Prima la musica

Griiiiimes

Yes, I am attempting to plug this video in every online outlet I can think of.

(It's the Mad Scene, in case you need further inducement to watch.)

 

One week, two cities, four shows

It's been quite a week...

May 7: Die Walküre at the Met 

Huge success. For everyone, my tenor included. Fabio Luisi had, happily enough, heard my telepathic wish for a slightly slower "Winterstürme", which was a lovely bonus in a generally excellent show. (I mean, it was beautiful the first time round too, but I'm always happy for extra basking time in that aria.) Bryn brought the house down, and rightly so. I was so pleased to have this second chance to see and hear this show – not to mention a second chance to worry needlessly about the Brünnhilde double in the final scene – and to say another quick hello to New York. So quick, in fact, that with the show running until after 11pm, and a cab to the airport arriving at 6.15am – not to mention the small matter of dinner in between – we didn't actually sleep until we were airborne. Not to worry. It was worth all the exhaustion. 

May 10: Véronique Gens at Wigmore Hall

In the last few years it's been quite an extraordinary experience to finally see live performances by the singers who dominated my CD collection for years. I've ticked quite a few of them off the list – more than I could have hoped for in fact – but Véronique had eluded me until last Friday. I could hardly have wished for a more ideal first encounter than this, a recital of French songs. Débussy, Hahn, Chausson and Fauré...are you drooling yet? I was, and with good reason. She was as divine as I imagined she would be – and then she made life even better by singing one of my favourite songs in the world, French or otherwise, as her encore: Poulenc's "Les chemins de l'amour". And while I was still wiping away my tears from that, she followed up with Fauré's "Les roses d'Ispahan", another song to which I have a bit of a sentimental attachment. Thanks for reading my mind so completely, Véronique. 

May 12: La bohème at the ROH

I had no plans to see this while in London because Royal Opera tickets are expensive, the show was pretty much sold out anyway, and besides (pardon the heresy) it's one of my least favourite operas. My plans changed thanks to the unexpected generosity of the lovely Madeline Pierard – New Zealand's Own! – who, as the ROH announced earlier in the day, was going on as Musetta in place of an indisposed Nuccia Focile. So, with permission from you-know-who to ditch that night's performance of Dutchman at the ENO, I took myself to Covent Garden for what turned out to be the best live Bohème of my operagoing career to date. Joe Calleja was a genuinely loveable Rodolfo, to whom I award a special citation for his incredibly upsetting (and totally believable) reaction to Mimì's death; Carmen Giannattasio's oh-so-Italianate Mimì had my attention from note one; and Madeleine was first hilarious and then heartbreaking as Musetta. By the time she reached her prayer in Act IV, I was wished she had a sequel to herself. Rodolfo's bohemian buddies were all very charmingly played too. And as ever, despite earlier hard-heartedness, I succumbed in the end to Puccini's exceptional powers of manipulation and spent the last twenty minutes sniffling along with the rest of the audience.

May 13: Madam Butterfly at the ENO

My favourite Puccini opera. Very nearly my favourite opera. I love it madly. And yes, if I'm honest, I'd probably prefer to hear it in Italian, but it doesn't really matter: that score is what it is, and it makes mincemeat of me no matter what the language. Imprinting and diva worship being what they are, my heart will always belong in the final reckoning to Cheryl Barker and to Moffatt Oxenbould's exquisite Opera Australia production; but I was still enchanted by both Mary Plazas's tiny, porcelain Cio-Cio San and by Anthony Minghella's mesmerising production. And it was just wonderful to see and to hear Pamela Helen Stephen as Suzuki. I last heard her in Australia, when her late and much-missed husband Richard Hickox was chief conductor of Opera Australia. She was lovely then, and she's even lovelier now: a completely captivating Suzuki, which is no mean feat given how little Puccini gives her to work with. The ENO orchestra, who had been playing the living daylights out of Dutchman, were once again sensational, this time under Oleg Caetani. We were close, and it was loud, and I was in heaven. Oh, Cio-Cio San. 

Surprise!

If you follow me on Twitter you may know we had a bit of excitement here a few days ago. We went to see the new Avengers movie (Joss Whedon Forever!) and came out to find a string of missed calls, messages and tweets to the effect that Jonas Kaufmann had cancelled his second performance of Die Walküre at the Met and that Stuart would therefore be going on as Siegmund on May 7th. He was always flying over to New York from London to cover that performance ("One man, two tenors" as Anna Picard put it) but I had planned to stay put here rather than make that lightning visit with him. Confirmation that he'd be singing changed all that; we got home from the movie and within an hour I was booked – thank you, air miles – on the same flights both ways. So tonight, there's a Dutchman; tomorrow, a plane and on Monday, a Walküre. It's madness...and all I have to do is sit in the audience.

Obviously we wish Jonas a speedy recovering from what's ailing him. This change of plans, however, has brought an extra piece of fortuitousness: unlike the performance on April 13th, this one will be broadcast on Sirius XM. Even better, that broadcast will be streamed live via the Met website, so you don't even need Sirius to listen. So yes, you can consider this post a little bit of a shameless plug. Listen! There's Bryn! And Eva! And everyone! And my tenor's pretty good at Siegmund! And since it's a full house, maybe one or two of you who are reading this post might even be there on Monday night. I know I will be. And I'll be bringing the pig.

The big night

I'm a little late with this, but then again, if I'd tried to write it earlier, it probably would have descended into illiterate squealing within seconds. Even now I'm in danger. The fact is this: last Friday night, The Tenor In My Life sang Siegmund in Die Walküre at the Met. He only had one shot at it – we're already in London for the next gig and Siegfried hasn't even happened yet – and I think it's safe to say he made the most of it. By which I mean, it was sensational. Within my own highly biased frame of reference, it was one of the most exciting performances I've seen him give.

That won't mean much to you, perhaps, but maybe this little factoid will: he managed to unite the doyennes of the Parterre commentariat. They can be (and frequently are) brutal and bitchy, and I was steeling myself forsomebody to find fault, but remarkably, nobody did. Instead there were comments like "the great revelation of the evening", "the next great heldentenor", "the best overall performance" and so on. And yeah, I know, they're blog comments, and if they didn't make me happy, I'd be the first to play down their credibility. Too bad. I intend to have it both ways. 

Besides, there's a level at which I will take what I can get. Because the tragedy of this otherwise triumphant evening is that it was, technically at least, a revival, and as a result there was a grand total of one press reviewer in the audience – and he appears to be saving his thoughts until all three cycles. Sigh. Reviewers aren't everything, of course; again, when they say mean things about singers I love, I'm all too ready to dismiss or doubt them. But it would have been nice on such an important evening to have some sort of external record of this triumph. (There was also, alas, no radio broadcast, and the Met doesn't seem to have published any photos yet. I feel my inner conspiracy theorist stirring...)

Not to worry. I have my own memories, and those of the friends and colleagues who were in the audience. It was an amazing night, a thrill from start to finish, and the buzz both in the auditorium and backstage was palpable. I was insanely and tearfully proud and just plain bowled over. As a dear friend said on Twitter: that boy can sing. Yes, he can, and oh my, did he ever. 

The whole cast was on fabulous form, from Deborah Voigt's oh-so-sympathetic Brünnhilde (I want her Pre-Raphaelite hair) to Stephanie Blythe's majestic Fricka (how does any human person sing like that?) to Hans-Peter König's sonorous Hunding. Then of course there was Bryn Terfel's Wotan, who broke my heart several times over. And there was the glorious Eva-Maria Westbroek (increasingly one of my very favourite sopranos) as a radiant and adorable Sieglinde. I had seen her in a few late rehearsals, and she was wonderful then, but I was quite taken aback with the emotional intensity that she'd saved up for the performance – not to mention the constant cascades of gorgeous, gorgeous voice. With such a sweet pair of Wälsung twins, who could possibly get on board with Fricka's arguments, logical as they may be? I sure couldn't.

The five hours of opera flew by and so have the subsequent days. I can't believe it's been almost a week. I'm still buzzing a bit (we both are) and prone to fits of glee. So I'll stop writing now, and point you in the direction of a lovely blog post by the excellent Lucy of Opera Obsession. As for me, the rest is squeals. Yay! Wälse! And so on. 

 

Anna Caterina Antonacci

I've been waiting a while for my chance to see Anna Caterina Antonacci, but the city of New York has had to wait even longer than that. For me it's only been six years, the time since I fell under the spell of her CD "Era la notte". Anna Caterina, however, has been in the business for decades and yet the recital she gave at Alice Tully Hall on Sunday was her New York début. Amazing.

And she was amazing. A better substitute for chocolate on Easter Sunday I can hardly imagine. She's famous for her shapeshifting voice: mezzo here, soprano there; inky black at one end and white gold at the other, with a scintillating spectrum in between. I've read about her versatility and distinctive sound (not to mention her captivating presence) countless times, but these things aren't quite real until experienced in person. Now I'm a true believer.

Fauré's Cinq mélodies "de Venise" were a delectable gateway to this celebration of the belle époque, but it was when Antonacci reached the open sea – quite literally, with Fauré's L'horizon chimérique – that she went from merely wonderful to downright thrilling. I was hooked – a little more decisively with every song – and when she switched to Italian for Hahn's Venetian songs, well, I was more or less in the palm of her hand. To think I nearly missed this concert – a technical glitch on the Lincoln Center website convinced me she had deservedly sold out, and it was only by chance that I checked again just a couple of days before the recital. 

The second half was at least as opulent and a sight more operatic: songs by Cilea, Tosti, Mascagni, Respighi and Refice. It occured to me how rarely I've heard Italian repertoire (especially recital repertoire) sung by actual Italians: the colour and subtleties she twisted out of these songs were such as I suspect only a native speaker could manage. I loved the Cilea and Tosti especially. None of it repertoire I knew at all, but the distinctly Italianate lyricism of both the music and Antonacci's singing made it seem immediately familiar. She buried herself in each song to the hilt – pensive or expansive, wretched or comic, sweet or seductive – and managed to bring her operatic delivery right to the precipice of excess but never topple over. 

I thought the near-capacity crowd might never let her go. She gave us three encores: Gimenez's "La tarantula", another Tosti song (so Olivia Giovetti's excellent review informs me) and Fauré's "Au bord de l'eau", which brought us full circle. To hear her scale back her forces so delicately, on the heels of all that high octane Mediterranean drama, was something very special. New York, your patience and mine have been rewarded. Now let's hope both of us see her again soon. 

La traviata

The last time I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – she was singing Lucia – we found ourselves sharing a box with Hei-Kyung Hong. She offered to share her cough drops with us. This morning when I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – this time as Violetta – Hei-Kyung Hong was there again. Only this time she was singing in Natalie's place. My favourite French pixie was, alas, indisposed; if only she'd asked Hong for a cough drop. 

Ah, well, these things happen, and this was only the final dress rehearsal anyway (albeit a very full one) so I hope that, despite all the cynical speculation happening on Parterre, I might still have a chance to see Natalie's Violetta. (I've just checked the calendar and it turns out this chance hinges entirely on her singing opening night. Fingers crossed, then.) I liked the production and I'd like to see Natalie in it: I'm interested to see her in the role whatever the circumstances, but I suspect this very stripped back and crinoline-free take would be an especially good showcase for her.

Hei-Kyung Hong, however, is about as luxurious a cover as possible. I doubt anyone arriving halfway through would have guessed that she was anything other than the singer engaged from the beginning; after all, she's done a fair number of Met Violettas in her own right, not to mention a stack of other roles. (It's a big stack: the Met database lists 355 performances since her début in 1982.) She was lovely, especially in Act II, where she did some of the prettiest soft singing I've ever heard, and earns serious bonus points for singing such a huge role at such an early hour. 

Weirdly enough this is only the second production of Traviata I've ever seen live. The opera is so entrenched in my brain – it was an early favourite and I was for a while obsessed with Anna Moffo's "Teneste la promessa" – that I feel like that can't possibly be true. But it is. I've seen Opera Australia's perennial Moshinsky production a number of times, with two sopranos and only one tenor, Aldo Di Toro, who always seems to persuade me that the opera might actually be about Alfredo.

Lo and behold, Matthew Polenzani had the same effect on me. I've only seen him once before, and that was a Schubert recital. Alfredo was such a complete change of pace that I wasn't sure what to expect, but Polenzani won me over quite conclusively: the longer he sang, the more I wanted him to keep singing, and his still-waters-run-deep characterisation was really quite wonderful. The big showdown at Flora's – as he threw money at Violetta and then himself to the floor – was especially moving, and a shocking transformation from the stiff and awkward suitor we'd met at the start. 

In no way, shape, manner or form could Dmitri Hvrostovsky's Germont pass for the father of Polenzani's Alfredo; sophisticated older brother perhaps, or perhaps a suave mafioso. But in terms of credibility, that's a much easier obstacle to overcome than a cane and a feigned hunch, and Hvorostovsky has such bucketloads of authority – not to mention the kind of charisma that ought to be taxed – that it's no trouble at all to believe in the sway he holds over both Alfredo and Violetta. He sang masterfully throughout but "Di Provenza" was particularly exceptional and drew the biggest cheers of the performance. Quite honestly, even if Natalie disappears, I'd be tempted to go back just to hear that aria again. 

Peter Gelb, in his announcement about Natalie, also dropped in a mild warning about Willy Decker's production which I'm sure is not everybody's cup of tea. It mostly worked for me, though: it's refreshingly uncluttered, both in aesthetic and psychology. I like the Ikea sets. And I'm always intrigued by directors who place characters onstage who usually wouldn't be there – not only does Decker include the principals in scenes they'd normally miss, he also has Violetta shadowed everywhere by a solemn and silent old man, who might be Fate, or Death, or Donald Sutherland, and eventually becomes Doctor Grenvil, making the character's grim prognosis that much more chilling. Actually this was a good day for the bit players: Maria Zifchak's Annina had such resounding beauty of tone that I kind of wished she had an aria. 

It was the men who won this show for me: Polenzani, Hvrostovsky and let's not forget Fabio Luisi. You'd think a Ring Cycle would be work enough but no, there he is, conducting La traviata as well and doing it ravishingly too. Zippy tempi here and there – "Ah fors'e lui" in particular – but so finely textured and sensitive. I didn't realise until the music began just how much I was in the mood for a really good Traviata – I mostly blame Ruth Elleson for this and I think she knows why – and this fine group of artists ended up providing just what I needed. 

One final highlight? Today was Open Day at the Met, and among the unusually large dress rehearsal audience were a lot of school kids, who reacted in delightfully unexpected ways. When Giorgio Germont slapped his son, they gasped as one...and when Alfredo ran in to embrace the dying Violetta, they burst into applause and cheers. Poor things must have been devastated when she died after all. 

L'elisir d'amore

I'm fairly sure the Met saw me coming and quickly hid all the repertoire I'd most like to see. They've hidden it in plain sight (it's right there in the calendar after April 13th) but nevertheless I feel a little conspired against. When I leave, they bring out the Janacek and the Britten; while I'm here, there's Manon. There's also Die Walküre, of course, which is super-hyper-number-one priority and beside which nothing else really matters anyway – thus spake your objective narrator – but I still need my Met fix. We're living almost literally across the road from stage door and her siren song taunts me if I don't visit.

Add my withdrawal symptoms to the extreme adorability of Diana Damrau and you start to see why I was so determined to see L'elisir d'amore. If I had been spoilt for choice, and if the Adina had been less lovely, I might have given up hope when I saw how full the houses were – particularly when I realised I'd been hopeless once again and had only two chances left to see the show anyway – but this time I persisted. Or rather, my Friend At The Met (one guess who that is) persisted on my behalf and managed to snag for me what may well have been the very last space in the house: a Grand Tier standing room place.

This was the first time I'd done standing room for anything, and I think I'd need to build up my stamina before standing for anything much longer than L'elisir, but all in all it wasn't too uncomfortable – particularly in the second half, by which time half the occupants of my section had disappeared, along with their chronic need to talk. I couldn't see all of the set, but I could see enough of it; I could hear everything, and that's what mattered. 

Diana Damrau was the darling of my heart from start to finish and my favourite voice of the afternoon. The silver and sweetness and exceptional dynamic control of her singing come across wonderfully on disc (which is how I get most of my Diana) but in person she reaches another dazzling level, and I loved her house filling notes just as much as her floatiest fairy floss pianissimi. She also plays "charmingly flustered" better than anyone. I would happily have heard her sing everything twice but as it was, the only person who had that chance was Nemorino.

Yes, Juan Diego Florez encored "Una furtiva lagrima". I don't know whether he'd done it already during the run – he didn't look particularly surprised or hesistant about it – but in any case, when the tumultuous applause had finally died down, somebody high above shouted "encore" and JDF duly obliged, even throwing a few new ornaments in the second time around. It wasn't a great moment for suspension of disbelief: he broke character to take bows before and after and then, when an awkward bit of staging meant the applause kept breaking out again, actually spoke to the audience – "Miss Damrau is waiting" – so that the show could continue. It was, however, a great moment for old fashioned operatic fun. 

In fact, even as he sang the aria the first time, I felt like I'd entered a bit of a time warp, in the best sense. Juan Diego down there in his breeches, singing his beautifully shaped and oh-so-ardent rendition of one of the most familiar arias in the repertoire, set against the colourful flats of John Copley's pastel rainbow production, was like some sort of wonderful throwback. This, along with the all-encompassing Diananess, was one of the highlights of the afternoon for me; JDF's encore was just a bonus. As were his dance moves while "tra-la-la"-ing. 

Forgive me if I say less about Alessandro Corbelli's gleeful Dulcamara or Mariusz Kwiecien's macho Belcore, who could have passed for Escamillo's slightly goofier brother. Both were admirable, and enthusiastically received. Corbelli was funnier and funnier as the show went on – his duets with Diana's Adina went down particularly well. Poor Belcore doesn't really get much time to preen, once "Come Paride" is out of the way, but Kwiecien certainly does an excellent line in macho bluster. I was also curious to hear Layla Claire, a Met Young Artist whose name kept coming up as one of the best things about The Enchanted Island. Like all good Giannettas ought, she made me wish Donizetti had given her a bit of a subplot. And it was great to hear the Met Orchestra again. Can't wait till they're let loose on Walküre.

It took me ten days to arrange this first fix but I think they'll be closer together now. At least one Traviata, two if I can swing it; the same for Rheingold; two Walküren including the dress; and I've just remembered there's Anna Caterina Antonacci at Alice Tully Hall to think about. Plus Porgy and Bess on Broadway, which sort of counts. The only Met production I'll miss is the Manon. I was curious to hear Anna Netrebko in person, but tickets are not to be had; at least, not for any sensible price. And Manon is far from my favourite opera, so I'm not inclined to fight. If only I'd been here for her Anna Bolena. But such is life: and in the midst of all the other diva goodness on offer here, it really would be churlish to complain.

Karina, Karina

You would think that all this travel I'm doing would make it easier to pursue my favourite singers (and in fact it mostly has) but Karina Gauvin has remained elusive. She's everywhere I'm not, her website taunting me with concerts of Handel arias or French songs destined always to remain beyond my reach. She's even singing in Australia this year. I've been beginning to despair. If only I knew every opera singer's travel plans through to 2015, the way I know my own; perhaps she's awaiting me in Paris or Seattle or London. 

Then it turned all was not lost anyway; I found her in New York, singing in the St John Passion at Carnegie Hall with Les Violons du Roy. A mixed blessing. I mean, Bach is wonderful, clearly, and Karina singing Bach? Sensational. But Johann Sebastian, in his infinite wisdom, was writing to glorify God and not so much to please me: so we have a piece of music which is irrefutably glorious and transcendent and a thousand other devotional adjective ... but which doesn't give Karina Gauvin nearly enough to sing. Two arias? You're killing me, J.S.

Or is he? In fact she sang those two arias so gorgeously that they didn't feel like short shrift after all. She lived up to the adoring expectations which CDs and YouTube videos have helped me to build up and even confounded them (delightfully) in a couple of spots. Ten minutes of close-range Karina (I was in the front row) is infinitely preferable to no Karina at all, and while my addiction is still crying out for a more substantial fix, this was a fairly generous teaser; and in an emergency situation, I could survive on her "Zerfliesse, mein Herze" for weeks. 

And while I would be completely prepared to sit in silence for an hour between two arias from Karina, that is of course not what we were doing. I had all manner of wonderful playing and singing to keep me company. Our tireless Evangelist was none other than Ian Bostridge, the first male singer I ever really "got", back in the days when my heart belonged mostly to Cecilia Bartoli and Barbara Bonney and tenors tended to pass me by. (Baritones were more perplexing still, one grey and unfathomable mass. How times change.) Neal Davies was Jesus, and singing alongside Karina in the other unnamed solo parts were countertenor Damien Guillon, bass-baritone Hanno Müller-Brachmann and, another highlight for me, tenor Nicholas Phan: a name long known to me via his blog and Twitter presence, and now via his excellent singing as well. Bernard Labadie conducted Les Violons du Roy and La Chapelle de Québec. 

Diva worship, you see, is a force for good and for edification of the soul. The shameful truth is that without Karina's involvement, I would probably have shied away from a Sunday afternoon St John Passion. (The St Matthew Passion is likelier to tempt me on its own account, though I couldn't tell you precisely why.) But she pulled me in and it was time well spent. I've had a very satisfactory fix of Bach – now back to the hunt for More Karina. 

New York Agenda

Almost exactly a year since my last visit, I'm bound for New York again. Last time it was for a début, this time for a star turn: the tenor in my life will sing Siegmund in the opening Ring cycle at the Met. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't get sick of saying that. Siegmund! At the Met! Weirdly enough, although it's one of his signature roles, I've never yet heard him sing it live; in fact, I've never heard anyone sing it live. Well, not exactly. I heard Jonas Kaufmann twice from the Green Room last year, but I don't think that counts. As far as I'm concerned, the April 13th performance is my first live Die Walküre and Stuart is my first live Siegmund – and because, in this instance, I'm entitled to be just as spectacularly biased as I like, I can already tell you he'll be my favourite Siegmund too. So there.

Anyway, that accounts for one evening, and maybe a morning too if they let me into the general, but this is New York and there is plenty else to see. Not as much as last time, because we're only there half as long, but I repeat: It's New York. There's always something. Here's what's on my Must See List so far. Now I ask you, O Faithful Readers, to point out all the essential events I have unforgiveably missed.

St John Passion at Carnegie Hall I could pretend that this all about the transcendent beauty of Bach – and no doubt in part it will be – but the truth is, this is the only chance I'll have in the foreseeable future to see the oh-so-gorgeous Karina Gauvin in performance, and that is why I'm going. And why I'm sitting in the front row. In an ideal world, she'd be doing a solo recital, or a Handel opera, or something similarly vehicular. But in the absence of all that, this concert will do nicely. 

Porgy and Bess Audra McDonald. Need I say more? I know that this is the meddled-with production which prompted a long and scathing letter from Stephen "God" Sondheim but I don't care. Audra is Audra is Audra. And it would be nice to see a production of Porgy and Bess, too. 

Diva festival at the Met I'm really showing my soprano bias, aren't I? As if you're surprised. I don't really like Manon very much but am very keen finally to see and hear Anna Netrebko in action; L'elisir d'amore is a cute opera made unmissable by the delightful Miss Damrau; and while I have no idea whether Natalie Dessay really should sing Violetta, I can say without a doubt that I'm going to need to hear her do it. So those are my top three. Might be nice to hear Tom Hampson sing Macbeth, too, and my completist side is quietly hoping I'll make it to Rheingold as well. 

Anna Caterina Antonacci in recital at Alice Tully Hall Another singer I've wanted to hear live for many years. 

Seminar Not opera, not even musical. I'm not necessarily so good with the legitimate theatre, and this review doesn't inspire massive confidence, but I'd brave far greater danger for the chance of seeing Alan Rickman. Especially Alan Rickman "shredding egos". I always believed in you, Professor Snape!

So, New Yorkers and cultural ninjas: I'm in town from March 21st until April 13th. What unmissables am I missing? I'll never see everything, of course; but I'd hate to find out a day too late that I deprived myself of something exceptional.

Various

– Oedipus Rex at the New Zealand International Arts Festival went very, very well. It's two years (I think) since I last heard it – at the Sydney Festival, again paired with the Symphony of Psalms and again conducted by Joana Carneiro – and I admit I'd forgotten just how cool the music is. Particularly Jocaste's. It's been earworming me ever since. Not a bad thing. Oedipus himself obviously has some pretty neat stuff to sing and it turns out the tenor in my life sings it quite well. (For quite well, read: wow.) Was also nice to see Daniel Sumegi again, of course, to meet Virgilio Marino and Margaret Medlyn for the first time and to finally meet Dunedin's Own Martin Snell. Martin was the first famous opera singer whose name I ever knew – even before I knew Kiri's, I think. He was our Dunedin Boy Who Made Good. Who knew, when I was five, that twenty-three years later, I'd be drinking pear cider with him? (NB: Mac's Pear Cider is really good.)

– After an abortive attempt in Dunedin, I managed to see The Adventures of Tintin on the plane from Auckland to San Francisco. As an enthusiastic but not slavish fan of the books, it was faithful enough (certainly to the spirit, if not always to the letter) to keep me happy, and in fact was worth watching just for the opening credits and for the first scene (no spoilers here). But I was especially curious to hear Renée Fleming as the singing voice of the Milanese Nightingale, the magnificent Bianca Castafiore, whose image (in keyring form) I carry with me always. I assume they just lifted her recording of "Ah! je ris..." from the aria disc in which it was included years ago, but it was somewhat disconcerting to hear the aria so nonsensically arranged in the interests of the plot. Castafiore's voice itself plays a key role in the scene, and needs to be doing certain things at certain times, so the aria lurches accordingly back and forth and then UP to a note pulled in from somewhere and somebody completely different. Maybe even computer generated. But at least they used the right aria. When her entrance was accompanied by the introduction to "Una voce poco fa" I was worried.

– Happy to say I'm London-bound again, much sooner than expected. Sadly not for the best possible reasons. Julian Gavin has unfortunately had to withdraw from the ENO's new production of The Flying Dutchman due to ill health. As a result, and thanks to the ENO and the MET kindly agreeing to share him, Stuart will now sing the role of Erik. It will be lovely to have another long stay in one of my favourite cities on earth, but obviously I wish the circumstances were happier. Here's to a speedy recovery for the wonderful Julian.

– But right now I'm in Chicago, where the CSO is about to do Das Lied von der Erde with You-Know-Who and the AWESOME Michelle DeYoung. I know. How lucky am I to keep running into her like this? There's still nobody – and clearly there never will be anybody – I'd rather hear in Das Lied. Adding to the excitement: it's the Chicago Symphony! The concerts were even supposed to be conducted by Pierre Boulez – just to throw a bit of legendariness into the mix – but alas, he's had to cancel on the advice of his ophthalmologist. I would have loved to have seen him in action. Jonathan Nott, however, is a more than admirable substitute. Plus there's Michelle! And Stuart! And the CSO! I think this will work out well.

– Véronique Gens's new(ish) CD is fantastic. But it deserves a blog post, not a bullet point. Watch this space. (Or, more accurately, I guess, the theoretical future space above this space. Or something.)