Prima la musica, poi le parole

[untitled]

I hope you weren't expecting a review of the Yvonne Kenny recital I attended on Tuesday night. If you were, I'm afraid I can't supply one - what on earth could I possibly say about her? There is nothing. Or rather there's a great deal but I for one am incapable of articulating a single word of it. I can tell you what happened to me on Tuesday night. But I can't tell you about her. Except to say that in her sky blue dress she was a thousand times more beautiful than even I thought possible. But of course she was.

I shook for most of Tuesday afternoon, but by the time we were actually sitting there, in a room full of gorgeous nineteenth century paintings, waiting for That Moment when she would enter, I was surprisingly calm and collected. Serene, even, and very very quiet. It wasn't until we were a little way into it, when she sang 'Der du von Himmel bist' that somehow everything hit me and I could hardly breathe; my vision started to go black around the edges; and the shaking was back, more uncontrollable than ever. A piano solo followed, during which I managed to burst silently into tears several times, all the while trembling and probably disconcerting the woman next to me. Yvonne returned and so did relative calm to my soul. After all sobbing one's heart out only blurs one's vision of the goddess. It continued. The rest of the audience disregarded the asterisks in the programme and applauded after every song but I couldn't. Not out of snobbery, but because I just couldn't, I was frozen. Clapping after something like that - clapping while she still has tears in her eyes at the end of 'Morgen - it just seems so artificial somehow. I clapped when I had to, and I clapped at the end, and I clapped when, for instance, she finished off the Zigeunerbaron number with such an applause inviting flourish; but for the most part I simply sat and gazed and loved her. 'Zueignung' was eerie. One of the pieces of music I love the best in the world, and I've never heard her sing it before, but when she did it was as if I'd been listening to her singing it all my life; as if I fell in love with that song all that time ago just to hear Yvonne sing it on Tuesday. And I know that there's more I could say but that's all I can manage. I've spent the last three days almost permanently on the verge of tears.

(I met her, of course, but as you know, that's beyond words.)

Last things first

In a rather lovely feat of good timing, I managed to come home from Sydney just in time for 'Music and Mayhem', a recital of arias and songs by a collection of lovely Dunedin singers, organised by none other than my favourite Dunedin singer (yes, I'm allowed favourites) Claire Barton. Such a wonderful idea, and very enjoyable, if perhaps the slightest bit too long (but maybe I'm just jetlagged). I think there was a sore throat or two at work tonight, but there were no out-and-out disasters, and there were also several true gems. The shiniest of which was Mlle Barton herself, magnificent as always in a wonderful 'Cruda sorte' and a ravishing 'Bali Ha'i'; not to mention a hilarious Marcellina to Fiona Henry's rather pretty Susanna in 'Via resti servita'. Matt Landreth too was excellent - his singing, particularly in 'Vi ravviso' from La Sonnambula is gaining a silkiness lately which I like very much; and Penelope Muir well nigh stole the show with 'A Word on my Ear' (words here, though it rather needs to be heard as well). A very very nice concert to come back to. And there's the Mozart Requiem tomorrow!

Other things I did in Sydney

Walked past Covent Garden (yes, that would be the pub called Covent Garden) which funnily enough - well funny to an opera nerd like myself - is situated in Haymarket.

Saw the Sydney Opera House, which was, well, a lot more beige than I expected. And did the guided tour too - my cousin and I were the only people in the tour group; thankfully the loud elevator-demanding tourists hanging around the meeting point were not in our ours.

Waved hello to the painting of Joanie which hangs outside the Opera Theatre.

Went there last night to see a rather good modern staging of La Bohème. Our Rodolfo was rather strained and thin, but Mimi was mostly lovely and Musetta was simply fabulous. And Colline was none other than ex-Dunedinite Jud Arthur, in excellent voice.

Spent I-shan't-say-how-much on tickets to Yvonne's La Voix Humaine in Melbourne in December. The Ticketmaster woman was rather shocked when she asked which night I wanted to go and I said "All of them." There is no such thing as too much Yvonne, however.

Added - as always - some new CDs to the collection. It's an illness, but no matter. Sara Mingardo: Contralto; Anne Sofie's first solo recording, a collection of Baroque treats; Véronique Gens' sublime Mozart Arias; Mercadante: Les Soirées Italiennes, an Opera Rara release - Yvonne features, bien sûr; The Beggar's Opera (Benjamin Britten's reworking thereof) featuring Yvonne as Lucy, a particularly delicious feat of casting, I predict; and Yvonne's Nineteenth Century Opera Heroines, a 1994 retrospective of her work with Opera Rara.

Yvonne

My bags are packed and practically speaking, I'm ready to go. To Sydney, to the NSW Art Gallery, to my Yvonne. Psychologically, well, I don't know. To be honest, even though it's months since I booked it all, the fact of it seems no more real now than it did then. You mean all I have to do is hand over this piece of paper, and they'll let me sit in the presence of Yvonne Kenny - in the presence of My Diva - and listen to her sing? It can't be true. I'm waiting for my punishment. I've been waiting for it all this time, but nothing has happened yet, and 24 hours from now I'll be in Sydney, in the same city as Her. Come Tuesday, it's recital time. Will I live to see Wednesday? I have to, of course, because I have to be in Melbourne in December to watch my beloved Yvonne strangle herself five times in three weeks in La Voix Humaine. And even after that, I've got her Falstaff in Sydney next February. The airfares, if not the opera tickets, are booked - so whether I want to throw myself off the Harbour Bridge on Tuesday night or not, it's really just out of the question.

How did it all get to this point? A year ago, I knew nothing of Yvonne Kenny except her name and nationality, and that in December I would see her in The Merry Widow. I'd decided I needed some live opera soon, wasn't going to get any in Dunedin, so took myself off to Melbourne to quench my thirst. The fact is, I would have gone to anything, with anyone in it. I looked at what was on - Manon, Dido & Aeneas, The Merry Widow - and decided, to hell with it, I'll be extravagant and go to all three. (In the event, it was my excellent cousin who paid - I am spoilt.) Though before that decision, there was a point at which I thought "if I just go to one, it'll be The Merry Widow, at least that's got a name I recognise in it." I said something similar as were driving to the opera house that night: "Hey, Yvonne Kenny, I've actually heard of her."

She was applauded on entrance, before she'd sung a note. She was glorious. And the first words I spoke after the final curtain call, and the first words I blogged when I got home: "I love Yvonne Kenny." Though I never imagined then that I'd still be saying the same thing now. In fact, it may only be by chance that I am. It occured to me that I probably ought to buy an Yvonne Kenny CD before coming home - but I almost didn't. I saw all sorts of CDs, and for shamefully superficial reasons, rejected them. And while I thought she was wonderful, my esteem was based on the whole package, and I still didn't know what I thought of her voice on its own - still didn't know whether I really needed an Yvonne Kenny CD, or would listen to one much even if I did buy it. So that on my very last day in Melbourne, I didn't own anything, and wasn't too worried about it. I spent that last day - as I'd spent all the others - CD shopping. I probably passed by The Salley Gardens, Simple Gifts, Nineteenth Century Opera Heroines and others, each time thinking "no, that's not where I want to begin, if I begin at all". I was doing the rounds of the shops I hadn't yet been to on that trip, and my final stop was a JB HiFi. Except that as I was heading towards it, I realised I had already been there, just days earlier. I'd bought a box of Judy Garland DVDs and a Naxos soprano arias collection. There was no need to return. But since I'd come all that way, I thought I might as well go there anyway. I did. I returned to the Vocalist - Female section. I found something I hadn't last time, something I didn't know existed - Yvonne Kenny: Handel Arias. Gorgeous repertoire, gorgeous cover photo (told you I was superficial about these things) - the perfect starting point. Almost without thinking, I bought it. The next morning I went home. I was lazy for a few days but eventually thought I'd better listen to it. All I expected, hoped for, was to like it. But by the third track - 'Ah, mio cor' - I realised that this was unlike anything I'd ever heard. Why? I'm still not sure. But it was and is.

Was that the moment of revelation? I suppose it was. I listened to it every night, multiple times, fascinated, enchanted. So in love that I bought Something Wonderful even though I thought it was her Broadway CD - it wasn't, and I wrote this:

Yesterday my $8.95 secondhand copy of Yvonne Kenny's CD Something Wonderful arrived. I've been trying for at least an hour to review it, and now it's time to face facts. It's useless to try and write clever, witty things when all I really want to do is shout Yvonne! and fall in a heap on the floor. It's achingly, transcendently beautiful. The innocuous mass appeal tracklist and the not so wonderful cover give no hint of the glory which lies within. Yvonne could sing this stuff in her sleep but she's wide awake and fabulous. Every track, without exception, would on its own make the CD worthwhile: from 'Greensleeves' to 'Ebben?...Ne andro lontana', from Balfe to Bach, from Richard Rodgers to Mozart and everything in between. My position is now official: Yvonne Kenny can do no wrong.

From there it has grown and grown. And with every CD - with every note - she leaves me less and less capable of any kind of description. Listening to Yvonne is unlike listening to anyone or anything else. I used to think absolute statements like this were impossible but the fact is, Yvonne Kenny is my favourite soprano, and the most beautiful voice I know. And Tuesday promises to be quite simply one of the very best nights of my life: my third star recital ever (and my first by someone not on the 1993 Deutsche Grammophon Semele) and, if not my first experience of Yvonne Kenny live, my first experience of Yvonne Kenny, My Beloved Diva, live. To all my brother-and-sister diva-worshippers out there - think good, strengthening thoughts for me. I'm going to need all the help I can get to make it through this in one piece.

Until next week - addio.

My Kathy

Just a little something which I mightn't otherwise get around to saying, because it will never become anything fully-fledged or review length but Kathleen Battle's Bach CD ought to be in your collection if it's not already. This is both Kathy and Bach sounding exactly as they should. Gorgeous, heavenly and essential listening. (Unlike, I daresay, the latest output from the Fleming Factory, which Amazon suggested I might like to buy when I went to get URL for this one.)

Opera Proibita

One of my most gratifying - though least surprising perhaps- birthday presents was Cecilia's new CD, Opera Proibita. Which, though I've already read articles about it misled by the title, actually isn't a CD of forbidden opera, but rather of the vocal music which was permitted in Rome when opera wasn't: arias from wonderfully dramatic oratorios which, it seems, blurred the opera/oratorio sacred/profane boundaries as much as their composers could possibly get away with. Handel is here, pre-London, alongside Scarlatti and Caldara. Much of the music from the latter two is recorded here for the very first time, which is one of the things Cecilia and her trusty sidekick Claudio Osele specialise in these days.

It's an utterly gorgeous programme. Like the Salieri Album, this one opens with a bang, Cecilia in full acrobatic coloratura swing with "All'arme sì accesi guerrieri" from Scarlatti's Cantata per la Notte del SS.mo Natale (these things all have terribly long titles). She's fierce here - and fiercely accurate too, matching the strings note for virtuosic note in some hair-raising passages. There are other similarly impressive pieces too, incredible showpieces to be sure - but Cecilia's talent, or one of them, is endowing everything with heart and with meaning. It's virtuosity, yes, but she makes sure it's never empty virtuosity. Nevertheless, it's the slower and more heartfelt arias which, in my opinion, really see her shine. "Vanne pentita a piangere" from Caldara's Il Trionfo dell'Innocenza is shimmeringly gorgeous; Ismael's aria from Scarlatti's Sedecia, Re di Gerusalemme is almost too much to bear - surely nobody sings the words 'Caldo sangue' as chillingly as Cecilia (I recommend saying those last four words aloud, it sounds wonderful!). One of the disc's loveliest moments comes from another Scarlatti piece, 'Che dolce simpatia', a sort of folksong-ish pastoral miniature which is sung with affecting (and never cloying) sweetness. It's a beautiful, beautiful album - possibly the best of Cecilia's Neglected Baroque Repertoire ventures so far. Les Musiciens du Louvre under Marc Minkowski play exquisitely too, which helps. They're a perfect match for Cecilia who, while naturally shining bright, sounds very much like one of the band. And all of this comes after just one hearing. The more I listen to it, the more, I know, I shall love it.

But - and I'll bet you didn't hear that coming - having said all this, I do hope fervently that Cecilia's next album will be totally unlike this. It's gorgeous, and I've made it clear above that I love it. But I also know that she can do other things, and it's about time we heard them. The fact is that of all Cecilia's solo albums (and I own every single one) my own personal favourite is perhaps the least 'Cecilia' of them all: Chant d'Amour. French art song of the nineteenth and - gasp - (early)twentieth centuries. Almost nothing on the CD is the sort of repertoire we expect from Cecilia - neither was it when she recorded it - but she makes it all absolutely her own. The fact is that, much as I adore her singing Mozart, Rossini, Vivaldi, Salieri - I might well trade all of that in for any one of the exquisite Ravel songs on that CD. Now don't misunderstand me. I wouldn't wish away any of Cecilia's baroque discs. But I think we're ready - and she's ready - to do something different next time. It's not a command I'm issuing forth - if the next CD is Neglected Baroque Repertoire I will buy it and love it and quite possibly eat my words - but just a wish and a hope for something which I think would be very special indeed. After all, we know how good she is at discovering music - music which works for her - and singing it to perfection; just imagine what she could do if she widened her scope next time.

Obéissons quand leur voix appelle

Manon was right, nous n'aurons pas toujours vingt ans. And so today, it's Happy 21st Birthday to Our Girl in Wellington, Rosel Labone, and Happy 21st Birthday to me as well. Also Happy Birthday to my excellent cousin Joanna, who's meeting me in Sydney next week to lend moral support (and possibly to actually physically keep me from collapsing) when I find myself in the presence of my darling Yvonne.

Profitons bien de la jeunesse,
Bien court, hélas! est le printemps!
Aimons, chantons, rions sans cesse,
Nous n'aurons pas toujours vingt ans!

Newsflash

Kiri's coming to Wellington in February - and she's bringing Her Friend Flicka. No sign of William Shatner however.

Ian Bostridge

Here's a thought I never thought I'd have: "I might need to buy his Henze song cycle CD." But Ian Bostridge is having that sort of effect on me. I bought his Die Schöne Müllerin some time ago, loved it then, but only listened a few times all the way through before returning to my cosy, packed-with-sopranos world. However the last time my mp3 player broke (it does that) and everything was wiped, I loaded some thing to it which I hadn't heard lately - Ian's Schöne Müllerin among them. Most of the time I keep the player on shuffle so I'd just been hearing single songs at random, and pretty rarely - there's a lot of other stuff on there for them to compete with. But on Wednesday I went shopping and I thought, to hell with it, I'll throw caution to the wind and listen to the whole thing, start to finish, as I roam the streets (looking for the perfect YK recital outfit, naturally).

Oh my. OH MY. I know I'd already declared my admiration of Ian Bostridge when MezzoGregory's interview meme required me to list the male voices I'd listen to if I could no longer hear the women. But even so I hadn't quite realised how much I adore this voice. I hope you know me well enough to realise I'm not damning with faint praise if I tell you I'm moved to declare Ian Bostridge an honorary soprano. It is, after all, only female voices which have had this sort of stopping-in-my-tracks (not a great move in the middle of town) effect on me, but here Ian is and I love him. I can't make any critical judgements about his Schöne Müllerin for the simple (shameful) reason that this the first time I've ever heard this song cycle. For all I know he may be taking terrible liberties - though I doubt it. The liner notes, which he wrote, make fascinating reading. Fiercely intelligent, this man. But his singing isn't over-analytical or pedantic, it's smooth and musical and simply beautiful. Fabulous diction and such variety and colour. I like Schubert, but I tend not to get particularly excited about him - unless a singer leaves me no choice. Ian is such a singer, and makes me keen as well to hear other versions of the song cycle (like Brigitte Fassbaender's!! be still my beating heart...). Even more though, he makes me keen to hear more of him.

Which is why I may just have to return to Real Groovy sometime soon and buy his CD of Henze songs. And I have to remind myself that he's the hero of the L'Orfeo I own, if not the star (that, surely, is Emmanuelle Haïm, no?).

Lieber Herr Harnoncourt

I mentioned in my Don Giovanni DVD review that I love Nikolaus Harnoncourt dearly. It's true, you know. I have little choice in the matter. The first two operatic CDs I bought (not the first I owned, or loved, but the first I bought for myself) were two Teldec budget releases: a 'Favourite Mozart Arias' and a Fledermaus, both conducted by darling Nikolaus. Then, the first two opera DVDs I owned, a Cosi and a Don Giovanni, both bought on account of Cecilia, were conducted by him. So he was the first conductor whose name and face (and eyes!) I came to know; and because he was so important at the beginning, I love him forever, even when he is doing odd things with tempi and/or upsetting Bach enthusiasts.

However apart from that loyalty, I've had another reason to love him recently - his 1985 Entführung aus dem Serail. Now this is special. If I'd never heard the name Harnoncourt before, this would probably have made me like him all on its own. Entführung light and fun? Who says? Harnoncourt's is dark and terrifying. I pressed play, the overture started and ten seconds in I just about fell out of my chair. No cute tinkling bells here; big scary Turkish ones. That looming evil I like to hear in the Don Giovanni overture - it's here too. There's nothing of the sort in the only other Entführung I have, a 1966 set under Josef Krips, but Harnoncourt just tears into it and to wonderful effect.

That seriousness continues throughout, and while it mightn't work for everybody, it definitely appeals to me. This possibly - probably - has something to do with the fact that I don't, or didn't, know the opera very well at all, and thus had no fixed ideas about how it should or shouldn't be done. A few afternoons spent with Harnoncourt's recording, and I know it better - and may well be spoilt for all other, more lighthearted interpretations. That's probably not the case, but even if it is, I don't really mind. I love this one.

Naturally my lovely Nikolaus is aided and abetted in his evil plans by a fine cast of singers. Especially Matti Salminen's simply murderous Osmin, the kind of Osmin to scare small children (and me). I'm a budding Matti Salminen fan I think. His Commendatore remains my absolute favourite; it's his fault that I've judged all subsequent stone guests by their ability to give me goosebumps - he manages it every single time. And despite all the hatred he's also a terribly funny Osmin too. There is comedy here, it's not all doom and gloom - it's just not fluffy. Peter Schreier's Belmonte is surprisingly effective. I sort of tend to put Belmonte with Don Ottavio and Tamino in the Ineffectual Mozart Tenor category; but here, at least, that categorisation doesn't fit very well. I think the best praise I can give these two men, and Wilfried Gamlich (Pedrillo) as well, is that I actually didn't notice, until I read it in the liner notes, that the opera is free of female voices for the first half hour. Remember, this is me - you know this is very very high praise indeed.

However. That half hour comes to an end, and you know who's there. Konstanze. Sung by - have you guessed it yet? - Yvonne Kenny. She's a very interesting Konstanze. Very much Harnoncourt's Konstanze I think - there are disconcerting moments where it almost seems he's singing her arias. Vocally I wonder if she wouldn't have been slightly happier unleashing a bit more fury and passion; Harnoncourt's conception of Konstanze is a rather dazed and depressed figure who's actually in love with Selim, and often sounds like she might just give up and turn into Ophelia at any moment. That said she sounds utterly fabulous. I can't think how killing this role must be on stage, with just a minute or two to rest between 'Traurigkeit' and 'Martern aller Arten' - the latter's incredibly lengthy introduction, whatever else it might be, must be something of a relief for the singer. Though speaking of that introduction: if we are sticking to this idea that she's in love with Selim and feeling terribly indecisive and guilty about it all, and listen to it with that in mind, it seems to me musically to make a great deal of sense. But anyway - Yvonne. She's sublime. I'd love to know what the rest of the Entführung-listening world has thought of her, my judgment these days is so incurably blurred, but in any case, I think she's wonderful. She's quite young here, thirty-five, but by this time she'd already dropped Konstanze from her repertoire four or five years earlier. The original Konstanze dropped out, and Yvonne filled in at the last minute. So we're lucky to have Yvonne's Konstanze recorded at all. Very lucky. We'd be even luckier if someone had bothered to capture her Fiordiligi but...this is beautiful. (It really really is. I'm listening to her 'Ach ich liebte' as I write. I just don't know how I ever lived without this woman's voice in my life. How?) And I haven't (quite) forgotten the others in the cast. Lillian Watson (Ana James' teacher!) is a sweet and lovely Blonde. Wolfgang Reichmann as Bassa Selim doesn't sing of course, but is a strong and convincing presence in his dialogue.

I'm not - no, really - going to try and claim that this is, or could be, an Yvonne Kenny vehicle. Mitridate, yes. And I have developed the rather deplorable habit of calling Giulio Cesare "Cleopatra" instead. But it's an absolutely fabulous piece of music making, a very effective ensemble piece, and an excellent achievement on the part of my Nikolaus. Even if the original Konstanze, whoever she was, had stayed in, I'd be glad to own this Entführung.

(Oh, one other thing. Am I alone in hearing the Carmen Sandiego theme tune within 'Singt dem grossen Bassa Lieder'? Have I made a complete and utter fool of myself by even posing the question?)