. And every YouTube video I see of her makes me like her even more. Like will do for now. I think she's great.

More on Arabella (what else did you expect?)

The other women of Arabella

I did say in my first Arabella post that I would save comment on the singers-who-aren't-Cheryl for my review, but (as is my wont and my prerogative) I have changed my mind. Having spent two evenings and a matinée with them, a few among them deserve further attention; not to mention a bit of the uncritical adoration which this forum allows.

Lorina Gore is a blinding revelation to me. Though Fiakermilli is her Opera Australia début, I have heard her once before — as Norina in NZ Opera's touring Don Pasquale. As I recall, I was about the only person not to give her a total rave; I found her pretty and polished but not phenomenal. Fiakermilli is another story; whether the transformation owes itself to her own artistic and vocal progress, to the different repertoire, to the change in venue, or to all or none of the above — or whether it's just me, being my usual capricious self — I've no idea. But a transformation it certainly is, and she well nigh knocked my socks off on opening night. Here, operagods be praised, is the kind of full voiced, ringing, precise and genuinely virtuosic coloratura I've found disappointingly lacking from Opera Australia. Not an overpushed soubrette, not an agile but essentially lyric voice; she's the stuff of which Zerbinettas are made — indeed, having discovered she's out there, I'm keener than ever for an Ariadne. I wish she'd sung Olympia in last year's Hoffmann; and I hope Opera Australia plans to take sensible but full advantage of her talent, which is a rare one among their current stable.

I have already lamented the paucity of opportunities to hear Jacqueline Dark in this city. The fortune teller is another too small role but at least it affords a reasonable opportunity to hear her at full throttle, and I'm increasingly aware of what a pleasure this is. What impressed me in her Tisbe impresses me here too, which is that underpinning the rather gorgeous voice is a real idiomatic intelligence, an understanding of style and of phrasing. She struck me in Cenerentola as one of the few who knew how to make her recitative as lyrical and expressive as her arioso and her ensembles; how to integrate it into the musical whole, rather than chopping it up with the mannerisms of speech. In Arabella she carries those long, long Strauss lines exactly where they need to go without glossing over the details; we can enjoy the dialogue between her and Adelaide while simultaneously enjoying the opportunity Strauss offers to bask in two contrastingly lovely mezzo voices.

Which brings me to the other mezzo of Arabella, the ever more significant Milijana Nikolic. Every role I hear Milijana in leaves me more impressed by her — a real dramatic mezzo with the vocal heft, the range of colours and the versatile, vivid stage presence to do justice to the roles which should become her bread and butter. From a genuinely terrifying Zia Principessa, to a ghostly yet imposing Mother of Antonia, to a toweringly seductive Venus and now a hilarious and adorable Adelaide — she's fast becoming a very important part of the company, and I look forward to more and more and more of her. As I think we've already discussed in the comments elsewhere, Opera Australia looks to be doing Aida next year, and I can think of no better Amneris among the company.

And, just briefly, the one-and-only Arabella of Arabella

Fear not, you shan't have reprise of my last paean just yet. However I did my (delectable) duty post-matinée on Saturday, and queued in the foyer to have my programme signed by divine Cheryl Barker. Who arrived, let me add, in full Act Three costume — she only had twenty minutes to get from curtain call to signing session. We're talking lavish and lacy Viennese ballgown, hoop skirt and all, and flowers in her hair. She looked like a dream, was delightful to speak with, and I'm crazier about her than ever. She was also signing at the ABC Shop in the QVB today, so I hope some of the Cherylites reading this blog managed to take advantage of one (or both!) of these chances to enter the the radiant Presence Of.

Una voce

I think the usual etiquette is just to link; but this needs sharing, so I hope YouTube user Senjon111 won't be too upset with me for embedding these videos.
This is Australian soprano Rachelle Durkin (whom I may have mentioned once or twice) singing Rosina's "Una voce poco fa" in concert, followed by what I assume is an encore — and a slightly frightening, but justly enthusiastic, "brava!"

So now perhaps you can start to see what I was on about.

Bella

I have the following problems with Cheryl Barker —

Strauss is eye-closing music, but I couldn't close my eyes to Cheryl's Arabella if I tried.

She keeps going blurry at just the moments I most wish to see her clearly. Curse you, tear glands!

She's messing with my senses. Peripheral vision — gone. It takes real effort to see what's around her. Sense of hot and cold — hard to tell, what with all the goosebumps, etc. Sense of hearing — is the famously consumptive audience actually coughing less? Or am I just oblivious? Oh, and rationality is shot too. On Saturday afternoon I will spend three hours looking mostly at a wall, perhaps the odd glimpse of stage; I appear to be happy and excited about this.

The operas she sings in end.

I came to her first Arabella already besotted. I expected the greatest of great things from her. I expected absolute gorgeousness. I expected a three dimensional and utterly believable Arabella for whom I could instantly fall head over heels. I expected that voice which is oh-so-Cheryl and oh-so-thrilling to be in full bloom and knock me over. It's difficult to imagine higher expectations than mine; so how, exactly, did she manage still to surpass them? Or perhaps I mean, to transcend them. She was all the above but more importantly, she was Cheryl and she was Arabella. If singing opera is just a job, she did her job to perfection; if it is an art then she is an artist of the first magnitude.

Little things mean a lot. She is supremely talented at pretending to look out a window. She colours the word "nein" during the lead-in to her duet with Mandryka in a way which manages, in one syllable, to express the entire character and emotional life of Arabella. When others are singing to her, she doesn't "react", she actually reacts, word by word, phrase by phrase. It is an actual conversation. She twirls gorgeously on the dance floor. Her voice blazes brighter the deeper in love she falls and when she reaches that final, crucial phrase — "Take me as I am" — it's a wonder the theatre doesn't just come crashing down. If we clapped hard enough, it might. We did try, I think. I did. (But they discourage long ovations at the Opera House. They bring the curtain down and the house lights up and give you no choice but to shut up and go home.)

And while I do not for a second doubt her acting abilities, it adds to the moving splendour of it all that she is actually in love with her Mandryka, and he with her. Husband and wife on stage together does not in and of itself guarantee electricity, but in this case, it's most definitely there. Never more so than in their Act Two duet. They pledge undying love to one another. Still in character, but with such palpable sincerity and affection that it seems almost intrusive to sit there and witness it. It's a moment of almost unbearable (and thus, completely and wonderfully bearable) beauty. Intense, but tranquil and assured; quite unforgettable.

The me of this moment would like to reach back in time and smack the me of October 2006 around the head, for hearing her Jenufa and not immediately feeling her exquisite power. I'm making up for it now, and then some. I cannot believe my luck — our luck — to have such a luminous and fascinating artist practically at our doorstep and fulfilling dream after dream. Just for now, forget I'm a foreigner and let me be Australian, so that I can say with pride: Cheryl is ours, and we adore her.

Arabella

Quite often at the opera, people in neighbouring seats feel moved — perhaps because I am toute seule and not grey-haired — to ask me if I am "enjoying it". I'm effusive if I am, and as polite as possible if I'm not. Nobody asked me that during Arabella on Friday night, and thank god — an innocent, friendly question might have landed them with a sobbing stranger to deal with. I actually held myself together quite well during Act One; it wasn't until the curtain came down that I found myself in a semi-paralytic haze, unable to understand how the people around me could just return happily to chattering about nothing and turn their attention to interval drinks. I coped, I got up and walked out into the foyer, but I was only half there. The rest of me was somewhere else; Vienna, I suppose.

And if anything, Act One was the warm up. It got better and better and better and... you get the idea. Of course, it had a lot going for it on paper: a top shelf cast, for the most part; an eminent opera director with a special affinity for Strauss; Richard Hickox; and of course, the fact that it is an opera by Richard Strauss — which is certainly a guarantee of my happiness, and of many other felicities besides. They're not what made it amazing, though; something else happened — the alchemy of opera. This was opera in the ideal sense, the perfect blend of drama and music which gives neither primacy but instead creates a single, transcendent whole which is infinitely more than the sum of its parts. I have read about these sorts of evenings; until Friday, I'd never had one of my own. Which is not to say I haven't experienced some truly amazing performances; but there has been nothing so totally out of this world as Arabella, nothing which, twenty-four hours later, had me still going about in a sort of haze.

I've yet to write my proper review. This will either be incredibly easy or incredibly difficult to do, and I shan't know which until I sit down and start. In the meantime, all that I can think of to do is share a few scattered thoughts — aspects of this Arabella which contributed to, or perhaps grew out of, its unfathomable beauty.

For one thing, I have decided to blame the unremitting dullness of the current Un ballo in maschera on the revival director, and perhaps on the cast; Ballo, like this Arabella, is a John Cox production and it's obvious to me now that anything boring or foolish about the direction couldn't possibly be his fault.

On a related note, heaven be praised — a ball scene without nine billion people on stage. Francesca Zambello's Carmen piled the crowds in at every possible opportunity; the ball in Arabella simply suggests a crowd rather than squeezing the lot of them in. Much, much better; we don't care about the crowd, after all, we care about what's happening on the outskirts between Arabella and Mandryka.

Obviously my reaction to this opera isn't anything like an impartial one; a lot of what has made it such a landmark for me is quite personal. For instance, though he has been one of my most adored composers for years, this was my first live Richard Strauss opera. I've long been in love with the sound world he creates — both in the lush and pretty pieces like Arabella and Der Rosenkavalier, and in the big loud things like Salome and Elektra — but this, in a way, was my first time really living in that world. Oh, there was Zarathustra last year, and the Four Last Songs, but they aren't the same thing. When I learned to love Rosenkavalier, a whole new realm opened up to me and I feel a little as if with Arabella I've finally stepped properly into it. And it was a reminder of how strong my affection for Strauss is; though a relatively new opera to me, in a way it was like coming home.

Having not seen much more of Arabella than a still here and there, I had the wrong idea about her. I imagined somebody quite solemn and sensible, upright and virtuous. She is a very good person, but that shows itself in ways I hadn't anticipated. Her wit, her playfulness, her endearing strength of character made me not just admire her, but adore her too; she was far less distant than I expected. If I might mix genres for just a moment — I expected Jane Bennett and was delighted to find I'd got Lizzie instead.

What I haven't mentioned yet, of course, is the singing. Funny that. Commenting on individual performances feels sort of beside the point. Not that I can claim to have been totally enraptured and oblivious; I am me, after all. There were a couple who were average, several who were superb, and one who was so staggeringly, monumentally beautiful that I'm still getting my head around her. I'll save all of them for my review, except the last — and she deserves, and shall receive, a post to herself. To follow.