Prima la musica, poi le parole

Three

Happy Birthday Thomas Tallis. And Happy Birthday Prima la musica — three years old today. Without meaning to, I even bought myself presents. Janet Baker: Philips & Decca Recordings 1961 - 79 and Janet Baker: Gluck Arias. That's about 7 or 8 hours of Janet altogether and I can't wait.

Also I saw Figaro for the third time tonight. And three is probably enough, for a little while at least. Anyway tonight's was more or less The Leanne Kenneally Show for me. She was as gorgeous as ever, except when she was being more so. Like "Dove sono", highly ornamented but so beautifully that the emotion never gets lost in the decoration, it's still truly touching. I think I might leave Figaro until March now — but if I succumb before that, it'll be on account of Leanne alone. Well and perhaps Joshua Bloom a little — I need to say again, this is a name to remember. It's not just that he's talented, though of course he is; he's also got that little something extra, whatever it is. Star quality perhaps. I have to remind myself that I'm not watching an established star, because he comes across like one. Oh and if you're wondering, no, it hasn't escaped my attention that my latest Australian soprano shares the middle of her name (—nne Kenn—) with, well, another of my Australian sopranos. But it probably had escaped your attention; I must have too much time on my hands to be noticing such trivia.

And just to keep the three theme going, here's a third — three YouTube links.
1. Mitridate excerpts featuring (and I'll hear no arguments here) the greatest Aspasia of all time.
2. Yes, even more magical Natalie.
3. More Mitridate — Patricia Petibon, looking and acting remarkably sensible, with a lovely "Nel grave tormento"

Damn it, Janet...

It's been a Janet Baker sort of a week.

At this point I suppose I can't say I've just discovered Janet Baker. When I wrote the obligatory year-in-review post, I included her there, 2006 having been a year in which I felt I really began to appreciate her properly. But now I feel a little as if I was crying wolf. I've been listening to compilation entitled The Legendary Dame Janet Baker and, well, however enthusiastic I'd previously been about Janet, it's nothing compared to now. The joy I've tended to find in Janet has always been in her reliability, her musical integrity. She's compelling to listen to and to watch, her singing is  of course at every moment gorgeously gorgeously beautiful. She's always a joy and all sorts of words come to mind to describe her — but exciting has never really been among them for me. Until now. I've been living on The Very Best of Janet Baker, which is a magnificent representation of her but also very, shall we say, English. Lots of oratorio and Elgar and art songs. The Legendary, on the other hand, is mostly opera. And it is a revelation. Janet Baker in full dramatic flight is simply extraordinary, impossibly beautiful and a genuine thrill to experience. Obviously this isn't really a revelation because everyone knows that Janet Baker is Janet Baker. I knew it in theory. Now I can feel it, and I can't get enough of this CD or of Janet in general. Every track as miraculous as the next. Because of course, being Janet Baker, there's nothing she couldn't sing; or at least if there was, she never went near it. So whatever she's singing, Elgar or Mahler or Mozart or Caccini, it's perfectly judged and glorious. Her "Non piu di fiori" is just outrageously good. "Che faro" of course is sublime. And the disc opens with a stunning "Oh had I Jubal's lyre" which makes even a person like me wonder, for a moment at least, why you'd ever want to hear it sung by a soprano again. I'm hooked. She's amazing. One last piece of proof — this video of her ENO Maria Stuarda. As one of the comments says, even in repertoire which isn't necessarily the most obviously ideal for her, she still manages to be ideal.

And then along came Alice. Looking for something new to play at work I discovered Alice Coote's EMI Début series recital with Julius Drake. Technically this is not the first time I've heard Alice Coote. I have her as Meg in Chandos Opera in English Falstaff and she was Cherubino in the Met broadcast of Figaro last year. But Meg's barely there, especially when you're so focused on Alice (Ford, that is), and I only half listened to that Figaro, and on a shoddy radio at that. So in reality this was my first time really hearing her. And hear her I certainly did. Oh my. I expected nothing more than a typically lovely mezzo. Lovely, yes; typical — perhaps not. I understand now why every review I've read has enthused so much about the career ahead of her. She's something special. As is the programme — Mahler, then Haydn's Arianna a Naxos, then Frauenliebe und -leben and then more Mahler. Luxury! And all of it sung with such class and such brilliance it's a struggle to believe the "début" label on the cover. The Schumann is maybe my favourite part of the whole CD — just when you might think the world doesn't really need yet another Frauenliebe und -leben, Alice is proof that of course it does. Forget any ideas about English reserve (a bit of a myth in terms of singers anyway, I think) — this is colourful, emotionally rich singing with, if anything, Mediterranean warmth to it. I could get used to this girl. And then I come home, indulge in a spot of mezzo-Googling and what do I learn? She studied with Janet Baker. Of course she did.

La traviata

Hear that sound? It's me, sighing with relief. Lately I've been telling anyone who'd listen how wonderful I was certain Aldo di Toro would be as Alfredo in Opera Australia's La traviata. His first perfomance was last night — I was there, and am delighted and, as I say, very relieved to report that I stand by every word of my hype. He was glorious, more so than even I was prepared for. His voice is gorgeous, sort of golden and bright, rising to the climaxes with unforced passion, melting and sweet in lyrical passages. He sings with with equal attention to the musical line and to the text, so expressively and thoughtfully that he even succeeded in making the seriously overexposed "Libiamo" sound fresh and spontaneous. From the moment of his first entrance, every gesture, every action, every glance and every word spoke of sincere adoration and real devotion, of a good heart and sensitive nature. His Alfredo was an innocent and a romantic, with eyes only for his Violetta; unfailingly sympathetic even as he threw the money at her and tried to scorn her, when it was obvious all her felt for her was love. For me he was centre of this Traviata, not something I've ever felt about an Alfredo before. I can't say enough about him but this will have to suffice for now.

Violetta was Elvira Fatykhova, who sang the role for NZ Opera last year — now I see why the reviews there were so positive. She's really quite exquisite. Having heard her sing the Act I closing scene at the New Year's Gala, I assumed it would be there that her Violetta would shine brightest. But for all the crystalline coloratura, it was really in the second and third acts that she was at her loveliest. "Addio del passato" — which, admittedly, I adore pretty much regardless of the singer — was transcendent and fragile, more impressive in its quiet way than any of the Act I fireworks. In particular the pianissimo high A's... oh my. Two little moments of utter perfection. And yet — I can't believe I'm daring to say this — I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a slight something missing from her performance. She looks, sounds and acts the part wonderfully, but it remains just that: a part, a performance, a piece of fiction. My ultimate impression was of A Soprano Singing Violetta rather than simply a Violetta. However, it happens that this particular soprano sang Violetta gorgeously, so I'm hardly complaining.

In the opera's only other meaty role, Warwick Fyfe was paternal, wooden and a bit of a bore as Giorgio Germont. He sings with impressive power, certainly, and the audience obviously thought he was fantastic. Personally I was exasperated by his stiff stage presence and unvarying vocal expression. I can forgive less than stellar acting for a truly glorious voice, but as he doesn't really have one of those either, I'm afraid I was a bit disappointed. Among the smaller roles, I thought the terrifyingly tall Baron Duphol of Shane Lowrencev was probably most striking. Rosemarie Arthars was as convincing an Annina as it's possible to be in such a thankless role; Dominica Matthews was a spirited but slighly metallic Flora. Traviata gives the chorus plenty of opportunities to be brilliant as well, and brilliant they certainly were. Which brings me to one slight oddity of the night — when it came to curtain call time, only those singers who appeared in the final act took a bow. No sign of the chorus, of Flora, or the Baron or anyone except Violetta, Alfredo, Giorgio, Annina and the doctor. Am I missing something, or is this very strange?

Anyway this is a lovely Traviata, proof that a good old fashioned conventional production isn't necessarily boring or trite. There's not a wisp of anything controversial here, just gorgeous sets and costumes and a straightforward production which allows all the wonderful things about the opera to show themselves off unhindered. Not that I would mind seeing something controversial; but there's nothing wrong with traditional when it's done properly — and in this case it absolutely is.   

In defense

Via Gert, a link to this article — there's to be yet another pretty blonde crossover "sensation". This time, Natasha Marsh, who I thought was excellent as the relentlessly capricious Olga in Opera Holland Park's Fedora. And now she's doing this. Oh well. Look, I'll spare you what would be an endless tirade against crossover. In truth I've given up that fight — it's not my problem, I've filled my life with the real and beautiful thing and see no need to concern myself with the dross.

But I just want to say this, in reference to the whole phenomenon and the publicity machines manufacturing it. Enough with the abuse of legitimate singers. Stop setting up your thin pretty creations as much the much needed saviours of a world full of unattractive, overweight women with attitude problems who make ugly sounds. I live in the so-called "elitist" world you claim you're trying to unlock and revive (or whatever) — as far as I can see it's full of gorgeous, intelligent, sophisticated and staggeringly talented women, and it has been for centuries. They're spectacular. Churn out as much of this nothingness as you want, I don't care. But leave them alone.

End rant.

Notes

• I was right to be intrigued by Leanne Kenneally. What did I say?
  "Even now I'm still not sure how much I actually like her voice but at the same time, it's the voice I feel most compelled to hear again — so she must have done something right."
  Yes. Well. That compulsion proved so strong I couldn't wait until the 30th, I went to see Figaro again last night. And oh... Leanne!! Who knows what the issue was the first time, whether it was her, or me, or both. Doesn't matter now, because it's gone and so am I, smitten now not just with the stage presence but the voice too. I could have closed my eyes and done just as much sighing. Every moment she was off-stage or silent I just wished and waited for her return.
• About time for a Natalie link — not video this time, just audio. Trrill has an mp3 on offer of Natalie in concert with Violetta's "E strano" etc and as usual, she's the best thing ever.
• Speaking of Traviata, I have my first on Friday, even before my next Figaro fix. I've devised (I hope) a cunning plan which will allow me to see both the sopranos singing Violetta but only wonderful Aldo Di Toro (you know, the tenor I flew to London to see in Fedora, ha ha) as Alfredo. I'm afraid I just haven't the energy for the alternate.
• Obligatory YouTube link, but a different French soprano this time: Patricia Petibon, being uncharacteristically grown up and sensible with Aspasia's "Nel grave tormento" from Mitridate. She's lovely.
• And also! (added 21/1/07) I meant to say something here about Joshua Bloom, OA's Figaro. Something like this boy may just prove to somebody Very Special Indeed. And then I didn't. And now I find, he makes his Met debut in 2008 (as Masetto). So evidently I'm not the only one who sees a starry future for him. Excellent. It's richly deserved, he's brilliant.

Magdalena and Mozart

Last week, after a suitably Antipodean delay, ABC Classic FM began its season of Met broadcasts. Idomeneo. Judging by the rapturous blogging which went on in the wake of the actual event, I know what — or rather, who — I'm supposed to be raving about now. Dorothea Röschmann, she of the fabled perfection. And probably in other circumstances I'd be joining my voice to that choir, because without a doubt, she's wonderful. But.

Magdalena. Only for Magdalena's Idamante did I fight a long and traumatic battle with my unco-operative radio for listenable reception. Only for her did I forego food until I could leave the room long enough not to miss one single syllable of recitative. She would be worth far greater struggles and sacrifices. That warm, familiar rush of joyful recognition upon hearing a favourite singer — it's a beautiful thing. Dorothea, as I say, was wonderful — but there's such a difference between appreciating why a singer might inspire adoration in others, and being reminded of your own adoration for this person or that. Magdalena is among the singers I love best in all the world. To think that when I first discovered her I tried to scorn her as nothing more than a mezzo who wasn't Cecilia. She soon won me over. You want to talk of perfection? Here she is. I've never ever, not once, heard her put a single foot wrong. Every single note she's recorded (and as I'm still in the wrong hemisphere, recordings are all I have) is, as far as I'm concerned, beyond reproach and impossibly beautiful. Her Idamante was miraculous.

So too is her Mozart album with Sir Simon, a CD over which I have entirely lost my head and heart. Here she is Ilia rather than Idamante, and her "Padre, germani, addio" is overwhelming. There are two renditions of "Voi che sapete" — a heavily ornamented one whose inappropriate excesses the liner notes readily acknowledge, and a very straightforward and simple one. I love both with a passion. In the very lowest tessitura perhaps her voice is not at its strongest — that terrifying excursion to the depths of who-knows-where in "Non piu di fiori" — but still so controlled and connected that there's never any cause for concern. Everything about this voice, every inch of it, just overflows with so much gorgeousness it's hardly to be borne. Tracks four, five and six are Despina, Fiordiligi and Dorabella respectively and she aces all three. And so on and so on. She's indescribable, really, and so why should I try? She's perfect.

Le nozze di Figaro

A couple of weeks in, the new year really begins — yesterday was a matinee of Le nozze di Figaro, my first opera of 2007. I already booked for the performance on the 30th of January as part of my subscription, and I'm planning to go again later in the run when Hye-Seoung Kwon takes over as the Countess, but I couldn't bear to spend so long in operatic drought so booked for this one too.

Strange but true — it was my first live Figaro ever. Ever! Which is bizarre, as it would seem a pretty unavoidable kind of opera. Not to mention that it's among my very favourites, and probably the opera I own more recordings of than any other. (Fledermaus might beat it. I'm not sure.) Anyway as firsts go, it was a pretty excellent one and I'm happy to be seeing it multiple times — but then, as we know, I see everything multiple times so that's not exactly surprising.

Not being a proper reviewer, I don't need to get all deep and analytical about the production. So just a few words on that. For one thing, it's actually genuinely funny, which is good. And funny without mistreating Mozart or Da Ponte, which is even better. And it's good-looking as well, pretty straightforwardly eighteenth century (Susanna's wristwatch and the Countess' hairdryer notwithstanding) with nice costumes for all except Cherubino who looks more atrocious in his own bright yellow ensemble than he does when awkwardly attired as a peasant girl. "Nice" seems a terribly pale word but it's what springs to mind. There's no attempt to darken or politicise anything, it's just an enjoyable production which shows the music and text off to their very best advantage without letting any agenda of its own get in the way. No ambiguous ending either, just a nice (there's that word again) cheery one, Susanna and Figaro happy together and the whole episode having apparently done nothing so much as put a bit of spice back in the Almavivas' marriage.

Maybe my favourite thing about this Figaro, though — ornamentation! Not something I expected to find in an Opera Australia Figaro, so it was an excellent surprise. Even if in a few cases in didn't really work too brilliantly, it was the thought which counted. And much of the time, the deed counted too — José Carbo's revamped "Vedro mentr'io sospiro" was a revelation, Leanne Kenneally's "Dove sono" quite a thrill and the cadenza in Tiffany Speight's "Deh vieni" was, well, worth ticket price all on its own frankly. And since I'm speaking of singers (and when am I not?) allow me to continue doing so.

To return to José — I know Gert told me to stick to sopranos but I'm rapidly becoming this man's fan. I swooned over his Escamillo in Dunedin and adored him yesterday, maybe even more. It's very hard to perceive this Count as some kind of lecherous bastard. In fact in this production it's Cherubino's hormonal pawing which is repellent — the Count's the one whose amorous antics exude youthful enthusiasm rather than anything more sinister. It was especially nice finally to hear José in an acoustic which does him a few favours. The Regent Theatre is of course appalling to sing in, and he did tend occasionally to get a bit buried at the New Year's Gala in the Concert Hall. But in the Opera Theatre, and from my wonderful obscured-view seat (a quarter of the stage is missing but the sound is fantastic) his lithe, stylish baritone sounded better than ever.

I might well have been on the Count's side, in fact, had it not been for Joshua Bloom's gorgeous Figaro. Being me, I tend to think of Susanna as the real star of this opera but Joshua absolutely brought the focus back to the title character. He was energetic, hilarious and obviously excited about his upcoming wedding. He also has a voice! Among the more distinctive in the cast, so secure and flexible it just made me smile and with a nicely honeyed kind of timbre to match.

There are endless men in this opera and really it would be too much to expect me to come up with adjectives for all of them, you know I'm not good at that. Enough to say, I've nothing bad to say about any of them. I do, though, want to give special mention to Jud Arthur. Not just because he's from Dunedin. I've heard him as Colline, as Monterone and now as Bartolo and I'm impressed more and more all the time. There's a sort of openness and resonance to the sound he makes which I just love — his Monterone was just magnificent and I just wished there could be more of it; as Bartolo he was excellent again, suitably over-the-top and buffoonish without uglifying the sound.

To the girls — Cherubino included. Tiffany Speight is our fabulous Susanna. I really wasn't in the mood for a fluttering soubrette and Tiffany, thank god, definitely wasn't one. Oh no. After all, it might be a French play set in Italian by an Austrian composer but Susanna is (at least in theory) Spanish. With her no nonsense acting style and a wonderfully dark-edged, rounded kind of sound, Tiffany's Susanna is a reminder of this — there's a streak of Carmen in this girl, a fiery nature not to be trifled with. Exactly as I want my Susannas to sound. According to her bio, she's also sung Cherubino, which doesn't surprise me. And in fact I'd have preferred to hear her yesterday than Sally-Anne Russell, whose rather breathy, weak Cherubino I'm afraid was a bit of a disappointment. Though there were occasional hints that she's capable of rather better, so I'm interested to give her another chance on the 30th. Winner of the Most Intriguing Award, however, was Leanne Kenneally as the Countess. I'm not entirely sure why I say that, but I guess that's part of the intrigue. Act Two opened and I thought, either this "Porgi amor" will be transcendent or it really, really won't. And it really wasn't. She sounded for the most part too thin, too harsh — there were moments of quasi-loveliness but they disappeared far too soon. (Wait, isn't that a line from the Countess' other aria?) So I was set to be rather unimpressed with our Contessa — and then found that I couldn't be. She was such an adorable Contessa, aristocratic but gorgeously manic, highly-strung, I couldn't help but like her. So much so that her singing started to grow on me, I forgave the harshness a little though I could still hear it. And then somewhere around the word "Fermatevi" things changed a bit, she seemed to warm up. Or maybe I did. Either way, from that point everything sounded better. Though not entirely. But I didn't really care any more, I liked her too much, and that icy, fragile sound began to appeal. Even now I'm still not sure now how much I actually like her voice but at the same time, it's the voice I feel most compelled to hear again — so she must have done something right.

That's not everything. I've cruelly ignored both Marcellina and Barbarina. A sentence should do — Adele Johnston is wicked in the best way as the former; Angela Brewer fine if a bit pale as the latter but frankly there's only One True Barbarina in the world and nobody else comes close. And here I really must stop. So I will. 

Era la notte

I've been listening to all sorts of things in the past week, plenty of music worth writing about. And yet all I really want to do is just keep going on about Carolyn. The woman is just magical, though that description is woefully insufficient. I listen to her on my mp3 player, walking through the city, and it's a struggle to contain myself so as not to appear completely insane.  The word irresistible might have been invented just for her. I listened to samples from her "Exsultate, jubilate" on iTunes and obviously now have no choice but to buy it — it sounds silly, I'm sure, but there's something in just the first syllable of her "Alleluia" which is on its own enough reason to own the disc. She takes the time and care to sing that 'ah' fully, to make it gorgeous in and of itself before moving on to the rest of the phrase, rather than just using it as a quick springboard into the coloratura which follow. It's a little sigh of pious ecstasy and it just wins me over completely. You can see I'm done for, can't you — swooning over single syllables is generally a sign my heart is gone for good.

But all the same I shall press on and speak of other matters. One in particular — Anna Caterina Antonacci. Now sometimes the more hype I read about a singer, the less inclined I am to take much interest. In Anna Caterina's case, however, it was just the opposite — all I've read of her has intrigued me further and further and had me convinced she must be phenomenal. Her recital disc "Era la notte" has been on my to-buy list since its release but I've been very bad and somehow the money has all gone elsewhere. Last week I noticed for the first time that the final track was Monteverdi's "Il Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda", though, and that made my mind up — I must have it at any price. As a reward, it appeared the following day in the same sale as Carolyn's CD. Ten dollars. Incredible.

Of course the disc itself is infinitely more extraordinary than the bargain price. It springs from a staged recital which Antonacci premiered in January last year, "a traversal of madness and love" as the liner notes say. Juliette Deschamps, who produced the piece, waxes slightly more poetic: "I imagine scenes from the life of a woman who, we realise, is lost forever — lost through love, no doubt about it. She relates to us, with elegant crudeness and in language at once precious and raucous, the episoddes of her existence, made up of dreams of love and the pain of loving." So we have from Monteverdi, Arianna's "Lasciatemi morire", then Barbara Strozzi's "Lagrime mie, a che vi trattenete", Piero Antonio Giramo's Lamento della pazza "Chi non mi conosce" and finally back to Monteverdi for "Il combattimento" — and we're asked to conceive of these four diverse pieces as springing from one woman's damaged and fragile psyche.

The result is mesmerizing, terrifying and dizzying beautiful. With unsettling insight and exquisite musicality she wraps that black-as-night timbre of hers around each of these pieces and creates a masterpiece of dark fire. Arianna's lament is sung with raw and penetrating lyricism, the Strozzi piece likewise is simultaneously upsetting and deeply gorgeous. Il combattimento is a heartstopping tour de force. Perhaps most striking of all, though, is the furious and fascinating "Lamento della pazza". Giramo's madwoman encompasses a seemingly limitless variety of pains, passions and conflicting emotions, and Antonacci captures every moment to subtly shaded perfection before the piece reaches its sudden and brilliantly unexpected ending.

The world should revolve around singers such as this. But, as both Arianna and Giramo's Pazza say — che vaneggio? There aren't singers such as this. Just this one. As a purely musical  experience, the recital is already absolutely and gloriously satisfying, and yet "Era la notte" goes further. In other hands the concept might fall apart completely, or serve as nothing more than a convenient vehicle — but the rare gifts of Anna Caterina make for a portrait of abandonment, indignation and painful love which is unified, individualised and completely persuasive. And a thought occurs to me — would not "Era la notte", in its staged form, make for an ideal double bill with La voix humaine? Not that Anna Caterina could be expected to sing the Poulenc as well (though I've no doubt she'd sing it magnificently) but as two studies of desperate women still in love and spiralling into madness and death, I think they'd prove a rather devastatingly perfect pair. 

At long last, Carolyn

This one has been a long time coming. For ages now I've read as Gert of MadMusings has waxed lyrical over Carolyn Sampson, and everything she's said has had me convinced that whenever I finally came to hear this woman sing, I would adore her. Even that, however, didn't quite prepare me for just how right I was when I listened last night to Règne Amour, Carolyn's disc of Rameau arias. I gave this CD to somebody as a Christmas present a year or two ago but had never heard it myself — now I'm wondering why the person I gave it to didn't grab me immediately and say, your life shan't ever be truly complete if you continue without knowledge of this voice. I want to say, Carolyn Sampson, where have you been all my life? But I can't, I know where she's been. Waiting patiently for me to stop being so lazy and miserly and buy a CD. Of course I should adore to hear her live — all Gert's reviews have suggested she's at least as magical in the flesh — but for now recorded bliss must suffice.

The fact that it's Rameau probably helped a little. French baroque is good like that — done well, it's one of the most exquisite musical pleasures about, overflowing with brilliance, beauty and humour. In a way this disc is like the bubbly kid sister of Véronique's Tragédiennes — where Véronique confines herself to the serious and tragic figures so completely suited to her musical personality, Carolyn brings us the light, pretty love songs, and the match is just as ideal. Not to mention almost indecently pleasurable. The woman is capable of the most gorgeous sounds. She has a way of just holding a single note and allowing it to do things, to swell and bloom and then explode again in another cascade of pearly coloratura. Hers is singing so sweet and delicious you can taste it, I swear — but with enough gravity and intelligence that its pleasures never cloy, there's not a single over-sugared moment. Her French is flawless, her ornamentation heaven-sent. There's a subtle shimmer of  a vibrato, perfectly applied. My cup runneth over — she's too lovely to be believed.

New Year's Eve

"Opera at the movies" was the unifying thread for Opera Australia's New Year's Eve gala last night. No, hardly the most unusual or unpredictable theme. Without further prompting, you could probably guess at least two thirds of the programme. There were few surprises, it's true — but what matter? Of fabulous singing, there was more than enough — and that's what it's all about, after all. Maybe I hunger occasionally for obscure baroque or endless Poulenc, but I'm still a pretty mainstream girl, and once in a while I think there's nothing better than the joyous familiarity of operatic greatest hits. Over-exposed they might be, but in most cases there's some kind of musical reason for their popularity, excessive or otherwise. So, no sneering from me; I was happy to abandon myself to an evening of easy-going gorgeousness.

The concert opened with — what else? — the William Tell overture, followed by a very charming turn by José Carbo, relishing the patter of Figaro's "Largo al factotum" while climbing a ladder and handing out flowers to women in the front row. Of course, the last time I saw José was back home in Dunedin, as Opera Otago's dashing Escamillo, and his "Votre toast" made an appearance  here too, to much adulation. Naturally we were never going to make it through the night without "Nessun dorma". There are ways to mitigate the overfamiliarity of the piece (not least of which is making even the vaguest acknowledgement of its actual context) but sadly none of these were paid the slightest heed, and we were treated instead to the pedestrian crossover stylings and jarringly forced climaxes of Rosario La Spina. Of course he received the loudest ovation of the night, but that's to be expected. His second appearance was no more impressive — Rodolfo's "Che gelida manina" and "O soave fanciulla" both likewise lacking in either musical or dramatic nuance. But the other tenor of the evening, Henry Choo, stood in stark contrast, with a sweet and lilting "Una furtiva lagrima".

On the female side of things, there was, incredibly, no "O mio babbino caro". But we did hear the other Puccini moment from A Room With A View, Magda's "Chi il bel sogno di Doretta" from La rondine. It was just one of numerous appearances by Russian soprano Elvira Fatykhova, who seemed at times to be singing half the gala single-handed. Her most impressive moment came in Violetta's "E strano...Ah, fors'e lui...Sempre libera", sung with insight and lyrical precision. She also blended beautiful with the Catherine Carby's warm, rounded sound in the duet from Lakmé — which strangely enough was ushered in without a mention of The Hunger. Carby returned later with a lush "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix", suitably seductive despite a slightly rushed tempo from the orchestra.

I'm left with just one more soprano to mention — my life's delight, Yvonne. With the theme for the concert in mind, as well as her typical concert repertoire, I had my own predictions about what she might sing. But her first aria hadn't even entered my mind — "Lascia ch'io pianga. As featured (I'd forgotten this) in Farinelli, only, of course, sung far more exquisitely. I thought my chance had passed to hear her sing Handel live and with orchestra, I thought I'd found her too late for that. Not quite, it seems. And that it should be this aria  — the first track on the first of her CDs I ever owned and thus the first aria I really heard her sing. Nine years have made a difference, as does a concert hall instead of a recording studio. There's more vibrato, the ornaments are simpler, the timbre has a bit more metal (but precious metal) to it. What nine years don't change is that she sings this aria, which everyone with even the most tenuous claim to the title of soprano has attempted, with a radiant beauty and an understanding of the Handelian idiom of which the pretenders could hardly conceive, let alone match. 

And yet there was better to come. Two magic words, words which I'd tried not to let myself hope too hard for, lest they never come. But come they did — Shawshank Redemption. Yes. "Sull'aria". For me it's one of the most extraordinary beautiful pieces of music in existence. And I have the Chandos English Figaro, so I've heard her sing it before, but this was different. Hearing it live, and in Italian — and watching her sing it, seeing, if only fleetingly, her Countess Almaviva come to magical life... again these were joys I thought I should always be deprived of.

Finally came the prediction I did have right, Rusalka's Song to the Moon. In English as always— I'd adore her to sing in Czech but have long since given up on that. Like the Handel it showed the changes in her voice over the last decade and a half. This wasn't the same Rusalka as on Simple Gifts or even the 1999 gala with Bryn Terfel. Her sound is a little heavier now, the high passages require slightly more, and different, effort. The result is richer and more exciting than ever. She filled that concert hall with shining sound in a way nobody else last night approached. I think back to something I said all that time ago, after her Hanna Glawari — that even with no prior knowledge of any of the singers on stage, you still could not fail to realise that she exists on an entirely different level of artistry. There's a quality she exudes, even in silence, which distinguishes her immediately. No matter how many times I come into the presence of the glory she creates, I never get used to her — she always takes my breath away, and she always will. The fireworks in the harbour afterwards were impressive, but nothing in that display was even a fraction as amazing as she is.