Prima la musica, poi le parole

Carmen

When the University of Otago announced it would stage Carmen this year, I admit I grumbled. A million operas in the world, a good dozen or so of them Top of the Pops enough to bring in a big audience, even in Dunedin, and they'd gone and chosen the one I felt least like seeing. I am, after all, one of only two people I know who would, if pushed, name Djamileh their favourite Bizet opera. Carmen has never really gripped me, musically or dramatically, and its excess of overexposed hit tunes doesn't help. But between then and now I've recovered somewhat. The opera has improved in my opinion (though I still like Djamileh better), I've come to enjoy the hits again, and the prospect of seeing in on stage has grown ever more appealing. Besides which, complaining about the choice of opera in a city which sees so little is just plain ill-mannered.

So by opening night last Thursday I was, if not exactly trembling with anticipation, definitely feeling positive at the thought of what lay ahead. My complaints were more or less forgotten — and after, say, two or three bars of overture, they'd evaporated completely. What was I thinking? Who could complain about this? There's far too much to be blissfully happy about.

Believe it or not, when I went on Thursday, my ticket for that performance was the only one I had. Two or three bars of overture and it was already obvious that one was not going to be enough. You know what a vocal fanatic (and then some) I am but I didn't need a single soprano to know this was going to be a brilliant evening and one I'd want to repeat — and that's testament to the appeal of the music itself, but even more so to the way it was being played, to the exceedingly talented conductor Tecwyn Evans and the excellent playing he drew from the Southern Sinfonia. So I was hooked in even before the curtain rose — and then it did rise and everything just got even better. Just Neil Irish's set made me smile, a pretty straightforward town square but immediately atmospheric. The soldiers' chorus, Moralès, solid singing in both cases.

And then, one of those flashes of magic which remind me why I'm so in love with this art form. Micaëla, in the shape of Rebecca Ryan. Adorable even before she sang and exquisite from the moment she did. She's a revelation to me, a name which, unbelievably, I'd never heard before this Carmen and a voice which made me an instant fan. Sometimes, it's true, the thrill of a performance can make me love anyone's opening phrases, only to find myself rather less enchanted as the night progresses. Not so Rebecca — every bar she sang just delighted me further. Her "Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante" was radiant,  transcending both a wayward horn solo and the seagull-sized clumps of fake snow descending from above — not to mention time itself.  Wonderful how fate works out: Rebecca was originally cast as Frasquita, with Anna Leese to sing Micaëla. But Anna was released from her contract so as to début at Covent Garden (where I believe she's to sing Micaëla next year) and Rebecca was promoted — an inspired move, as Micaëla, and not Frasquita, is clearly where she should be in this opera. Even as Micaëla she doesn't really have enough to sing. I'd happily have given her the whole opera.

I'm afraid I can't afford such besotted or wholehearted praise to Deborah Wai Kapohe in the title role. I wish I could, for mostly personal reasons: though I've had an unpredictable relationship with her voice of late, it was nevertheless among the first operatic voices I experience and fell for in person, and I was convinced Carmen would prove a perfect fit for her. I was both right and wrong. Unquestionably she looks and acts the part divinely, all swaying hips and dangerous beauty. She's a seductress whose bark is worse than her bite. For all her provocative defiance in the face of men too overcome by her to pose a threat, once they take the bait her power wanes. Don José's jealous violence quickly tears down her fearless façade, and by the time she's Escamillo's soignée companion she's barely recognisable. This is a powerful performance but, alas, it's one without the vocals to match. And yet it's not quite as straightforward as all that. I can't exactly call it a poorly sung Carmen. Rather I'm going to make what will probably seem a bizarre criticism: her Carmen is too authentic. What I mean is this. For all the local flavour Bizet incorporated into his score, Carmen remains, when all is said and done, French opera. Now of course Carmen should sound convincingly Gypsy but, speaking for myself, I think she should also sound like an opera singer. Deborah makes all manner of attractive enough sounds but only some actually sound like opera. Elsewhere, the lower the tessitura goes, the greater her tendency simply to belt it out. I've heard Deborah in her other musical persona, as a folk singer-songwriter, and I struggle to hear any significant difference between her style in that genre and her approach to much of Carmen's music. Gypsy touches in the singing are all well and good but this isn't a case of varied vocal colour, it's actually a separate voice, and the break between that and her higher (and lovely!) "opera" voice is quite noticeable. Theatrically I suppose it's all still very effective, and she's almost always very listenable, but it's nevertheless a jarring musical experience for me, a PorgyandBessified Carmen when what I wanted was the real thing.

Towering over Carmen both physically and vocally is Dwayne Jones' superlative Don José. Apparently this is the new unwritten rule of opera in Dunedin: import a young, bald Australian singer with an insanely good voice. For Opera Otago's Falstaff it was Derek Welton and Carmen has Dwayne to fit the bill. No allowances for acoustics necessary here, he just soars regardless. His is the most free, open and gorgeous sound, hugely powerful but without ever blasting or shouting. Please don't think me unjust if I don't devote as much space to him as the sopranos, you know how I am. But this is an incredible talent, the kind of tenor sound that girls who like that kind of thing go quite mad for. And despite the gorgeous voice, he's quite unsettlingly good at bringing out Don José's scary, violent side too — his assault and murder of Carmen, staged starkly and graphically, is heavy going stuff, his initimidating physical presence matched by his singing.

Whereas the other man in the piece is just irresistible. José Carbo's Escamillo, with his infectious smile and suave, easy manner, is so engaging and so effortlessly charming that, despite all the adulation he so happily soaks up, he never seems arrogant — just justifiably self-confident. Nobody could help but like him; the fascination he exercises for both the men and the women is easy to understand. He sings with equal style and grace. I think he's just absolutely wonderful. And just how often have you seen me go into starry-eyed italics over a baritone? Exactly.

Though it's quite possible I have done just that in the past over Roger Wilson, who sings Le Dancaïre here. I've been a fan of Roger's for I don't know how long, but at least since December 2003 when his mellifluous voice and ability to actually pronounce French like French made him the highlight of a concert of the complete choral works of Berlioz. Both those distinguishing features are at work for him here, alongside his gift for comedy. He's aided and abetted by a hilarious Brendon Mercer as Le Remendado — honestly the two of them ought to go into business as a double act. Richard Green also makes his mark as the outrageously lecherous Zuniga. Green underwhelmed me somewhat as the Commendatore last year but here he's much more interesting.

Completing the cast are Carmen's two fellow female smugglers. Mercédès is the excellent Sarah McOnie. She doesn't exactly get much to sing, but what we did get to hear sounded very good indeed — I hope one day to have a chance to hear her in something rather more substantial. Likewise Frasquita. Perhaps I'm cursed always to long for more, more, more from the Frasquita of the piece. If Rebecca Ryan had sung it, that would certainly have been the case; and Elisa Wilson, another Australian import, is also a tantalising presence.

Annilese Miskimmon's production sets the action in the Spanish Civil War, creating an interesting juxtaposition of familiar elements with the unexpected — Carmen in grey with pillbox hat and sunglasses, the smugglers as members of the resistance. It's a smart, stylish update, one which creates a new and interesting context but without being so intrusive as to obscure or detract from the piece. Dunedin, incidentally, makes the small world even smaller — when I was in London for Fedora by the opera company of my heart, Opera Holland Park, they were also doing a Così directed by Annilese Miskimmon.

Tonight was the second performance I've seen. I'll also be there on Wednesday for the final one, when the only complain I'll have left is that it is the final one. Plain old gratitude only goes so far. It's not that which makes me so happy about this Carmen, but rather a love of opera — any opera — performed beautifully. And I'll very interested to see what the University chooses for its next production.

Don Pasquale

I wrote a review of last night's Don Pasquale and posted it at the NZ Opera Society website, so if you're interested, you'll find it here. Wonderful show.

Anna Bonitatibus

My first impressions are not always to be trusted but every now and then they're right. I saw Anna Bonitatibus as Zerlina in London and adored her immediately. I thought nobody could make me like Zerlina. She made her my favourite thing about the opera that night, and in a performance containing Patrizia Ciofi, no less. That's a pretty spectacular first impression to make. But since then I've had no chance to hear her again and I've wondered whether I'd still be just as enraptured the next time. Happily, the answer is a resounding yes. I finally got around to a little research this weekend, found some audio and video and she's at least as brilliant as I remember. More so in fact.

Thus I heartily recommend to you her official website. In particular the audio page, and "Perdere il bene amato" from Handel's Deidamia. I couldn't tell you how many times I listened to this track last night. I just left the page up and let it play over and over. Celestial stuff. It also occured to me to revisit this aural candy store, where I'd previously picked up a couple of gorgeous things by Patrizia. Sure enough, Anna features there as well. There's a completely insane Cimarosa duet with Patrizia which I didn't notice last time, and an aria from Pergolesi's Il Flaminio. Believe me, you want to hear these. Especially the last minute or so of the Cimarosa. And of course, there's always YouTube. Here, with Leo Nucci as Figaro, Anna (or possibly Rhoda Morgenstern) sings Rosina's "Dunque io son".

Oh, and speaking of YouTube, someone other than myself has posted this gorgeous clip of the one-and-only, singing Cleopatra's "Non disperar" from Giulio Cesare. Strangely it begins with the da capo and continues after her exit, which is a shame, but that's still long enough to see how heartstoppingly sublime she is in the role, both vocally and visually. Now if only somebody would post "Venere bella"...

Ah, lo previdi!

Yvonne Kenny fixes her gaze on a point in the horizon when asked what her dream role would be. She narrows thickly kohled eyes, curls her fingers around a glass of lime-spiced water, and tilts her head, deep in thought. There's one slow, cat-like blink, before the elegantly drawled pronouncement: "Blanche DuBois". You half expect to see a slim ivory cigarette-holder materialise in one hand, a brandy snifter in the other as the soprano does a perfect, if unconscious, mimicry of Tennessee Williams's faded southern belle.
(Sydney Morning Herald, 11th February 2004.)

It's official: Yvonne Kenny sings Blanche DuBois in André Previn's A Streetcar Named Desire for Opera Australia in August 2007.

And I knew she would. I've been convinced of it for months. After all, the role is on her website's repertoire list. That discovery sparked my first hopes, more than a year ago now. Then lately, the more I've thought about what could be next, the more I've been sure it would be Streetcar for OA. I saw the film for the first time a few months ago and it was like watching two performances at once: Vivien Leigh's and Yvonne's. I felt then more than ever that Yvonne as Blanche simply had to be, no two ways about it. Then at the launch for Clair de lune in Melbourne two weeks ago, somebody asked her about future plans and she replied that there was something for OA next year, a "completely new direction" which she couldn't discuss prior to the official announcement, I knew I must be right. At this point, what other new directions are left to her but contemporary American opera? She's done practically everything else.

This week I've been in absolute agony, waiting for the word. Yesterday it came at last. Blanche DuBois. I have to say it again. Blanche DuBois. I mean, do I lead a charmed life or what? First she designs the recital of my dreams, and now she's singing the role of my dreams. And I'm around to see it. So I might have missed her Alcina, her Fiordiligi, her Marschallin — but I won't miss this, and it will be dynamite.

Adding to the fun, New Zealander Teddy Tahu Rhodes is singing Stanley, which means I'll be fighting off not one but two sets of swooning fans for my tickets.

Blanche DuBois. Doesn't matter how many times I say it, I'm in paroxysms of delight every time at the thought of it. And as you can bet it's a name you'll be reading here with tiresome frequency for the next year (if you stick around that long) I'll stop things here for tonight.

Blanche DuBois.

Sandrine Piau: Mozart Arias

Proof that I spend too much time a) in Australia and b) in CD shops: in Melbourne I decided I needed Sandrine Piau's Mozart Arias as soon as possible, but resisted buying it because I remembered that in February I'd seen a bargain-priced copy at an HMV in Sydney. So once I got to Sydney a few days later, I found that same HMV, headed for the Mozart section and, lo and behold, it was still there. A full $10 cheaper than anywhere else. Much self-congratulation ensued.

And even more once I got home and listened to it. Turns out I was absolutely right: I did need this CD immediately. Why didn't I buy it back in February? Well there are a couple of reasons. One is very silly. The other, slightly less silly reason is that for my first experience of Sandrine, I wanted to give her a fighting chance. On a Mozart arias disc you're inevitably going up against a hundred and one other recordings of the same arias; her Handel disc on the other hand is made up mostly of rarely recorded arias and, creature of bias that I am, I figured I'd find it much easier to appreciate her on her own merits there. In the end I think I was probably right. But having said that: as out of this world fantastic as that Handel CD is, I think the Mozart is even better. Just as much scope for her unbelievable agility and far more scope for emotional depth, something it turns out she does very well indeed.

The Handel took a few listenings to really get under my skin but this one had me at hello, with "Parto, m'affretto". Edita who? Sheer brilliance. And I don't think I've ever gloried as much in her beauty of tone as here: I heard all the ridiculous things her voice could do but wasn't sure I had too much sense of the voice itself. Here it's at the forefront and I love it. Sandrine has joined the ranks of the very few sopranos whose "Ach ich fühl's" I want to listen to intently every single time I hear it. And by very few, I mean Lucia, Yvonne and Sandrine. So you see this is quite a compliment. I have more to give. In two selections from Die Entführung — neither of them "Martern aller Arten" which she nevertheless could surely eat for breakfast — she's a magnificent Konstanze. Of course nobody can match the porcelain perfection of "la plus belle des Constance" (hey, he said it, not me) but I have room in my life for the beauties of several and Sandrine easily sits among them. The remainder of the disc is likewise fabulous. Though I must say I still find it strange to hear another voice singing Aspasia's arias. For me all of Aspasia's music is so completely tied to the one-and-only that, if I'm honest, I think of it as hers before I think of it as Mozart's. I'm used to hearing any number of takes on a given aria and considering each of them an interpretation in its own right — that's how recital discs inevitably work — but with "Al destin che la minaccia" and "Nel grave tormento" the effect is more akin to hearing an unexpected cover of a well known song. Which doesn't mean I don't enjoy Sandrine singing them, she does them superbly: but the ghost of the original is very present. Though she does manage a pretty effective spell of ghostbusting in the second half of "Al destin", with a set of very special ornaments which make it very much her own.

She sings a wonderfully varied programme: Mitridate and Lucio Silla all the way through to Zauberflöte and Clemenza, though nothing from the three Da Ponte operas which is actually rather refreshing. For every galloping opera seria showpiece, there's a heartfelt lament to balance it, and all of it executed with such care that "Ruhe sanft" becomes, in its own way, as much of a knockout as "Ah se il crudel periglio". I'm terribly happy I finally added this one to my collection.

And as an added bonus: while wasting time at the airport before I came home, I, because I'm an incorrigible cheapskate when I want to be, flicked through a copy of some classical music magazine (I forget which) and read an article about La Piau in which she mentioned plans to answer one of my prayers: that is, a disc of Poulenc songs. Well, Poulenc and Ravel which actually makes it even more of a dream. As I've mentioned before, I absolutely adore anything for voice by Poulenc, but it seems that whenever I go looking for recordings I find only Gerard Souzay and my arch-nemesis. I've wished and wished for one of my beloved French sopranos to record some — my thought was Véronique, and I still hold out that hope, but Sandrine will also do very nicely, thankyou very much.

Temptation

Shoppingwise I managed for the most part to behave myself on this trip. But good behaviour and Natalie Dessay have very little to do with one another — and surely the real sin would be saying no? So after much agonising and indecision in Thomas' Music, my spiritual home in Melbourne, I opted for a DVD of Ambroise Thomas' Hamlet, in the process resisting both Patrizia Ciofi in La traviata and the blogger formerly known as Canadienne in Così fan tutte. Both remain high on my wanted list, obviously, but I can't have everything — or at least, not all at once — so in the end Natalie had to win out.

Clearly this opera was composed for one reason only: so that one day Natalie could be in it. Just what planet is this woman from? Because she surely can't be from this boring one. The DVD is worth having just for Ophélie's mad scene and suicide, which Natalie performs with such unsettling brilliance you almost feel you ought to look away. Except you can't. On a purely vocal level she's incredible, naturally, but beyond that, she manages to find and express real, credible significance in all the acrobatics — far more, surely, than even the composer meant to put there. She's a phenomenon. Then there's the rest. The mad scene is Ophélie's big moment but Natalie is just as spellbinding in her smaller ones too. And as if she weren't enough on her own, she's paired with Simon Keenlyside's simply stunning Hamlet. I approached this purely as a Natalie vehicle and assumed I'd grow impatient whenever Hamlet was onstage sans Ophélie. I even told myself I was allowed to skip a track or two if I was missing her too much. No chance. He's as compelling in his own way as she is — not something I say lightly, and especially not about a boy. But this boy's fantastic and, like Natalie, both a fabulous singer and a real actor. They're so good you can ignore the horrendous liberties taken by the librettist, their performances so penetrating and committed it might as well be Shakespeare.

There's much much more to be said about this Hamlet but it wouldn't do much good. This is the kind of performance which needs to be seen. The wonders of YouTube (surprise surprise) mean you can in fact see part of the mad scene right now. But honestly, if you can, you it to yourself to see the whole thing and on as big a screen as possible.

And then there's Delirio. I've longed for this CD since the moment I read of its release. Rightly so, it turns out. This may just prove to be my favourite of all Natalie's CDs so far. She's in drop dead gorgeous voice, she's singing Handel cantatas, and Emmanuelle Haïm conducts. If it didn't exist I'd have dreamt it: every element of this disc is something I adore individually, and here they are united! Natalie proves she can pull off baroque madness just as spectacularly as the bel canto variety; Emmanuelle and Le Concert d'Astrée are just as beautifully insane. The first cantata on the CD, Delirio amoroso, is one I know via Magdalena Kozena but I almost didn't recognise it. Natalie's and Emmanuelle's rendition is a far more haunting, fragile kind of mania than Magdalena's blood'n'guts raging, more varied in tone and colour, and ultimately probably more successful. Then there's "Qui l'augel da pianta in pianta" from Aci, Galatea e Polifemo, followed by a second cantata, the gorgeous "Mi palpita il cor", all of it sung with shining loveliness and some dazzling ornamentation. There's a slightly dreamlike quality to the whole recording, a sheen and a lightness of touch which distinguish it from the two other Handel cantata discs I have, Magdalena's and Véronique's, both a little darker and earthier. Fabulous stuff. More Handel please Natalie, as much and as quickly as possible.

Hah

Amusing line from Chris Boyd's (update: he has a blog) mostly positive review of the Melbourne performance of A Touch of Venus:

"Now, I'm a Kenny groupie. I have five of her CDs, one signed and dedicated. "

If that's enough to qualify as a groupie, what in the world am I?

He also has some not so nice words about the final encore, Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend. Well he's entitled to his opinion obviously. But as soon as the words "The French are glad to die for love" escaped her mouth and I recognised the song, there came from me a gasp of delight which was almost a squeal and as far as I'm concerned it was entirely merited. 

I wrote what I wrote about this show somewhat on autopilot. Because the real reactions it elicits from me are, well, much like the near-squeal above. I just want to laugh and shout and burst into tears and drop to my knees and die with adoration. She's just so wonderful!

Wie gut Sie ist

Elisabeth Schwarzkopf is gone at 90 and I'm caught completely off guard. I knew of her before I knew properly of opera. From an internet café in Sydney I've neither time, nor am I in the right state of mind, to write something, so instead I'm reposting this, which I wrote on the 14th of January this year.

Among my Christmas presents was an EMI Classic Archive DVD of performances by Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Irmgard Seefried and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. The Fischer-Dieskau (Mahler) I haven't watched yet, Irmgard is very good in Strauss Lieder though even the effusive liner notes by André Tubeuf concede she was not captured at her prime - but Elisabeth was the reason I was given the DVD, and it's Elisabeth I want to talk about.

The performance presented here is the Rosenkavalier Act I finale: "Kann mich auch an ein Mädel erinnern" and so on. Certainly my favourite part of the opera: better, even, (if only just) than that trio; in fact, one of my favourite operatic moments anywhere. What I'd forgotten until I played this DVD for the first time is that it's this very same film - or at least, the excerpt which comes as a bonus sample on the Régine Crespin DVD from the same series - which constituted my Rosenkavalier epiphany. I'd heard it and seen it before, I already was beginning to fall the Marschallin, but it wasn't until I saw Elisabeth look into the camera and sing those seven words, "Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding" that I felt this was something very special: and by this, I mean not just the monologue, but the Marschallin, Der Rosenkavalier and Richard Strauss in general - all of which loves continue to the present day.

The extract in full lives up to the revelatory promise of the few minutes I saw back then. This is not the colour film she made later. It's black and white, Charles Mackerras conducts, her rather lumpish Octavian is Hertha Töpper. Töpper is not a convincing Octavian to me: awkward in all the wrong ways, vocally fine but uncompelling, but she's almost irrelevant: it's Elisabeth's moment to shine and she's radiant. This is a spellbinding performance: an actress mouthing to Elisabeth's voice could not manage a more believable or touching interpretation. She strikes the perfect balance between tenderness and aristocratic reserve, something which comes across in her gestures and facial expressions and, of course, in her voice as well. She sings sweetly, gracefully: the Marschallin we hear at every moment matches perfectly the Marschallin we see. Elisabeth is often reproached for affected, mannered singing, but whatever one's feelings on that point, it's difficult to manage any such charges being levelled at this stunning performance.

I actually watched this a little while ago, but was reminded of it tonight by a couple of the comments left on this post at Vissi D'Amore. A commenter there mentions never having really "got" Elisabeth. I know she presents difficulties. I can hear them. I can't claim to love everything I've heard from her. But I do love her. I'm lucky, I think, in that I came to Elisabeth, and fell for Elisabeth, before I knew there was anything to "get". She was one of the first sopranos I latched on to when my proper devotion to opera was beginning: her disc of operetta arias charmed and delighted me, and by the time I finished watching her self-portrait documentary, I was ensnared for good. Only later did I start to read what others had said about her, about the complaints some had made. So I can see both sides of it: but I remain firmly in the pro-Elisabeth camp.

This evening I've been listening to her in operetta: Die Lustige Witwe and Die Fledermaus. It occured to me just a few hours ago that I hadn't listened to her Hanna since the day I bought the CD. Which sounds unforgivably terrible, I know, but there's a reason. I bought that recording partly on account of Elisabeth - but partly also to prepare for the performance of The Merry Widow I was about to see in Melbourne. In the end, I didn't prepare, and didn't listen to it again before the performance. And you know what happened next. Hanna Glawari took on a different significance for me and I'd all but forgotten I had Elisabeth singing it too. She recorded Hanna twice: it's the earlier one I have, from 1953. I love her sense of style, and her sense of humour. Her Rosalinde in Die Fledermaus is more wonderful still. Die Fledermaus holds a very special place in my heart. It's been a while since I've heard this one, too - or indeed any of my several Fledermice - but I still feel like I know every inch of it. I can't call Elisabeth my favourite Rosalinde - that has to be Lucia - but I do think that of all the Rosalindes I've heard, she more than anybody sounds the part. I adore the Viennese sparkle which she brings to her singing. Spontaneity is not a word which springs to mind when speaking of Elisabeth but nevertheless it's what I hear in this performance: something bright and lively - if subtly so - which I find terribly attractive. She makes me laugh as Rosalinde. Not all sopranos in comedy manage that.

It was Elisabeth's 90th birthday last month. So, a belated Herzlichen Glückwünsch zum Geburtstag to Walter Legge's better half, to the beautiful Elisabeth. Hoch soll sie leben.

Venere bella

Some things just are, and Yvonne Kenny is. Life was life, then there she was and life was different. All that she is to me she was in that first moment, a glitzy operetta entrance which in itself held no hint of all that lay ahead and yet it was all there somehow. I knew almost nothing of her before and hardly knew more at the end of that evening but still my fate was sealed then and there. Though I couldn't have guessed then that things would be as they are now, there was never any chance they could be otherwise:  no crossroads, no wavering, no doubt. Obviously much has changed and developed. But never has it been about being convinced, or reassured, or proved right. I haven't needed it proved to me that the woman who captured me in such a flash had infinitely more in her than that gorgeous Hanna Glawari — that she was not just an Australian audience favourite with a lovely voice but an artist of rare intelligence, sensitivity and depth, and one with a musical Midas touch, leaving every piece of music she sings richer and more meaningful than before and in the process making it sound too breathtakingly beautiful to be believed. And every performance, every minute, every note, have proved just that — A Touch of Venus proves it beyond a doubt — but once again I say, I felt it all, if unconsciously, right from the start. The travelling, the countless recordings, the lengthy reviews and the lengthier outbursts of florid praise, the acts of devotion and divadienst: all that's beside the point. This isn't about merely a favourite voice — they're easy enough to come by — or about mad fanaticism. It's about an amazing human being whose existence brightens my own.

To the recital itself, A Touch of Venus. This is an incredible programme, so full of Yvonne, of what she does so beautifully and what's so beautiful about her — and also eerily full of me. Music I learnt from her and have only ever heard her sing; music I've known for years and have never heard her sing, but now it too belongs to her. I could catalogue at length the universe of resonances and associations and delights at work for me in this programme but perhaps I'll just select a few.

Hahn's "A Chloris". When, many months ago, I accidentally discovered this was on the programme for A Touch of Venus, it was a song I'd never ever heard. After that it suddenly seemed to turn up all over the place — and the beauty of the song itself, coupled with the knowledge I'd eventually hear Yvonne sing it, have meant I've never once made it through dry-eyed. The first bars of the piano part begin and I'm gone. And being there tonight, at long last hearing her sing the song I've imagined in her voice all along,  and exceeding every one of my imaginings, was a moment of utter bliss

Victoria Wood's "Crush". I've long been a fan of Victoria Wood and especially her songs. I'd never heard "Crush" before however. The lyrics are here. Written with Victoria's Northern accent in mind, Yvonne gives it instead a Sydney schoolgirl twang, a stroke of genius. But what makes it particularly striking is that she captures the emotion with such sweetness and such delicate perfection that the song is simultaneously hilarious and truly touching. A comedy song light years from her standard repertoire and yet it's one of the most captivating moments of the evening. And what a treat to hear her for once with a rool Strine accent!

"O sleep, why dost thou leave me". Special for me in the first place as it comes from Semele, my first opera. Even more special because, juxtaposed with words on philandering from a nineteenth-century etiquette manual, she lifts it out of neoclassical mythology and creates a new and earthbound context, more personal and heartbreaking than anything your standard spoilt Semele could muster.

"La delaïssado" and "O waly waly", sung side by side with only the slightest pause between. If any one part of the programme stands on its own as a special creation in its own right, it's this poignant scene. The shift from Occitan to English is barely noticeable and she sings with such exquisite beauty that Hamer Hall and everyone in it — indeed the whole world — fall away and there's only her.

In honesty I could sit and write a paragraph (or several) about every single song I heard her sing tonight, and probably as much again about the texts interwoven with the music. But no, I'll stop here. Enough now to say what I feel every day, what I write here often enough (too often perhaps) but which never stops being true and so bears repeating. In my life I've encountered few people so extraordinary. Her grace, her passion and her generosity inspire and uplift me always. She floors me, and I adore her.