Prima la musica, poi le parole

The story

I don't know how interesting it is to anyone other than myself but in any case, here it is, the story of my encounter with my diva (and one of the nicest people you could hope to meet).

I originally waited at the stage door after the Saturday matinée, the third performance of the four I attended. I'd seen a few programme-clutching people hanging around there after the earlier performances, so figured that in Sydney, unlike Melbourne (where the stage door felt like a whole different suburb to the theatre), waiting at the stage door was something which People Do. So I waited and waited on Saturday afternoon, only to discover that after Andrew Goodwin had emerged to greet his friends/family and Nannetta, Quickly and Meg had all gone home, there was really not a great deal happening - nor a single other person waiting there, for any reason. Not sure how long I ought, sensibly to wait, and unwilling to give up, I lingered a good while longer, all the same. But eventually (I think it was an hour or possibly a little over) I managed, in a not exactly ecstatic frame of mind, to drag myself home, determination gradually overtaking despair during the long (long) bus trip to Rozelle.

One chance left, and I'd be flying home the morning after it. So I acted out of character and more bravely than I usually am able. I wrote a very short, not too terribly gushing note, along the lines of "you're wonderful, and if I don't get to say that in person, here it is in writing" and left it at the stage door reception desk on Wednesday morning. Then back to town, Walk the Line to take my mind off it all, home just in time to dress to the nines and get back on the bus for the world's most stressfully slow journey to Circular Quay.

Closing night, experienced from Row C and, for the final act, Row B. As blissful as all the others, enough so to allow me to forget that I was near cripplingly nervous about what I was doing afterwards. Too soon, it finished, and I walked out of the theatre, down the steps, into the world, shaking like an especially fragile leaf. But as soon as I reached the stage door, calm overtook my almost instantly, and I settled in to wait. And wait I did. There was another Goodwin family claque in attendance, including his very proud and very sweet mother whom I chatted with a little. So Fenton left. Nannetta again emerged rather early. After which: nothing. I'd told myself that if I was still there at 12.30, I would really have to force myself to go home. Whether I'd be able to follow through on this was another matter, but that was the resolution.

All manner of people, in and out, but none of them recognisable as involved in the opera. Among them, Billy Connolly, whose show had finished after Falstaff and who had, before leaving, done 45 minutes of media interviews. Around midnight, I think, Falstaff himself left, though it took a while for me to recognise him out of all the make-up. My hopes were revived, but only a little, and time ticked by. Eventually it was 12.30 and I knew I had to go home. I couldn't go home, however, so I didn't. And ten minutes later, through the two sets of glass doors, behind which are the steps to the Green Room, I saw a group heading my way; among them, resplendent in pink and with suitably beautiful bouquet in hand, Yvonne Kenny.

My courage momentarily considered deserting me, but not seriously. She emerged and I went to speak to her. She'd got the note and she asked my name. And was I an opera fan? Yes, but an even bigger you fan. Did I have a programme she could sign for me? No, I didn't. So she passed me the flowers to hold, while she dug a notecard out from her handbag and wrote me a note. And we talked about New Zealand, about Falstaff, about La voix humaine, about high Cs. She introduced me to the colleagues who she'd walked out with, half the cast of the opera. She apologised - as if any apology was at all necessary - again and again for my having waited so long. She handed the note to me and I handed back the flowers, and thanked her, and prepared to say goodbye. "Walk with us". So I did, out past the theatre entrance and staff carpark and a little along Circular Quay, while they all talked shop and I floated, until we reached the point where they would go down to the carpark and I would go straight ahead to my taxi. "Lovely to meet you." Believe me, even better for me, to have met you. "I'm so sorry you had to wait so long." Don't apologise, you're you, that's enough. "I'll see you next time! I'm doing concerts in July if you're interested." Oh don't worry, that's already on the list.

And then Alice Ford, Meg Page and Mistress Quickly waved me goodbye and I went to find a taxi.

Saturday Night Divablogging

Beverly

I'd say Beverly Sills' Elisabetta was a great performance, only it's not much like a performance at all. Winthrop Sargeant, who's quoted on the back cover of the DVD, had it right (describing her first time in the role, in 1970): "She was Elizabeth, from the extreme pallor of her makeup to the royal sweep of her train." Forget Glenda Jackson. Forget Cate Blanchett. Perhaps even forget Miranda Richardson. Don't forget Bette Davis, but place Beverly right beside her. Every movement, every expression, every gesture perfectly in place; hers is an intelligent, cohesive and moving performance, which despite all its details never once comes across as calculated, never strikes a false note. Her Elisabetta is constantly moving, pacing, fidgeting: such a frenetic performance could, poorly executed, easily become distracting or plain annoying. But here, all that movement is significant. What her hands or her movements express is mirrored in her face, and in her singing too: there's no distinguishing singing from acting here, no "singing actress" versus "acting singer". She simply is. Even those movements which spring from the physical necessities of singing are incorporated into the character. Vocally too, she is in magnificent form, alternately fiery and fragile, singing with drama and force without once sacrificing her (considerable) beauty of tone. That blooming, crystalline sound, so naturally joyful and so incredibly well-suited to comedy, nevertheless has an incredible capacity to express rage, frustration, despair as well, and to make all of it sound  unbelievably beautiful. Or rather, believably beautiful - and beautifully believable.

Buying this DVD was something of an extravagance at the time, but not any more: if I'd paid that money just to see this once, I'd be happy; that I can see it as many times as I like turns it into a serious bargain. Fine, so the cast surrounding Beverly is mostly conventional and often wooden. Clearly that doesn't matter at all. Nobody expects, nor need expect, this production to be about anything except Beverly. She mightn't have the title role but she's clearly the centre. In fact, she's the whole show. Wolf Trap, I love you for producing this, and even more for filming it.

Magdalena

Amanda at Household Opera has been experiencing the pleasures of two of my favourite things: Magdalena Kožená, and sitting Very Close Indeed to the stage. Sigh. Magdalena singing Rameau and Gluck sounds like the kind of concert I'd sell family members to see. In fact I was listening to Le belle immagine - Magdalena's disc of Gluck, Mozart and Myslivecek - just the other day and my, but she's gorgeous. And it was terribly nice to hear her in the Met broadcast of Così last weekend. As with Ruth Ann's Adina, it's a particular delight to find an old friend among all the new voices which the broadcasts present to me; even more exciting of course was hearing Magdalena's exquisite Dorabella. Strangely, although she's of my greatest favourites and one of few singers whose solo discs I will buy without hesitation, regardless of repertoire and at any price, I've very rarely heard her in opera. Just the Chatelet Orphée et Eurydice and this, I think. I ought to rectify this. In the meantime, Amanda's post has also reminded me that my copy of Magdalena's French Arias has been lost for so long that it's time I accepted its loss and bought a new copy. After all, where else are we ever going to hear that voice sing Eboli?

Leyla & Joan

I'm clearly going to need more Leyla Gencer. I've been listening to the CD I bought once a day at least, sometimes twice. I hadn't realised how entrenched in my mind it had become until I was watching the above-mentioned Roberto Devereux, and it came to "Vivi, ingrato". The aria was so familiar I thought I must have been hearing it for a while. I checked the CD collection for likely suspects: nothing. Then I realised it was on Leyla's CD: that it wasn't something I'd known for ages but something I'd heard for the first time only a week ago - but many, many times since, and sung with such beauty and style I'm ashamed not to have realised immediately whose rendition I'd heard. This is not a singer I feel destined to lose my heart, mind and reason over but all the same, there is a certain appeal which keeps me playing that CD again and again. But it's only 45 minutes long so, as I say, I'm going to need more. Where's my fairy godmother when I need her?

Same goes for Joanie's Classic Recital: 45 minutes is much much much too short. Several hours would be better. Maybe it's time for The Art of Joan Sutherland - eighty-eight tracks of deliciousness. At any rate it's well past time for The Art of the Prima Donna: I feel guiltier every day for not owning it already. There's nothing I can say about Joan which isn't terribly obvious and hasn't been said a thousand times before, so I'll just say she's spectacular. What is it about Sydney and sopranos? Something in the water?

O patria mia

Now that I'm home, and all booked for A Touch of Venus, I can at last take a break from pouring every cent I own into funding the arts in Australia and remember that singing happens here too.

For one, Falstaff is all of a sudden very nearly here. Not Verdi's this time, but Salieri's. I have to say, I'm just so terribly in love with Opera Otago for putting this on. This is a city where even Puccini and Mozart are rarities, so to see an actual rarity produced is an especial thrill. I believe it's to be performed in English, which is understandable if a shade disappointing, but a very minor quibble - to complain would be nothing short of ingratitude. I can't believe how time has flown. Falstaff was originally supposed to be staged in October last year but in the end had to be postponed. At that point it seemed an eternity away: and now it's only a month or so. The postponement meant a few cast changes, but from the details here it looks nevertheless like a promising cast, especially as it contains my very favourite local singer. Who knows who she is. (I hope.)

Even sooner than that, what with semester beginning next week, will be the weekly Marama Hall recitals. For all the musical glory of the past few months, I've all the same missed hearing local singers. When I've been home, there has been nothing on; and in truth there's been very little on, other than Messiah, while I've been away. But with the students back, it begins again and I'm happy about that. I'm intending this year to do what I did last year and go to almost everything, vocal or otherwise. My horizons always need broadening, and at $2 it's hardly a huge financial burden. Presumably the Semester 1 recital calendar will appear shortly, though any music student who wants to give me a preview and make me feel special is more than welcome to do so.

I don't think I've yet mentioned here Dunedin's upcoming Carmen. It's many months away still, but a date for the calendar nonetheless and as I say, time flies. Rather luxuriously cast, with gorgeous New Zealand sopranos Deborah Wai Kapohe and Anna Leese singing Carmen and Micaela respectively. Very nice. Except, well... I shouldn't say it. And as with Falstaff, I don't ever want to be ungrateful for anything in this opera-starved city. But did it have to be Carmen? I'd be hard pressed to think of anything I'd feel less inclined towards seeing. Which is not to say I won't go. I will of course, possibly more than once. Apart from anything else, it'll be a wonderful performance to have seen in years to come, when Anna's a superstar. And who knows, maybe it will change my mind about the opera. Maybe. 

And on another, but still New Zealand oriented, note, it rather warmed my heart the other day to see that US-based New Zealand soprano, Marie-Adele Macarthur, who sang Donna Elvira for NZ Opera last year, continues to attract accolades and admirers. Very nice.

Falstaff

Opera Australia's production of Verdi's Falstaff is a visual match to the music: at once exquisitely beautiful and bursting with warts-and-all human vitality. The scenes are colour-coded: the Garter Inn drenched in deep reds and scarlets, the market resplendently green, Alice's kitchen in luminous creams and soft yellows. Thus Falstaff writes the women's matching notes on red paper; when, in the following scene, they compare and then tear up their notes (in rhythm to "quell'otre, quel tino") the paper has turned green. With gorgeous period costumes and detailed sets, the effect is of a Dutch Master brought to life: not flat and tableau-like, but living, breathing art. The final scene, the antler-sporting Falstaff's humiliation in the forest, deserves particular mention too: with snow falling from the sky and steam rising up from the ground, it's difficult not to be just as fooled as Falstaff is by the apparition of Nannetta and her luminous "fairies" (a chorus of women who ought to be congratulated for singing and acting while moving about on their knees) - the atmosphere so genuinely magical that one could be forgiven for forgetting it's all a joke.

English bass Stephen Richardson, in his role debut, meets the role's dramatic and vocal requirements admirably. It's a taxing part and by closing night he was showing signs of fatigue, but only to a very slight and entirely understandable degree. Though a bass, the high end of Falstaff's tessitura appeared to present no serious problems, his singing throughout steady and pleasingly resonant, with just the right flavour of amiable gravity one looks for in a Falstaff. The same characteristic informed his acting, too, and he was a knight so cheerful and enthusiastic in his lechery and bad behaviour that he was impossible to dislike - and at times almost boyishly appealing.

Yvonne Kenny's Alice Ford is a masterpiece of elegance, charisma and vocal flair. The sound of her voice at this point is suited perfectly to Alice: full, bright and forthright, with just enough slice to dominate the ensembles to a fitting degree and more than enough lyric loveliness to float Alice's solo passages perfectly. The starlit darkness which maturity has brought to her lower register lends an engagingly knowing, world-wise air to her performance, while the agility of her youth, still intact, keeps her Alice vivacious and sweet throughout. She remains steadfastly impervious to Falstaff's clumsy attempts at seduction but takes obvious pleasure in the sport. Her comic timing is impeccable, she's radiantly beautiful (fulgida Alice indeed) and she sings with polish and security, all the way up to the glorious high C which is her final note, crowning and concluding a captivating performance.

Among the rest of the cast, the clear audience favourites were the young lovers Nannetta and Fenton, sung by Hye Seoung Kwon and Andrew Goodwin. Kwon is a member of Opera Australia's Young Artists' Development programme and even this early in her career made a strong impression, singing with charm, spirit and some gorgeous high notes. Goodwin is undeniably something very special, the owner of a pure, limpid and colour-rich tenor voice, along with an instantly appealing stage manner and the clean-cut good looks of a Disney movie prince. Alice's neighbours and co-conspirators were sung by two delightful mezzo sopranos, both of whom I had heard once before. Roxane Hislop was adorable as Marianna in Il Signor Bruschino and I said then I'd like to hear her in something more substantial: I wasn't disappointed. Fiona Janes appears as Dorabella to Yvonne Kenny's Fiordiligi in the 1990 film from Opera Australia: she's outstanding there and her warm and resonant tone here made for a gorgeously sung Quickly, even if she has yet to realise the role's full comic potential (this was another role debut). Michael Lewis' ringing baritone rendered his Ford a commanding presence, his "E sogno..." a truthful and serious moment in the midst of all the burlesque. Falstaff's sometime sidekicks were brought to comically repellent life by Shane Lowrencev (a beer-swilling, crotch-scratching Pistol) and Christopher Dawes, as a hilarious Bardolph, particularly so when unveiled as Dr Caius' new wife, chasing him about the stage, skirts lifted.

Brought together they formed a superb cast, interacting with ease as a brilliant ensemble but each performer nevertheless individualised and excellent in their own right, nobody blending seamlessly into the background, nobody bland or invisible. They were aided, of course, by the attentive and energetic conducting of Giovanni Reggioli who drew lively and idiomatic playing from the orchestra, not to mention a loudly appreciative audience response every night.

It's funny, you know. After four (not to mention five) performances of Love in Two Acts, I felt like I knew Il Signor Bruschino better than I ever wished to; and La voix humaine made its way not just under my skin but into my bloodstream, presumably for good. Four of Falstaff, however, and though it has certainly become a familiar friend, my greatest sense is still is of the complexity, the detail and the jokes which I've yet to grasp. La voix humaine, if I make the effort, can play in my head pages at a time. Falstaff, unsurprisingly, comes in fits and starts, a snatch of melody here, a flurry of strings there and oh-so-much staccato. Its near-infinite riches are, I think, better left that way, the depths always slightly unplumbed. Four performances in a fortnight is enough; I wouldn't want to hear it every week. Better to leave it a while, return every now and then to a new and shiny little discovery. I like it a great deal but I'd prefer not to know it backwards when it is precisely the robust and colourful spontaneity of the opera which makes it such fun, and such genius.

Still not a Falstaff review

But a chance to show off my newest and shiniest toys. I did actually tell myself I wouldn't go madly shopping this time but what can I say, it's an addiction, I can't help myself.

Portraits: Leyla Gencer - Donizetti, Verdi, Catalani. 
In May last year there was brief clip of Leyla Gencer during the Met broadcast intermission. I don't even remember what it was, but the voice appealed to me immediately and I was full of good intentions to hear more. But I never actually did anything except listen to tinny Amazon samples and keep on intending to buy a CD sometime. Finally I have, and happily I'm just as enchanted by an hour of Leyla as I was by 20 seconds. It's always gratifying when that happens, nice to find that once in a while at least I can trust my first impressions of a voice. Bodes well for Elisabeth Söderström whom I've been meaning to hear properly for years after hearing about two and a half Tchaikovsky songs on radio late one night. One day. I don't quite see a future as a Leyla Gencer devotee stretching out in front of me but I definitely wouldn't say no to hearing more.

Classic Recitals: Joan Sutherland. 
Well, having exhausted the solo discography of one Australian coloratura I had no choice but to try another, right? No of course I don't actually mean that. I have a lot of affection for Joanie. And very few recordings. But this one begins to address that situation and it's phenomenal. The one solo album I already owned, a disc of French arias from 1970, though pretty impressive in itself, did not prepare me for the astounding virtuosity and equally astounding gorgeousness of this recording. Surely the universe ought to have imploded the moment the record was made, just out of the sheer impossibility of it all.

Classic Recitals: Gwyneth Jones.
I've lost count of the number of times I've picked this up in CD stores around Australia, only to put it back in the end for whatever reason and choose something else. Finally this time I took it. I'll admit right now that the reason it's tempted me for so long is fantastically superficial. I love the cover photo. And her Marschallin on film is so beguiling I've always felt I should acquire a recording of her sometime. Now I have. I haven't heard it yet.

Gundula Janowitz: Mozart Concert Arias. 
I've assumed for years, based solely on her repertoire, that I'd like Gundula Janowitz if ever I heard her. And amazingly, given my weakness for Mozart sopranos, it has taken until now for me to hear a single note. Truly. Unless I've forgotten something, which I don't think I have. Of course I was right and I like her a lot. Precisely my cup of tea. Which anybody with even the shakiest grasp of my taste in sopranos could no doubt have told me. The repertoire on this recording is, naturally, dazzlingly ideal. Refreshing too, because while I have innumerable Mozart aria discs, most are of opera arias rather than concert arias, and so for once there are tracks here which I don't have ten thousand other versions of.

Lucia di Lammermoor.
I bought two, both with Joan: a 1961 studio recording, and a 1982 film from the Met. I haven't got to either yet, but will. Apart from the fact that I shouldn't really be calling myself an opera devotee if I haven't heard Joan as Lucia, I'll be seeing my first live Lucia in Christchurch this year so I'd like to be somewhat acquainted with it, and I'd much rather learn with Joanie than with anybody else.

Roberto Devereux. 
This was my greatest extravagance, a rather outrageously priced DVD from VAI, with Beverly Sills, whom I worship but have never yet seen in action, as Elisabetta. I'm certain this film can't be anything except fabulous in the extreme.

Andreas Scholl: Arias for Senesino. 
I saw Andreas Scholl in recital while I was in Sydney (review forthcoming, probably). I decided on the spur of the moment while buying a programme that I'd get a CD as well - they had a number on sale - and chose this rather than Wayfaring Stranger (which is where the recital repertoire came from) as a slightly safer choice in view of my sensibilities. The recital was excellent, and this CD is too. To my ears he sounds best when in happy-in love or liltingly melancholy mode. The heroic coloratura is secure and masterfully executed to be sure, but slightly on the mechanical side; it's when he's allowed to sing a lover, rather than a fighter, that the sound and expression truly blossom. This is a mere quibble however, the CD is a success and an impulse buy I don't regret.

Graham Pushee: Handel Arias.
Graham Pushee is the Australian countertenor who is Cesare to Yvonne Kenny's Cleopatra in Opera Australia's 1994 Giulio Cesare. The one who even I concede might just be worthy of her. (Well maybe not quite, but almost.) It's not often that, while skipping merrily through DVD tracks to Yvonne's next aria, I stop and let one of the boys sing, but on occasion I've done just that for Graham. His is a sharper-edged sound than Andreas', but with equal capacity for great beauty and I'm looking forward to hearing this CD when I have the chance. As an added bonus, he's backed by the Brandenburg Orchestra, who also appear on Yvonne's disc of Handel arias and are meltingly superb.

Lucia Popp: Opera Arias. 
Lucia is my operatic mother, certainly the most important single performer in the formation of my love of opera: both its existence and the shape it has taken. Because of that I listen to her in a way unlike any other singer: I'm unable to criticise or really even to analyse her singing. It's unconditional love. With others, it's possible for me to adore even while recognizing less-than-shining moments; with Lucia I wouldn't know how. I've also never been obsessed by her: she simply exists in my life and always has, literally since before I can remember. I only discovered recently that this recording existed; even though I've just made clear my total lack of critical credibility, let me tell you, it's breathtaking even by her own glorious standards. In fact I'd go so far as it to say it's perfect. It's also devastating. Recorded in 1983 this is so patently not the sound of a woman with only ten years left on the planet, a reminder of how prematurely she was taken away. The sound of greatness. (And now I've gone and upset myself.)

A Hundred Years of Italian Opera: 1820 - 1830.
I'm rather fond of obscure bel canto. The three volumes in this series by Opera Rara are beautifully presented, with copious and erudite notes, illustrations and some very talented singers to boot. They're on the expensive side, but not unreasonably so, given the quality and quantity of the music (or at least the recordings thereof) presented. Certainly a worthwhile purchase. I borrowed an earlier volume from the public library and it was wonderful. I'm glad to own it. But how shall I put this. These three discs include one trio, one duet and two arias featuring Yvonne Kenny and that's what I paid for. Without them, I may never have bought this set, at any price; because they're there, I'd have paid even more if required. In fact as far as I'm concerned, the aria "Ama ed amato io sono" on its own repays me in full. It's one of the most florid, testing pieces I've ever heard her sing; a fearless and electrifying yet always graceful performance, and so technically demanding it leaves me exhausted afterwards.

Il ritorno

It's 3am. When I've had some sleep and gathered my thoughts as far as possible I'll attempt to write something vaguely substantial about the last two weeks. For the moment all I wish to say is this: standing outside the Sydney Opera House stage door for two hours and ten minutes is one of the best decisions I've ever made. Ever.

Ever.

Fulgida Alice, amor t'offro

C'é a Windsor, una dama,
bella e leggiadra molto.
Si chiama Alice.

Would that I could write more but alas, no time. And besides, all my words are sighs. More later.