Prima la musica

Australia Day Videofest

In slightly belated honour of Australia Day, here's a little YouTube gala, featuring some of my very favourite operatic Australians. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now remind me to do something similar for my favourite New Zealand singers one of these days, before my native land disowns me completely.

Sitzing in Spain

Friday night was the sitzprobe of Peter Grimes here in Oviedo. And when I say night, I mean it. Spanish rehearsal schedules, just like Spanish shops, factor in the siesta as a matter of course, and thus we found ourselves at a sitzprobe which began at 8pm and ran until midnight. At least bars and restaurants were still open when we emerged. 

Rehearsals for this show have been running since the start of the month, but this was my first glimpse of them. It's possible I could have weaselled my way into one or two earlier on, and I might have done, had this production not been so thoroughly talked up by everyone connected with it: both those involved, and those who saw it when it made such a huge splash in London back in 2009. I decided I should be good and stay away, so as not to spoil any of its surprises.

But at the sitz, I figured I'd be safe, and so I was: apart from the chorus practicing some of their creepy choreography, there were no hints dropped, no great coups de théatre revealed. Just a bunch of fantastic singers sitting (or standing) around and singing some of the best music ever written, while I attempted to maintain my dignity in the stalls. No opera makes more of a mess of me than Peter Grimes. Particularly in the theatre. Most operas have one or two bits at most that might make me cry; Grimes seems to be constructed of nothing but those bits, so I had come to this rehearsal armed with tissues and prepared to make a small, tearstained spectacle of myself.

As it was, however, only the wordless chorus in Act III made me lose it completely, which it always does, in any context. Otherwise, I welled up every fifteen seconds or so, but otherwise I coped. Not having sets, costumes or any stage business probably helped, as did the stop-and-start nature of a rehearsal like this. For once, instead of having my life temporarily and gloriously ruined by my Favourite Opera Ever, I was able to observe the practical, technical side of the rehearsal, which is still a source of fascination for me.

Watching maestro Corrado Rovaris at work (trilingually) was wonderful – the orchestra is already sounding excellent – and it was also impressive to see the famous David Alden, whose production this is, air-conducting in the stalls. He knows every note of this score. And best of all, I was able to hear my favourite opera sung live for the first time since Opera Australia's production in 2009. Still the most extraordinary operatic experience of my life, and still remarkably fresh in my memory: I found, as this cast sang, that I could still mentally overlay what I heard (and saw) in Sydney more than two years ago. I still remember how Susan Gritton sang "Hush Peter", how Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke cowered as the Apprentice, Kanen Breen's supercilious Rector, and I don't suppose I shall ever heard anyone as Balstrode without my mind's ear immediately switching to Peter Coleman-Wright. 

That's not to play down the excellence of this cast, of course. With the exception, obviously, of Grimes himself, I've never heard any of these singers live before. They're a brilliant lot, perfectly cast. Judith Howarth's Embroidery Aria was heartbreaking enough in rehearsal, so will no doubt destroy me live; the nieces are fabulous, and the various men of the village – Ned, Hobson, Swallow and so on – make a motley crew in the best possible way. I can't wait to see them all come to life on opening night. I have no doubt this show will be worth every bit of the hype. 

But in the meantime, I'm off to the rugby again today with half the cast. Most of the boys, and a niece, I think. Nice to know that the villagers and Grimes can put aside their persecution issues for the sake of sport, isn't it?

Sneaky Sitzprobe Shot

Is That Sumi Jo?

Lately, the "S*** [insert group of people here] Say" meme has apparently been doing the rounds of the Internet, although to be honest I only owe this knowledge to suggestions (on one of the sillier blogs I frequent) that it was about to die out anyway. Know Your Meme has a better explanation than I could muster, should you be hungering for some context, but the reason I've brought all of this up is because – and this sort of thing always makes me happy – the meme now has an operatic incarnation. Two, in fact.

This one showed up on my Facebook feed this afternoon.

 

And when I, in turn, shared it, this one was brought to my attention by the excellent Mr Andrew Finden. It's from a slightly less student-y perspective than the first, and a bit more slickly produced.

 

I do love the blonde wig. This video also had the bonus of reminding me about Jennifer Rivera (the mezzo in the video, in case you've not watched it). Jennifer (aka Sestissimo) has been blogging for years, but I fear I've neglected her wonderful blog something chronic. There's no good reason for this: over the years, I've landed there on many occasions, loved it, promised myself to keep up with it, and then...not done so. Hopeless. But I've just been catching up with the last six months or so (less impressive than it sounds, as her posts have been brilliant but sparse) and I hope that maybe this time I Will Be Good, and stick with her. You should too. Maybe you already do. 

And now that we've had Jennifer (and the similarly hilarious Will Ferguson) in comic mode, here she is in serious Handelian mode, singing up a storm as Nerone in Handel's Agrippina at the Berlin Staatsoper. 

 

Who's My Bottom?

I spent most of this afternoon reading tenor Christopher Gillett's very funny book, Who's My Bottom? I will confess that I retain a slight – and no doubt old fashioned – wariness of self published books, the product of a life spent in bookshops fending off productions which more than justify the term "vanity publishing" – but in this case I had no such suspicions. I knew Gillett's writing from his blog – this post, in particular, was one of those "thank you for writing down all my own thoughts so articulately" moments – and I knew the book must be good, because ever since its publication, my Twitter feed has been full of people whose tastes I trust relating the guffaws it had given them. 

Now, I am very very good indeed at intending to read books, and very very bad at obtaining and reading them, so not surprisingly, hadn't got around to acquiring this one. However, I recently risked bringing shame upon my family of Book People and had Santa bring me a Kindle for Christmas. Do I feel guilty? A little, but I have to be honest, it's almost obscenely convenient, and it has definitely made the leap from "I Want" to "I Own" a whole lot shorter. This afternoon it occured to me to wonder whether Who's My Bottom? (which I seem determined to type as "Where's My Bottom?", a Freudian slip I'd really rather not investigate) was available for Kindle, and ten minutes later, 'twas mine.

The book is essentially a series of brief and hilarious glimpses of behind-the-scenes madness in the opera world. Not necessarily grand scale madness, but just the sort of absurdities, eccentricities and frustrations which every singer runs into, but which few, I suspect, would have the talent to do justice on paper. Gillett, however, has just that talent. He's honest – about himself as much as anybody or anything else – but not bitchy; he names just enough names (and places) that a cursory Google will find you the specifics (if you need them); and above all he's very, very funny. And while I've only spent a year involved in this side of the business – and indirectly at that – I can tell you that most of Gillett's stories had me grinning (or grimacing) in recognition. It really is like this, or at least it can be. 

The title, by the way, is (if you hadn't guessed it already) a reference to Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Gillett has made the role of Flute in that opera something of a signature part, and indeed anecdotes from various Dream productions abound – including reports from a recent-ish Madrid production, which frame the book as a whole. In fact, parallels between Flute and Gillett himself become a motif, not to mention a running joke. (He does seem to have spent a lot of his early career in drag.)

Lest this blog post grow longer than the book itself, I'll start stopping now, but you'll have gathered in any case that this is a recommendation. There are plenty of tell-all books about opera, but a lot of them come with an agenda, and many are rather dated by now – Frances Alda's catty memoir is hilarious but probably not massively reflective of today's opera business...although then again... Anyway, the point is, this isn't really a tell-all book, so much as a tell-some-and-funnily book, and a very witty – if, alas, all too fleeting – insight into what goes on behind the curtains and out of earshot. 

Oh, and a couple of side notes for Australian opera types: the Bottom Christopher meets in the book's opening pages is of course none other than our own Conal Coad, and we know from OA's production how perfect he is in that role; and while his name doesn't come up in descriptions of the nudity-laced rehearsals, Rosa, a Horse Opera also numbered one Lyndon Terracini among its cast. 

Top Eleven of '11

This should by rights have been my New Year's Eve post, a round up of all that was grand and glorious for me in 2011, just as it drew to a close. Then several things got in the way: my incompetence, which caused me inadvertently to delete said post; Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve; our own New Year's Eve celebrations; sleep; and last, but not least, a drive to Miami and a flight to Spain, with absurd behaviour from American Airlines obstructing our progress wherever possible.

We made it, however, and are now starting to settle into Oviedo. Rehearsals for Peter Grimes are in their second day and although 2012 is nearly half a week old, I'd still like to celebrate a few of last year's highlights. After all, there's no opera here until Grimes opens, in three weeks or so, so I have to find other blogging fodder, and what better than a list? I love lists.

Thus I give you, in no particular order, my Top Eleven of 2011. 

London

Our travel for the year began here, and while it was not my first visit, it was my longest, and reinforced once again my eternal love for this city. I mean, the duck confit sandwiches at Borough Market would actually be reason enough on their own for devotion, but then you start piling on the museums, the parks, the shopping, the Indian food, the sheer sense of history, the theatre and oh my gosh the music. I don't know how people who live there permanently cope with it all: we were only there for eight weeks, and the volume and quality of live classical music on offer was already overwhelming. I saw plenty, but missed even more; and such was the concentration of brilliance that I was twice obliged to forsake my own tenor's Parsifal in favour of other, less repeatable delights. The weather was pretty rotten but if I could have stayed forever, I'd still have done so in a heartbeat.

The Met

Mecca. I finally made it there, and for the most part it lived up to my expectations. Which is to say, it was huge, quite glamorous, and offered an impressive variety of repertoire and an even more impressive line-up of star soloists. Suddenly my CD collection came to life: there were Joyce DiDonato, Diana Damrau, Juan Diego Florez, Renée Fleming, Joe Calleja, Bryn Terfel, Deborah Voigt, Karita Mattila, Peter Mattei, Natalie Dessay and and and ... the list goes on. 

And because I was there in the company of another of those star soloists – whose own Met début was even more exciting than any of the star spotting – I was able to experience the backstage half of the company too. I was in the Green Room on opening night of Walküre when ill health forced the divine Eva Maria Westbroek out halfway through and Margaret Jane Wray was summoned to take over (which she did magnificently). We went and said hi to Joyce before she strutted her stuff as the Komponist in Ariadne auf Naxos. I was even hugged by Bryn Terfel. And I'm sure this all sounds like so much insufferable namedropping, but believe me, it's said with nothing but awe and disbelief. Maybe as time goes by, I'll become jaded, but right now I'm still wide-eyed as anything.

Michelle DeYoung

I've lost count of how many times I've raved about Michelle this year, but it's quite a few. She's so worth it. I was fortunate enough to hear Michelle three times this year, in three different countries: as Judith in Bluebeard's Castle with the New York Philharmonic, then in Das Lied von der Erde in Hong Kong and again in Sydney in Mahler 2. Believe it or not, I'm actually not stalking her; but given half a chance, I probably would. She's truly amazing: a wonderful artist, with a voice which is both heaven and earth, all at once, and also one of the coolest people I know. Michelle, you rule. 

Orchestras with proper pits

Sydneysiders will understand. While I will always feel a sort of filial affection (coupled with seething frustration) for the Sydney Opera House's Opera Theatre, with its dodgy acoustic and hellish concrete pit, it has been quite a revelation to spend this year in opera houses which don't stow their orchestras under the stage, and whose auditoria are actually, you know, designed for opera. Even the Santa Fe Opera, which is effectively outside, pulls off a fuller, more convincing sound, and the Met, or in Zürich or at either of London's opera houses, well, let's just say you don't know what you're missing until it smacks you round the head. In a good way. 

Cheryl's Tosca

Let me get this out of the way first: I am stupendously grateful to whichever operatic deity ensured that Cheryl didn't cancel on me. She has been known to do so, and while I, whose devotion is unconditional, always forgive her for it, it might have been a bitterer pill to swallow this time. When I lived in Sydney, I just booked for every show so that I was covered either way. But I had to fly to Brisbane from Taiwan, and I could only stay long enough for two shows, so the potential for a shattered heart was far greater. Actually she did shatter my heart, but by showing up, not by cancelling. Her Tosca was all I could have hoped for – and I'd been hoping for a while, ever since she was announced for – and then bowed out of – Opera Australia's Tosca two years earlier. As spoilt rotten with opera as I am these days, it still stings a little that I've left the town where I could see my favouritest soprano on a remarkably regular basis – pursuing her is harder now, but my dash across the globe for her Tosca proved that it's still ridiculously worthwhile.

Wagner

From the moment I was brave enough to dip my toes in Wagnerian waters, I've loved the stuff, but for many years never felt I had the fortitude to spend more than the occasional afternoon in its company. Wagner, I felt, was the antithesis of background music – it required all of my energies and attentions – and thus, because I am inherently lazy, I ended up listening to very little. Then along came a Heldentenor and I had no choice but to be immersed. Well, it's been grand. I know Parsifal almost as well now as I know Don Giovanni or Vec Makropulos – a circumstance I hardly saw coming – and can make Lohengrin jokes with the best of them. I know Walküre better than I did a year ago and by the end of 2013 I think I'll probably have it (or at least the first two acts...) down pat.

I love it still, and I still find it perfect and transcendent and all of that stuff which Wagner so patently is. Never too long, too ponderous, too slow or too loud. I've seen more Parsifals this year than your average bear – fifteen I think, in two productions – and it only gets better. I've learnt to love Wagner in rehearsal chunks and in full performance, and I look forward to the day – and it will come – when Tristan arrives. 

God

Meaning, of course, Sir John Tomlinson. His Gurnemanz at the ENO was awe-inspiring – imposing and sonorous yet quivering with human emotion, a privilege to behold every single time. And yes, I was also lucky enough to experience Matti Salminen's Gurnemanz, and yes, he's also God, pretty much, though in a rather scarier, Old Testament-y way. Sir John's was the one that got to my heart, however. He was also the first person this year to turn me into a babbling fangrrl when I met him.

Ned Canty

The whole Santa Fe experience was fantastic from start to finish – the food was excellent, the views mindboggling, the opera company treated us beautifully and the show we were there for, Daniel Slater's production of Wozzeck under the inspired leadership of David Robertson, was a massive success. The town itself, and its surrounds, were a revelation in themselves. But operatically speaking, the biggest revelation was the directorial genius of Ned Canty, whose production of Menotti's rarely performed The Last Savage provided one of the smartest, funniest and most captivating nights I've ever had in the theatre. The opera itself was fine, musically, and surprisingly hilarious, but I have no doubt that it was Canty's superb production – and the pitch-perfect performances he drew from a very talented cast – which really caused this rarity to scintillate. I really, really hope to have another chance to see his work, and soon. 

Eva Maria Westbroek

I fell for her first in Turnage's Anna Nicole, which did her glorious talents scant justice but still couldn't hide her radiant presence or the liquid gold of her voice. I fell for her again on DVD, in a weirdo production of Fanciulla del West, where I wished she could sing forever, in every role. I missed her, would you believe, in Walküre; even being Siegmund's cover (or his consort) wasn't enough to get tickets for that sold out show. I did meet her, by happy chance, and reverted to babbling fangrrl mode once again. I've been devouring YouTube clips ever since. And this year on April 13 – o wondrous day! – I shall submit to a surfeit of delights, when the Met starts Ring-cycling again and my tenor sings Siegmund to Eva Maria's Sieglinde. I should start training my hands now for the ovations.

Surreal encounters

There have been a few, but the winner has to be the day we arrived in Zürich – and my apologies if I've told you this story before – and found that the key to our apartment didn't work. In the ensuing attempts to unlock the door, we were assisted by two of our neighbours: who turned out to be José van Dam and Peter Seiffert. José made many valiant attempts to wrestle the door open, but in the end it was to no avail, so his wife kindly drove off to collect a new key for us while Peter provided red wine and chocolates. The image of us all, clustered together on the landing and conducting trilingual conversation – while my inner voice squealed that's Lucia Popp's widower! – is not one I'm ever likely to forget. And if I were in need of an emblem of how completely different my life became in 2011, well, there it is. 

The tenor in my life

Forgive me now if I get soppy and a bit more autobiographical than usual. It's only for a moment. It has to be said, however, that the facilitator of practically all of the above – the glamorous, the gorgeous, the transcendent, the surreal and the newly pervasive first person plural pronoun – has of course been Stuart, the tenor I ran off with just as 2010 was ending. 2011 has meant a completely new life for me. When I announced all the changes, almost exactly a year ago, I titled the post "Happy New Everything". Well, it's a little less new these days, I suppose, but believe me, just as happy. Happier, in fact. I'm living a life I could never have predicted, an opera fanatic's dream in many ways; but the best thing about it, when it comes down to it, is just having an awesome person to share it all with. He's got a nasty habit of murdering swans, of course, but hey – nobody's perfect. 

Right, that's the soppy bit – and the list as a whole – over and done with. Here's your reward for making it this far.

It's Joyce! Because I can't quite believe I didn't give her a separate listing here.

 

(I want that polka dot chair.) 
(And her dress.) 

Twelve Songs of Christmas

As I write this, it's Christmas Day in two of my home countries and Christmas Eve here in my third. So, Merry Christmas everyone! Here's some Christmas music for you all: some of it operatic, some of it not, all of it pretty wonderful. Enjoy.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Das Lied von Berlin

My latest Limelight blog post is now online. Just so's you know. 

Also online: the Digital Concert Hall video of the Berlin Phil Das Lied.

Seeing stars

 

What better way to spend the free night between performances #1 and #2 of Das Lied von der Erde than with a ridiculous French operetta? Hey, if it's good enough for Sir Simon Rattle (who's been conducting both) then it's good enough for me. Besides which, I am a Magdalena Kozena groupie, and it would have been churlish to miss her while we were all in the same city. So it was off to the Staatsoper on another cold Berlin night. And not to Unter den Linden – that venue's currently undergoing major renovations – but to the Schiller Theater in Charlottenburg, the Staatsoper's pleasant (if slightly spartan) temporary home. 

I'm always pleased to see Magdalena, and L'étoile, if you'll pardon the pun, is certainly a nice star vehicle for a mezzo: Lazuli (the pants role) gets more arias than a Handel hero. Seriously. S/he also gets the final bow – but I think it's safe to say that (again, pardon the pun) the evening's biggest star was the desperately funny Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as King Ouf, exploiting his diminutive stature (I never realised he was so little!) to his advantage with dead-on comic timing. 

And for me, the other (triple pun warning) star of L'etoile was Stella. Doufexis, that is. I've known the name from CD covers for a while now, and somehow had got it into my head that she was 1. French and 2. a soprano. Turns out she's 1. German-Greek, 2. a mezzo and 3. wonderful. It was a shame that her character (Aloès) had comparatively little solo singing. Here she is with some Offenbach. If you're at all familiar with my vocal predilections, it probably won't surprise you that she was my favourite. 

 

I can't say I was massively taken with the opera itself. It had its moments of charming French eccentricity, and also moments of proper comedy, but somehow was never quite as kooky or as funny as the set-up (loopy king, confused lovers, comedy Frenchmen and everyone in disguise) suggested it might be. And just as you thought it was about to take madcap flight, Chabrier chose instead to slow everything down, with interminable ensembles which lost momentum about halfway through. Dale Duesing's 1950s hotel setting (with the odd inexplicably anachronistic costume) was very appealing, though, and I am a bit of a sucker for comic opera with choreography. Not sure why the men's chorus broke into a quasi-haka at one point though.

The other highlight for me? The program. I don't often buy programs, I'm afraid, but I was informed that the Staatsoper's were something special. And so they are. They're little hardcover books, nicely bound and beautifully presented: the sort of thing I suspect Frindley would love. Evidently they're famous, so maybe you've all seen them before, but nevertheless here's a not-very-good photo of my program for L'étoile. 

Pretty, isn't it? And half the price, I might add, of Opera Australia's rather less gorgeous publications. It's full of essays (auf Deutsch) which I shall probably never read, but it really is a lovely keepsake.

L'etoile may not be my new favourite opera but I was happy just to experience the (albeit transplanted) Staatsoper for the first time  – not to mention a pretty nifty cast and the sheer thrill of novelty. And now I have a new mezzo to love, which can only be a Very Good Thing.

Berlin

Berlin is cold but Christmassy and I'm delighted to say that The Tenor in My Life made a spectacular Berlin Philharmonic début last night. Just amazing. I've heard him sing Das Lied von der Erde a billion times (well, almost) and it's always fantastic but I'm prepared to say that last night's was the best yet. The urge among the audience to applaud after the fifth song (his last, but of course not the end of the piece) was palpable. And oh my word can that band play. I have to say, sitting there and listening to the Berlin Philharmonic play Mahler was definitely one of those extraordinary how-did-I-get-here moments. 

Not to mention the bonus of hearing Anne Sofie von Otter sing the alto half of Das Lied – first time I'd heard her live – and Gerald Finley being fabulous in the final scene of Cunning Little Vixen, which started the concert. Das Lied and Janacek gloriousness in the same night, and played by one of the best orchestras in the universe – with Sir Simon Rattle on the podium, what's more. It really doesn't get much better than that, does it?

Two more concerts, tomorrow and Saturday. The last is particularly exciting as it's to be broadcast globally via the Berlin Phil's Digital Concert Hall. So even if you're not in Berlin – if you're in, say, Australia (hint hint) and want to support a homegrown heldentenor (hint hint) – you can still watch it, either live or after the fact, as they archive everything. Ain't technology swell? 

Christmas List

Dear Santa,

Please alert your Operatic Elf Division (or Universal Music) that these are the presents I'd like. They don't exist yet but I have absolute faith in your little helpers to make them happen.

Natalie Dessay: songs of Débussy, Poulenc, Satie and Fauré. Natalie doesn't seem to do art song, and I've never quite understood why. And while I could happily live on the French song albums of her compatriots Sandrine Piau and Véronique Gens – not to mention the Divine Flott – I'm still curious as to what she'd do with this repertoire.  

The Complete Elly Ameling Edition. I am catching up, lamentably late, with the glory that is Elly Ameling, but my trademark laziness is, as usual, doing battle with my completist aspirations. I just want it all, and, like Veruca Salt, I want it now. A complete Mirella Freni edition wouldn't go amiss either; I have quite a bit of her, but I know there are gaps, and one can never have too much Mirella.

Karina Gauvin Sings: The Phone Book. She might as well. I'd listen to it.

Stuart Skelton: German Romantic arias and orchestral songs. Thus spake bias, but hey, I'm guessing that if you've heard him, you'd quite like this to exist too, no? And speaking of Australian singers in need of solo discs, where oh where is Peter Coleman-Wright sings Baritone Hits when you need it? ABC Classics, I'm looking at you. And while we're at it, the world would be a better place if Duets and Debauchery with Jacqui Dark and Kanen Breen were a real thing.

A chance (and a ticket) to see Aleksandra Kurzak live. I've consulted my calendar and hers, and so far, we scheduled to coincide exactly nowhere. Hope, however, springs eternal.

Michelle DeYoung Sings: Anything She Darn Well Pleases. As with Karina. I am at her mercy. Anything she chooses to sing will delight me. And I will buy it for everyone I know. And for strangers. And an extra copy for myself, just in case. 

I would also really appreciate it if the Elves could dig up a beautifully produced studio Lohengrin with Lucia Popp as Elsa and, say, James King in the title role. If Melba Recordings cares to do a Thaïs with Cheryl and Peter, well, I wouldn't complain. And let's not forget the Opera Australia Britten DVDs. Midsummer Night's Dream, Turn of the Screw, Billy Budd and, oh yes, Peter Grimes. Hey, it's Christmas: a girl can dream.

So much for the realms of fantasy. Now for some excerpts from my real life wish list:

Véronique Gens: Tragédiennes III. One serious disadvantage of no longer working in classical music retail is that releases like this pass me by completely. I waited for Volume II for weeks, tore into every box from EMI/Virgin with indecent haste, and snapped up the very first copy we unpacked. But I only found out Volume III existed courtesy of somebody's throwaway comment on (sigh) Parterre. I've yet to see it in a physical CD store; that's still my preference, but the day is fast approaching when I give in and download the thing.

As many tickets as I can sensibly acquire for Opera Australia's Salome and Die Tote Stadt. I'm still not convinced on the whole Korngold-wrote-film-scores-so-it's-OK-to-pipe-the-orchestra-in thing, but hey: Cheryl. As Marie/Marietta. And Salome needs no explanation. Amazingly, I will be in Australia at the right time for both. 

All the Karina Gauvin I don't already own. Self explanatory. I'm getting there, but some help would be nice, Santa!

Alice Coote: The Power of Love. I cannot tell you how much I've longed for another Alice Coote recital disc, and at last, it's on its way. (The title is giving me visions of Alice Coote as Céline Dion, but this seems unlikely to eventuate.)

Cheryl Barker: Pure Diva. I downloaded it, so buying the physical CD has slipped down my priority list. But it would still be nice to own, if not to fork out for. Ergo, ideal stocking stuffer. 

Enough demands? Probably. Once again I have betrayed my teenybopper nature – I'm afraid I can't help but feel guilty for not filling my list with rare archival recordings of Amelita Galli-Curci or eleven different Callas Toscas. But maybe I should beat myself up instead for asking Santa for anything at all. The amount of amazing live opera I'll be brushing up again in the next twelve months is an embarassment of riches: enough for any number of Christmases, I'd say. 

Now tell me (and I'll tell Santa). What's on your wish list, real or fantastic?