Prima la musica, poi le parole

Cheryl Barker: Great Operatic Arias (Chandos Opera in English)

Enough. If I don't write about Cheryl Barker's new CD soon, I think somebody (he knows who he is) from Select Audio-Visual might beat me up. So here goes.

I find writing about this disc strange, mostly because I don't really think of Cheryl as a recording artist. It's her live performances which are the core of my experience of her, and I find that I can't approach this disc as I would the latest by, say, Joyce DiDonato or Cecilia Bartoli, singers who exist in my world primarily through their solo albums. And yet I have a feeling that it's to people like me (well, you know what I mean) that this album will exercise its strongest appeal — people who come equipped with a sense of the full Cheryl experience. Because she isn't Montserrat Caballé, and nor is she Carolyn Sampson. Her irresistibility lies not in world-beating pianissimi, or laser trills, or a single, mouthwatering note, but in the emotional honesty of every single aria, and how tangible that connection is to a newcomer with only her voice to go by, I really don't know. I mean, I don't even know what it was like when I was that newcomer; she just got to me, somehow, and next thing I woke up with six tickets to Arabella. 

However, that's where I think the language of this disc comes in handy. Opera In English can feel like a necessary evil, but in this instance I think it's a positive virtue. What the studio takes away from Cheryl's performances, the immediacy of the vernacular goes quite some way to restoring. Of course, every singer in this series has the same theoretical advantage, but where Cheryl stands out is in her commitment to these new texts. Her approach to them is as scrupulous, as convincing and as sensitively coloured as if they were the only texts and as if they were all Great Poetry. She brings such truthfulness to these arias that you could be fooled into thinking that those notes were always meant for these words: she sounds like she believes it, so why wouldn't we?  

I think the selection of arias on this disc is very very interesting. Rather than two dozen lollipops, we have just twelve tracks; that number includes two tracks each from The Queen of Spades, Adriana Lecouvreur, Arabella and I Pagliacci, along with selections from La Wally, Mefistofele, The End of the Affair and The Violins of Saint-Jacques. It seems to me above all a very serious program. These Chandos discs usually contain a comic aria or two (and often a token bit of musical theatre) but Arabella is as lighthearted as Cheryl gets — the rest is either pain and suffering or dignified declamation. 

And the album is all the better for it: it feels like a considered, coherent concert rather than a hit parade. Adriana's "humble servant" carry-on is a slightly unusual beginning, but it's quite a lovely (and novel) thing to have on record from her. Adriana's other aria, "Poveri fiori" is probably the better done, however. The publicity blurb suggests that some of the arias on this disc are included by way of homage to Joan Hammond (with whom Cheryl studied) and in that sense they're charming inclusions. Her rendition of Wally's big aria I imagine falls into that same category; it's also admirable for her ability to be understood almost throughout — I've heard Yvonne sing the same translation a thousand times and never quite picked up all the words till now. The best of the Italian selections, though, are the Leoncavallo and the Boito. Nedda's "Stridono lassu" and her fervent, sensuous duet with Silvio are a tantalising taste of a role she's previously sung in its entirety. Marguerita's "L'altra notte" is still more extraordinary, her voice etched deep with grief as she sings "What hope is left me?" and makes a few searing excursions into that lower register of hers. 

The non-Italian half of the album is even better. Lisa's two arias from The Queen of Spades exemplify everything I said above about the way she treats her English translations: they're so convincing in this language that they sound as if they were always written that way, even though I've heard them so many times in Russian. They also scream one thought to me, over and over again: Opera Australia must stage this opera for her. It's wonderful, of course, to have some of her Arabella committed to disc, and interesting to hear the differences a year and a language have made to her approach. Gillian Keith is a very sweet Sophie, although not to my ears as impressive as Rebecca Evans, who sings the same duet (in the same translation) on Yvonne's second one of these. It's mildly disconcerting to have Cheryl's Arabella swear devotion to a Mandryka who isn't Peter, but William Dazeley  is excellent nonetheless, and in any case, it's in the Pagliacci scene that he really struts his stuff. 

But the real revelations are the two untranslated arias. The sultry, swaying "How can I explain to you" from Malcolm Williamson's The Violins of Saint-Jacques is something to treasure. I'd imagine it's the only readily available recording of this rarity, but it has more than rarity to recommend it: it's also a very beautiful aria, maybe a little high for her, but when sung with such warmth, oh, what does it matter? (A certain eminent customer told us recently he had a hand in this aria's inclusion. To which I say a heartfelt thank you, M.) And then there's Sarah's aria from Jake Heggie's The End of the Affair, which just tears me apart. The shrill, panicked first section gives way to an astonishingly lyrical and moving prayer, in a way almost reminiscent Desdemona's death scene, and the utter desperation in every syllable is hard to bear. I defy anyone to listen to Cheryl sing "What kind of sacrifice do you need?" and not feel a little dagger to the heart. 

There you have it. I'm sorry this is so long but I doubt that surprises you. And I did promise somebody (again, he knows who he is) that this would be the longest CD review in the history of the world ever, so at least I've done my job in that respect. Oh, and in case you're wondering, and despite the links to Presto Classical, yes, I do think that if you're inclined to own this CD, you ought to buy it from Fish Fine Music. Preferably on King St — that, after all, is where the posters are. 

The Professor and Mary Ann

My bloggable backlog is growing, and as tomorrow is yet another opening night, I've decided this is the only way to clear it. Everything at once. Pick and choose as you will.
 

1. SECOND AIDA 

In a fit of enthusiasm after the fabulous second half of Aida's opening performance, I went and booked myself for a second helping. I must confess, however, that when I found myself back in the theatre and waiting for the curtain to go up on those cardboard sets and travelators, I began to wonder exactly why I'd come back. And then Tamara Wilson reminded me. I'm still not nearly as convinced by the production as many seem to be, but it has its moments — and even if it didn't, there would still be Tamara, and she would still be wonderful. If we can't just stop her at the airport and make her stay in the country, then I hope we can at least manage to tempt her back for something else. In the meantime, let me direct your attention to this completely delightful interview. 

The cast as a whole were much as expected, which is a good thing, and the show seemed to hit its stride earlier than on opening night. There are some incredibly strong performers in this show, not least Michael Lewis, whose Amonasro is just a masterclass in Verdi singing, and Dongwon Shin, who this time around was in full splendour right from the start. And while Milijana Nikolic's Amneris still takes a bit of time to get going, when she does, she is outstanding. 

I think what troubles me about this production, more than conveyor belts and problematic scenery, is the extent to which Graeme Murphy seems to have left his singers to their own devices. They know when, where and how to move; they interact with all the complex lighting design and all the other moving parts of the production, but it feels as if that's where Murphy left them, and the rest they've figured out for themselves, each in their own way and with varying degrees of success. So while they all acquit themselves very well indeed, it's sometimes as if each character is in his or her own version of Aida, and I'd much rather see them in something approaching a shared, coherent vision. And, while it's both unsurprising and a cliché to say it in talking about an opera directed by a choreographer, what the singers lack is exactly what the dancers have. The ballets aren't just beautiful, they're also the most dramatically interesting part of the show. Coincidence?

 2. EISTEDDFOD

I always mean to see more of the Eisteddfod than just the McDonald's Aria Final, and then it doesn't happen. But this time I finally organised myself enough to make it to North Sydney on Saturday for the first round of heats. There are few things I like better than a singing competition, and this one did not disappoint, despite the fact that I found myself in the tiniest audience I've ever experienced: apparently even parents and friends tend not to come and watch the heats. At the height of it there were maybe 10 or 12 of us watching. No matter, it was still hugely enjoyable, especially when I discovered several of my favourite singing compatriots on the list of finalists. I heard the gorgeous Sarah-Ann Walker in the afternoon, and if all goes to plan I hope to go back on Friday and hear not only Brigitte Heuser but my favourite Dunedin singer of all, the incomparable Claire Barton. Can't wait. There were plenty of familiar Australian faces among Saturday's singers too, chorus members and Con students and so on, and the standard was generally very impressive: only the few who were obviously not at the right level yet didn't make it through to the quarter finals. 

And while I'm sure it's terribly bad form to name names at this early stage, and despite having determined not to do so, I can't help but mention the one singer who completely blew me away. I recognised her immediately from the OA chorus, and now that I've heard her and seen her as a soloist, I want her out of that chorus and in the spotlight. She is Leah Thomas and she is stunningly good. Not that she needs me to promote her, of course, having already been featured quite, um, prominently by Opera Chic. But she's going straight to the top of my Watchlist. 

 3. EMMA MATTHEWS IN MONTE CARLO

If you'ver read this blog for a while, you're probably aware of my ambivalence towards Emma Matthews. She's absolutely an audience favourite and one of the company's star players, but my appreciation of her has always been more a theoretical thing than a personal response. I've just never quite got it, whatever it is, and while some of her performances have impressed me more than others, none of them has ever made my jaw drop or my heart split. All of this is my problem, not Emma's. She's a lovely singer and if I can't adore her then that's my loss.

I'm saying all of this so that you have a sense of the state in which I approached Emma's brand new solo disc, a selection of bel canto showpieces with the Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte Carlo and of the delighted surprise I take in reporting that it is drop dead gorgeous. It really is. In a mix of lollipops and seriously meaty repertoire, she is graceful, charming and note perfect. She sounds like the Emma I've always thought I should be hearing in the theatre, which perhaps has something to do with the fact that she's not trying to push her voice to the back of an opera house with the world's worst acoustic. Her coloratura not just immaculate but full of personality: she has huge fun with Glitter and Be Gay, drifts beautifully through Ophélie's mad scene, and her "Amour, ranime mon courage" is stunning. Better still is her superlative "Regnava nel silenzio...Quando rapito in estasi": it's sensitively characterised, imaginatively ornamented, and comes with the added bonus of Catherine Carby as Alisa — when's her solo disc, ABC? And she even includes a stunning excerpt from Richard Mills's recent The Love of the Nightingale.

I know I've given Emma a hard time. And I can't take back or alter my response to her live performances, or even guarantee that I'll go madder for her them in future. What I can say is that on this recording, she is magnificent. Her singing is elegant, exciting and beautifully refined. It's showy repertoire, but Emma is all class. Whether I will ever join the legions of Emma's devotees remains to be seen, but this CD has brought me much closer than I thought possible to finally understanding properly what all the fuss is about it. 

 4. FIFTH AND SIXTH MANON LESCAUT

(Yes, OK, technically sixth and seventh.) You'd think this would be the longest sub-post of all, but it isn't going to be. I could say a hundred things about Cheryl's Manon but in the end all those roads lead to the same conclusion: she's Cheryl's Manon. She's extraordinary. She's beautiful and she's brutal and she breaks my heart and she changes my mind. Every time. And every time in different ways. I finished the novel not sure I could ever love Manon. Cheryl has sorted that out for me. The heroine I called unsympathetic a few weeks ago has now, for all her massive flaws, won my heart and, yes, my sympathy. She's still a problematic girl, it's still a problematic opera, but when you live through Cheryl's staggering "Sola, perduta" — or rather, through any of them, they've all been different — the only problem is making it in one piece. 

New(ish) on Melba

A while back, Melba Recordings very kindly sent me a selection of their recent vocal releases. True to form, I'm only now getting around to finally reviewing them. But here we go. Clicking the titles will take you to Melba's own page for each album.

Deborah Riedel: Cherry Ripe — Vocal Treasures of the 18th & 19th centuries

This disc of rarities is the last recording made by the much loved Deborah Riedel, who sadly passed away at the beginning of this year. And while you can't listen to this recital without a touch of sadness, there's so much life and joy in Riedel's singing that in the end it's a very happy celebration. The repertoire is unusual and not all of it is first rate: I'm all for the rediscovery of obscurity, but we shouldn't forget that there's a reason why some music stays famous and some fades away. Still, a disc such as this is a perfect platform for these unusual Italian and English arias — you mightn't ever need to hear the whole of, say, Storace's Lodoiska or Zingarelli's Giulette e Romeo (and even if you do, you might never have the chance) but a single aria sung with style is a nice treat. Riedel's singing is warm and engaging. The disc might be part of Melba's "Richard Bonynge Edition" and the repertoire more his bag than hers, but it is Riedel's convincing delivery which ultimately sells it. Her best arias are those which sit in the honeyed middle of her voice and those with a dash of seriousness (and fewer coloratura frills) to them. Her higher notes do sound a bit pushed, and the silliest and most sentimental of the pieces (especially those in English) would possibly be better suited to a younger, more soubrettish voice. Her legato, however, is fabulous, and the slight heaviness of her voice lends a touch of real dignity to arias which might other sound plain and formulaic. I can't say I'm head over heels for this disc — the repertoire is an acquired taste, especially in such quantity, and not all of it is ideal for Riedel's voice or style — but it's got a definite charm to it, and it does this greatly missed artist credit. The Arcadia Lane Orchestra (no doubt assembled purely for this recording) under Richard Bonynge gives the whole venture an authentic period feeling with plenty of personality. 

Steve Davislim: Schubert — Winterreise

If you needed further proof that one needn't be a growly echt-Deutsch baritone to capture the peculiar melancholy of this song cycle, Steve Davislim is it. This is a gorgeously sung Winterreise, as bleak, wintry and beautiful as the photography (by Bill Henson, no less) which accompanies the liner notes. Davislim's voice is an ideal mix of light and shadow, the lyrical sheen of it underpinned with a dark, occasionally baritonal quality. His interpretations are fluid and evocative, intelligent but not overthought, and idiomatic in the extreme: Davislim has sung a lot in Germany, to great acclaim, and it shows. Each song is differentiated, given its own particular voice, and yet there's a happy continuity to the whole, just as there should be, and ultimately an almost hypnotic quality. Anthony Romaniuk (for whom accompanist is just not the word) makes an ideal partner; the two voices, singer and pianist, meeting as one. Schubert lieder is not exactly an uncrowded field in terms of recordings but this Winterreise deserves to be sought out by even those with two dozen recordings of it already in their collections. 

Steve Davislim: Britten — Folksong Arrangements

I must confess that despite my undying love for Benjamin Britten, my immediate reaction to the prospect English folksongs (in anyone's arrangements) is not what you'd call positive. Even though amost every time I listen to them I end up liking them. I can't account for this irrational response but at least I'm able to overcome it: a very good thing in this case, because this recital is an utter delight. In some ways it's the flipside to the Schubert, cheerier, brighter and of course so very English, but it does have its fair share of desolation too, and Davislim captures them wonderfully. These are funny little songs, some of them, but he gives them a sort of grandeur: "The Bonny Earl o'Moray", for instance, is almost operatic in scope. And his gift for character makes even the female narrator of "The Trees They Grow So High" quite convincing. Britten's characteristic arrangements of course lend complexity (and an extra layer of psychology) to these songs, but they don't necessarily prevent twee delivery; Davislim, thankfully, gives us nothing of the sort. He even turns "Sally In Our Alley" into a something approaching a work of art. A highlight of a different sort is "The Foggy, Foggy Dew", for its oh-so-familiar tune — the melody was later recycled for Monty Python's masterpiece, The Lumberjack Song. (I've enjoyed playing this disc at work and watching customers try to figure out where they know the song from.) Davislim is joined this time around by none other than Simone Young (perhaps they met at the I Don't Seem To Appear At Opera Australia Any More club) and she's another good partner for him, sensitive to the balance he's striking between jolly humour and careful artistry. 

Magdalena Kožená: Vivaldi Arias

Magdalena Kožená and I have an agreement. I buy all her CDs; she makes sure I never regret doing so. The system works very well indeed. I own and regularly listen to all of her recital discs, and while I wouldn't necessarily recommend every single one of them to every single person on the planet — her Handel, for instance (the Italian cantatas or the recent operatic arias disc) is not, I think, to everybody's taste — as far as I'm concerned she's a bit of a golden girl. She has done no wrong, or at least no deadly serious wrong. 

She does do weird occasionally, but when she does, she usually knows it and tells you about it. She acknowledged in the notes of her French Arias disc that it contained arias from roles (like Eboli!) which she would never in a million years attempt on stage; the excessively ornamented rendition of "Voi che sapete" on her Mozart Arias was countered by an unadorned version, along with a note about its origin and musical context; she growled and wailed in her latest Handel album, but her comments and the whole presentation of the disc prepared us for nothing less.

Magdalena's latest solo disc is of Vivaldi arias. I'm pleased to say neither of us has reneged on the deal: she's great, and I love the CD. I didn't fall for it all at once and in a heap, as I have for some of her others but in its odd, eerie little way, this one has been steadily snaking its way into my psyche and I'm finding it more compelling with each listening. That's not to say it's flawless. The idiosyncrasies of her singing are pretty well established now, and they don't look like going anywhere, so those not enamoured of her voice or stylistic tendencies will probably not have their minds changed by this album. 

At just under 78 minutes, it's also, let's face it, too long. I think this is why it's taken a few hearings for this one to creep up on me. Like it or not, and as magnificent as many of them are, Vivaldi's arias do not have the dramatic individuality of, say, Mozart's or Handel's. Taken in isolation, they'll often reveal real richness and expressive detail, but shoulder to shoulder like this, a hint of sameishness inevitably emerges. It's to Magdalena's credit that that sameishness doesn't take over completely. Her direct, heartfelt engagement and the dusky loveliness of her voice have a knack for hooking you back in and bringing the music to life, just as you're starting to think one slow, plaintive Vivaldi aria is much like any other. And when she hits one of her relatively few flurries of coloratura insanity, it's with such pizzazz and apparent fearlessness that one can't help but sit up and take notice. 

She has commented that the advantage to selecting repertoire for this disc was that there were no compulsory "hits", but I'd argue that that's not entirely true: people like Cecilia Bartoli (are there people like Cecilia Bartoli?) have made some of Vivaldi's arias, if not hits, at least a bit better known than the rest. Luckily, several such arias have made the cut. Not the irresistible "Sventurata navicella", Cecilia's best encore from her filmed Vivaldi concert; but the extraordinary "Gelido in ogni vena" is there — a long and harrowing vision of a father confronted with the realisation that he has ordered the death of his own son. It's hard to forget Cecilia in this aria: her performances of it are incredibly moving, both musically and visually, as is the film from recording sessions for it, where she looks simply torn apart by the end of it. At first glance, Magdalena's plainer approach seems a little on the cool side; but the sheer directness and simplicity has begun to get to me, and in their own pared-back way, they're just as affecting as Cecilia's heart on her sleeve.

There is also an aria which is not a hit but should be, and maybe Magdalena will make it so. I'd never heard the adorable "Solo quella guancia bella" from La verita in cimento and I fell in love with it immediately: just a simple little declaration of love, but with a bouncy rhythm and infectious tune that can't help but make you smile. She strides powerfully, if not always precisely, through the militant fireworks of "Armatae face et anguibus" from Juditha triumphans (another Cecilia hit, not to mention Fiona Campbell's fantastic rendition in Pinchgut Opera's 2007 production) and "Anderò, volerò, griderò". And while I must be honest and confess that, sitting here and looking at the tracklist, I couldn't tell you which of the slow arias is which, I can say with equal honesty that she brings her special brand of truth and beauty to all of them. 

These are static arias, mostly, and Magdalena wisely concentrates on their emotional, rather than narrative, content. She hones in upon the expressive centre of an aria and settles there for the duration, singing with unwavering focus, luminous tone and — I keep coming back to this word — a sense of truthfulness. The complicated family histories, military victories and amorous adventures of Vivaldi's heroes and heroines don't, for once, need to be deciphered: what you need to know is, for the most part, there in her voice. Andrea Marcon and the Venice Baroque Orchestra are with her every step of the way, supporting and enhancing the refined intensity of these performances just as vividly as they did the explosive extremes of her Handel arias.  This Vivaldi recital might not burst with colour and vitality as Cecilia's does, but Magdalena has struck her own, very different path to the heart of this music, and it's an intriguing and quite beautiful one to pursue alongside her. 

Magdalena sings Vivaldi

I had hoped to write something about Magdalena Kozena's new disc of Vivaldi arias, but time and my modem have conspired against me. So that will have to wait until (I hope) tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll let Magdalena do the talking...

...and the singing.

Furore

I don't remember when I first heard that Joyce DiDonato was planning a Handel CD. I do know that it was a very, very long time ago, and that I have been waiting for it ever since. This sort of anticipation cuts both ways. Theoretically, the reward is sweetened by its having been so long withheld but there is a risk, too, in such a long wait. Time to wait means time to dream, and time to dream means time for hopes to be built up beyond all proportion. By the time the real Furore was in my hand, it had a rival: the imaginary Furore, so long established in my mind. 

Needless to say, Joyce has not disappointed me. The real Furore is every bit as fabulous as I had expected it to be. Except that because it springs not from my imagination, but from the imaginations of Joyce and of Christophe Rousset — whose band, Les Talens Lyriques, plays as magnificently as always — it's actually better than whatever I had in mind. She's so utterly right in this repertoire, so obviously at home and — even as her characters reach the depths of despair — so happy to be singing it, that by the time I'd listened once through to this recital, it already felt like a Handel recital I'd been listening to for years. It certainly is one I shall be listening to for years to come.

Her arias are linked by the theme of madness. Handel has lots of madness, of course — it's both an appealing dramatic device and a wonderful excuse for vocal flights of fancy. Don't think, however, that this album is simply one blistering rage aria after another. Joyce's conception of madness is broader and more complex than that. There's plenty of vengeful coloratura, a healthy serving of hallucinations, but there are passages too of quiet despair, of desperate exhaustions and perhaps even of humour — who could take Juno's jealous outburst entirely seriously? 

The disc explores some of the same territory as Magdalena Kozena's recent Handel recital, Ah, mio cor, and both singers are willing to sacrifice pristine vocal beauty to the interests of emotional expressivity. Joyce's approach is altogether more subtle than Magdalena's, and perhaps all the more affecting for it. Rather than have madness — and only madness — define each character, she allows each character to define his or her own madness within a broader psychological framework. Her madmen and women, be they gods, witches or mortals, and however fantastical their ravings, remain grounded in some sort of recognisable reality; their madness is all the more horrifying because it retains the traces of sanity. Madness in baroque opera might be just theatrical convention, but an interpretation such as Joyce's helps to make it into something a little bit closer to real life. 

There is something disarmingly natural about all that Joyce sings — her intelligence, her emotional acuity and her passion for the music are all in evidence, but never in a way that seems forced or mannered. It's hard to say which is most astonishing — her golden timbre, her fearless agility or her gift for spinning long, long lines of unbearable beauty. What's really most astonishing is her ability to weave all the above into one spellbinding voice. From the venomous coloratura of Alceste's "Gelosia, spietata Aletto" to the imperious swagger of Juno's "Iris, hence away" to the sad solemnity of Dejanira's "Cease, ruler of the day, to rise", every note is sung with unshakeable command and focus. Her diction is clear, her phrasing precise; her Italian is so expressive that by the time she switched to English, I already felt like she'd been singing in her (and my) native tongue all along. 

If one track rates special mention, it's Joyce's "Scherza, infida", a mesmerising and deeply moving performance which my words can't really do justice. It's an extraordinary aria anyway. Joyce finds all its devastating power without milking it for excess pathos — draws out Ariodante's borderline madness without turning him into a sobbing lunatic — and does all this with a voice so beautiful you could just cry. I did. But then, even her "Destero dall'empia dite" has me a bit teary. I was about to tell you that her "Scherza, infida" was reason enough on its own to buy this disc. It is, but I'm listening to it now and the same is true of every track. This is a very, very good album. 

Now playing

Veronica Cangemi — Italia 1600 Argentina 1900
I saw Veronica as Dalinda in SF Opera's Ariodante, and while I didn't fall head over heels for her, I was intrigued enough to want this CD when it appeared before me. Rightly so. It's a beautiful disc. And an unusual programme: rarities and hits from Handel, Porpora, Monteverdi et al, punctuated with selections by Piazzolla and Villa-Lobos. Unified by the dreamy playing of Una Stella Ensemble, they sit side-by-side with seductive ease. Veronica is pretty magical herself, flying through mindboggling coloratura (not just Handel, but also Broschi, with the OTT acrobatics designed for his brother, Farinelli) before settling into sweet and lyrical selections with not a hair out of place. Her subtle and imaginative ornamentation in "Lascia ch'io pianga" gives an old chestnut new life, and her "Bachianas brasilieras" — while no-one will replace Kathy in my heart — is gorgeous. 

Susan Graham — Un frisson français
I've been terribly slow on the uptake with Susan. Not that I've ever disliked her (I mean, you couldn't, could you?) but this is the first CD of hers I've actually owned, though I have borrowed and given away a few in the past. I didn't even pay for this one, as it happens, but that's beside the point. I would have, if required. This is another one with a slightly out of the ordinary programme — she covers a century of French song in 22 tracks, with just one song per composer. Wow. In some ways it's a little frustrating: I'd happily listen to her sing a lot more Poulenc, or Gounod, or Hahn (at least the last is remediable). On the other hand, variety is the spice of life, and Susan is obviously having fantastic time with such diverse repertoire. Excellent from start to finish, but my particular favourite is the vocal (!) setting of Saint-Saens' "Danse macabre". I never knew such a thing existed. I'm very glad it does.

Handel: Alcina — Sutherland/Wunderlich/ Leitner
I understand people in the know have known about (and been listening to) this Alcina for decades, although this is its first commercial release. Somewhere on the fringes of my brain, I think I knew this performance had taken place, but had never really thought about it. Anyway, this showed up in my shop and, not surprisingly, it's pretty special. Joan, fresh from her smash hit Covent Garden Lucias, is phenomenal. As is the beautiful, beautiful Fritz Wunderlich. Theoretically I shouldn't approve of a tenor as Ruggiero. When it's Wunderlich, theory goes to hell — he's so good in this role, I start (temporarily) wondering why you'd ever use a mezzo... And they weren't even supposed to be in it! Both were eleventh hour substitutes. That's the kind of pre-curtain announcement you want. It's a period performance, although not quite as "period" as more recent recordings. The slightly stately tempi do take a bit of getting used to, but the effort is more than worth it. 

Natalie Dessay/Emmanuelle Haïm & Le Concert d'Astrée — Bach Cantatas
Some people will tell you Natalie shouldn't sing Bach. Let them. I know it's surprising repertoire for her, but as far as I'm concerned, she has every right to sing this music, or any music to which she cares to devote her time, musical sensitivity and gorgeous voice. She'll never please everyone. She'll always please me. I don't agree with everything she says about her opera-as-theatre revolution, but she doesn't need me to, and I don't need to in order to keep loving my Natalie. This disc is fascinating, a little strange, and utterly lovely. Natalie sings these cantatas in her own Natalie way, which is to say, with tenderness, luminous tone and emotional acuity which is second to none. Emmanuelle leads Le Concert d'Astrée with her customary brilliance and touches of originality. Say what you like about appropriate repertoire, but I think that a performance like Natalie's "Ich habe genug" transcends all those arguments. But then, I would think that.

Patricia Petibon — Amoureuses

Demanding repertoire, a new record company and the passage of time have allowed Patricia to tame her not-so-inner child without throttling it. In the four years since her last solo disc, her voice has matured beautifully. It's a rounder and duskier sound now, still happy in the stratosphere but now just as exciting — maybe more so — closer to earth. Her surprisingly convincing lower register occasionally puts me in mind of, of all people, Lucia Popp, while the wide-ranging repertoire suggests DG might see her as their answer to Diana Damrau.

She sings Mozart, Haydn and Gluck, theoretically a series of portraits of "women in love", although the definition is stretched to include a giggly teenager, a mother bent on vengeance and a nonsense spouting travesti role. Her "Der Hölle Rache" is magnificently vicious, although at the very top she shies away a little and sweetens her tone. Her new, improved fullness of tone is on gorgeous display in "Vorrei spiegarvi" and, best of all, in an utterly disarming "Deh vieni, non tardar". Bonus points for the inclusion of Barbarina's "L'ho perduta", surely one of the loveliest pieces of music Mozart ever produced, but such a tiny slip of an aria that nobody thinks to record it outside the opera.

The Haydn lets her play about a little more, the gibberish of "Salamelica, Semprugna cara" proving that her gift for laugh-out-loud singing is undamaged. In the Gluck arias, from Armide and Iphigénie en Tauride, she is on home ground, singing in her native tongue and thrillingly idiomatic. In the tragic dignity of her Armide, one would struggle to recognise the teenaged Barbarina, and yet both are well within her expressive grasp. Her versatility, virtuosity and her fabulous voice have surprised me all over again, and I was already an avowed devotee. I worried that the DG gloss might damage her, but the opposite is true — this recital gives her more room than perhaps she's ever had to display her many splendoured gifts to the fullest. She's supported to colourful perfection by the wonderful Concert Köln, conducted by Daniel Harding — orchestral playing as full of personality as Patricia herself. It all makes for seriously compulsive listening. I've not gone a day without hearing this CD since I bought it.

Obligatory YouTube links:
Recording sessions: "Der Hölle Rache", "Ragion nell'alma siede" and mini-documentary.
Interview on French TV, including a live performance of "Salamelica" at the end, accompanied by the fabulous Susan Manoff.

Now playing

A few current favourites, new and old...

Rene Pape: Gods, Kings and Demons. One of those singers about whom everything that needs to be said has already been said, and said better. I'm more appreciative with every hearing of the power and charisma of his singing. The Faust selections are fantastic, his Boris is stunning, the Rubinstein Demon is a revelation. His evil cackle is likewise first rate.

Madama Butterfly — Leontyne Price, Richard Tucker, Rosalind Elias; cond. Leinsdorf. I am theoretically supposed to be on a Butterfly diet, preparing for the binge which awaits me with the opening of the 2009 OA season. Willpower, however, has never been my strong point. I succumbed and listened to this one and felt my knees weaken: it's quite extraordinarily beautiful. It's almost too much to take in one sitting. Leontyne is a lovely Cio Cio San; she almost goes over the top with her girlish giggles but not quite. Richard Tucker sounds so good that you have to think he's probably entitled to be a bounder and a cad. So I can't possibly name one favourite Butterfly but I love this one. Diet can start next week. Meanwhile, anybody want to recommend yet another recording?

Così fan tutte (highlights) — Gundula Janowitz, Brigitte Fassbaender, Peter Schreier, Hermann Prey, Reri Grist; cond. Böhm. Talk about your dream team. Look at those na mes. What is there to add, except that they all live up to their promise. This is a highlights disc on the Eloquence label, but with such well-chosen and well-sung excerpts that it's almost as s atisfying (and a little less interminable) than hearing the whole opera. I think Brigitte might be one of my favourite Dorabellas ever.

A couple which, while I can't really call them favourites, are worth a mention just the same...

Christoph Genz — Un momento di contento. Handel arias for tenor. Yes, another disc of Handel arias. Inevitably there is a lot of crossover with Mark Padmore's fantastic As steals the morn and I have to say that as far as I'm concerned, Mark wins every time. Plenty of very lovely singing here, but I wasn't blown away, and his rather strong accent often gets in the way. His "Ev'ry valley" might as well be a jaunty bit pastoral fluff, for all the solemnity he musters.
 
Roy Best — Heart's Delight. Oh, what the hell. I know this is the kind of CD you'd expect me to banish from the pages of this blog. But Roy was one of my favourite Operatunity Oz contestants, he richly deserved his second placing (his act of Rigoletto was far and away the better sung) and, all things considered, the programme for this disc is admirably legitimate. "O sole mio" and "Stranger in Paradise" are about as pop-oriented as it gets. The publicity which suggests that this recording "confirms Roy's place alongside the great tenors of this country" is going overboard, obviously; but, while this mightn't be magnificent artistry, it's far more listenable than you might expect. It really is a very nice voice he has, and he really is an operatic tenor, not a "Nessun dorma"-crooning fake.

And meanwhile, I await...

Lamenti. Emmanuelle Haim conducts most of my favourite singers in a selection of gorgeous music, including a selection from Cavalli's La Didone which I know very well indeed. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during recording sessions for this one — My Natalie, Divine Véronique, Glorious Joyce and Where the Hell Is Her Next Solo Disc Patrizia Ciofi.

Furore. Joyce. Handel. Want. Now. NOW.

Songs My Mother Taught Me. Coming to me very, very soon. Magdalena in more Czech songs — I've already mentioned my excitement at this prospect. And stop a moment to consider the idea of Magdalena and Dorothea Roeschmann in duet. Yes, please!

Four Last Songs. I've become so used to Renée as Met HD broadcast hostess with the mostess, it will be good to have a reminder of Renée as soprano. And this one promises to a bit less camp and a bit more solidly fabulous than the odd, entertaining, intermittently pretty but ultimately patchy Homage.

Four Last Songs. Apparently a recording by Yvonne Kenny with The Queensland Orchestra is due for release some time this year. Coupled with excerpts from Der Rosenkavalier. I have no further details and must simply wait patiently for such details to materialise. Imagine, two new releases from her in one year, and the second made up of My Favourite Strauss.

Four Last Songs. And then Cheryl Barker sings them, live on stage, in March 2009.

Now playing

Just some things I've been listening to (in those rare moments when I'm not at Otello). None of it very new.

William Christie and Emmanuelle Haïm might be among my favourite pin-ups, but when it   comes to Dido & Aeneas it seems I am an old  fashioned girl after all. This 1961 recording is my third so far and it's by far the closest to my imagined ideal. You would not believe that this was Janet's first ever operatic recording, she's stunning. Patricia Clark is a lovely Belinda. Aeneas is cast as a bass baritone! Massively inauthentic, of course — yawn — but I confess, I like it. If nothing else it makes him sound a bit less whiny. (I have never liked Aeneas. In any incarnation.) And the overall spirit and sound of this Dido is just plain excellent. It sounds like the Dido in my head. Only better, as you'd expect. Besides, though one hates to be chauvinistic — and even though Véronique Gens is divine in every language — I do sort of prefer my Purcell without a French accent. Désolée.

Sticking with early English loveliness, I have finally had a chance to hear this, Mark Padmore's disc of Dowland lute songs. Eat your heart out, Sting*; this is quality. I'm starting to think that wonderful lutenist Elizabeth Kenny might be a good luck charm. She's on Carolyn Sampson's astounding Purcell disc too. I do love these songs, some of which I've known since childhood, courtesy of Kathleen Battle's and Christopher Parkening's Pleasures of their Company. As for Mark, he is his dreamy self. Craig Ogden's guitar solo in the middle (Britten's Nocturnal, variations on Dowland's Come, heavy sleep) is a delight too. And as it's a Hyperion release, there's a nice painting on the cover; rather than a photo of Mark looking like a vagrant, as on his Handel arias.

 Something which has been around for quite a while, but which I only recently acquired, is Jennifer Larmore's L'Etoile, her disc of French arias both familiar and un. Lately Jennifer's been a mixed bag for me but this recital represents the Jennifer I know and love — her stately, shapely tone and impassioned delivery. It is always a good sign if I find myself actually interested in a rendition of "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix." Her Berlioz is great as well, and she amuses herself greatly in the Chabrier novelty track. She also manages a touching but non-saccharine "Connais-tu le pays", which deserves another pat on the back. I meant to buy this CD years ago and then never did. So pleased I finally have it.

 I've only listened to this pair of Zelenka discs — his Requiem and the oratorio I Penitenti al Sepolcro del Redentore — once each, so have little to say. Obviously they're beautiful. But the main point of interest (for me, at any rate) is that they contain a twenty-one year old Magdalena Kozena. Before she was a star, before she was Lady Rattle (yes, I know she isn't actually Lady Rattle), before she was anything other than a wonderfully promising contralto. She's excellent. Speaking of Magdalena, I've just seen tonight that she has a new one (recital disc, that is) on the way. Songs My Mother Taught Me (oh, come on, she had to do it some time), a collection of Czech songs she's known since childhood. Given that her first disc of Czech songs is still one of the most fantastic things she's ever done, I'm very much looking forward to this. It even has Dorothea Roeschmann on it — how could it go wrong?

*The best line by far in the otherwise underwhelming Jam and Jerusalem was Jennifer Saunders' snobbish character recounting a party at Madonna's. "It was a lovely evening. Until Sting played the lute."

Lorraine at Emmanuel

It goes without saying, but — lock the doors, draw the blinds, anaesthetize pets and family members. You will not want to be interrupted when you listen to this. Even my horrible CD player, which opens in the middle of discs, had enough good sense to behave itself. 

What business have I calling Lorraine transcendent or fascinating or fabulous? To paraphrase the immortal words of Mick Hucknell, if you don't know that by now, you will never never never never know it. Anyway, she's all the above, she's all that she always is. I deny the past tense; Lorraine is the here and now.

The two Bach arias which bookend the disc are meditative treasures. "Kommt, ihr angefochtnen Sünder" is taken unbelievably slowly by conductor Craig Smith (to whom this release also pays tribute) but he has the good fortune to have as his soloist perhaps the only woman who could sustain it at that pace and still make it soar. It's the earliest piece on the CD, recorded in 1992 when she was still just Lorraine Hunt. All I need to say about the second aria is that it is eleven minutes of continuous Bach sung by Lorraine; the rest you can imagine.

In between are extensive highlights from a live performance of Handel's Hercules in which she makes one wonder, among other things, why on earth the piece isn't titled Dejanira. Surely no musclebound demigod could be more deserving of star billing than Lorraine's complex, passionate Dejanira. I kept making the same mistake listening to this. Again and again I would automatically reach for the liner notes to read along with the text, only to realise a second later that I could understand her perfectly clearly. Through all the vocal decorations and odd tricks of syntax, she's radiantly intelligible. Among my favourites is her "Resign thy club and lion's spoils", rippling with fiery colour. As for the mad scene, well, what do you think? More raw and desperate than Jennifer Larmore's restrained rendition, less completely psychotic than Magdalena Kozena's recent recording — insanity made all the more frightening by a lingering but fractured sense of sanity.

And then, hand in hand with this wealth of interpretive gifts, comes her incandescent voice, so lovely in and of itself that I think she could just hum for an hour and we'd be happy, wouldn't we?

From the ridiculous to the sublime

How could I resist this?

Dorothy Dorow performs Music For Coloratura Soprano, Flute & Piano. I picked it up because the spine was intriguing, but it was the cover — and the bargain price — which clinched it.  Regrettably, the recording itself is only intermittently as hilarious as the cover. As I understand it, it was in modern music that Dorothy Dorow spent the bulk of her career; I can only hope she responded better to that repertoire than to this. In a series of 18th, 19th and 20th century coloratura showpieces, she is resolutely dull and mechanical; the fun only comes when the music gets so ridiculously frilly that her solemn execution of it is hilariously incongruous. My favourite track is her own composition, "Dream". The text, also by Miss Dorow consists of the word "Dream". The piece is a pastiche of various modern styles; it involves some moaning, some snapping of fingers, even a bit of bossa nova. It could almost be a joke but her comments in the liner notes and her straightfaced rendition suggest it is not. I'd love to give it to Patricia Petibon to sing, though — she'd turn it into an uproarious masterpiece. Otherwise this is just mindbogglingly boring, really. It's all very well to treat these as essentially displays of technical mastery, but that doesn't mean they can't be aurally appealing too. Hitting all the notes is no fun if you do it so charmlessly. Compare and contrast Dorow's Morse Code treatment of Eva dell'Acqua's "Villanelle" to Natalie's fluid, shimmery recording of the piece on her Vocalise; or her dry, tedious "Lo! Here the gentle lark" with the version on Yvonne Kenny's Homage to Melba, sung with a spring in her step and a smile in her voice; indeed, when she finally makes it through the very last flight of fioratura, you can hear her laughing. Now that's the spirit in which this kind of repertoire needs to be sung.

And if I couldn't resist that, I certainly wasn't going to say no to this.

This is pretty early for Anne Sofie — the recital dates from 1989. The contents aren't quite as bleak or as unrelentingly wintry as the Oh So Sibelius cover art, though the lyrics certainly contain their fair share of snow and longing. There's the odd sliver of jubilation too, though. I don't need to tell you how well suited Anne Sofie is to this repertoire. She's in gorgeous voice, but then, when isn't she? Her singing here doesn't quite attain the utter lusciousness of, say, her Grieg songs; but it's also free of the (dare I say it?) occasionally offputting idiosyncracies of her more recent recordings — the Abba CD (I know, I know, it's mostly not Abba, but I still have to call it that) and her Music for a While; not her Terezin, though, because that is an out-and-out masterpiece. She reaches surprisingly operatic heights here, but as usual it's still that perfectly formed and ever expressive middle of her voice which provides the true thrills. The dramatic "Flickan kom infrån sin älsklings möte" has long been a favourite song of mine — I learnt most of the words (phonetically, that is) from Karita; Barbara Bonney's has been known to quite literally stop me in my tracks when appearing on Shuffle. Anne Sofie, true to form, sings it magnificently; but to be honest, on this CD, I like her best in lilting, languid mode. Hers is a voice to bask in. And luckily this recital offers plenty of opportunities to do just that.

Diana

As you may have noticed, I'm in the midst of a bit of a mania. So every now and then I have to slow down and remind myself that I can also just like a soprano, without going totally mad and making declarations left, right and centre. The soprano I have in mind is Diana Damrau. I wrote about Arie di bravura a little while ago. She's a discovery I'm very happy finally to have made, and so I made the effort to keep things going and bought two more of her CDs — two live lieder recitals, both on the Orfeo label. And as I say, she is a reminder that sane appreciation can still be plenty of fun.

The earlier of the two discs is a Late Romantic programme from the 2005 Salzburg Festspiele. There is one track, I must admit, which does send me slightly round the bend — her "Das himmlische Leben" is, well, heavenly; one of the best I've heard. She sails through a pair of Strauss' Brentano Lieder with just the effortless grace you'd expect. Diana reminds me a lot of Sandrine Piau, and yet in Strauss' Mädchenblumen, which also appears on Sandrine's exquisite Evocation,  I realised I'd never actually confuse the two. There are four encores, listed only inside the booklet and not on the back, which is a nice touch (it meant they took me by surprise, as encores ought). Maybe I'm strange but one of my favourite aspects of this recital is her charming spoken introductions to the songs. She enjoys herself here and it is infectious.

The other recital was recorded a year later. It features both the Schumanns, both the Mendelssohns, plus Brahms, Liszt and Chopin. And is delightful. As usual, I take greatest pleasure in the (Robert) Schumann. One of my favourite Mendelssohn Lieder is there too, "Neue Liebe" (a favourite because it was just about the first Mendelssohn Lied I learned, and I was addicted to it, thanks to Kathleen Battle.) There are hints of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf in her lieder singing, and I mean that in only its unambiguously positive sense; nothing mannered here, quite the opposite, but sensitivity and immaculate tone and diction are qualities they happily share. She's chirpy and adorable in Brahms' "Vergebliche Ständchen", another big favourite of mine — there was a time when I could not start the morning without watching Elisabeth's performance of this song (on an EMI Classic Archive DVD) at least once. Once again, the encores are a particular highlight. Liszt's "Es muss ein Wunderbares sein" seems to be a standard for Diana, as it appears in both recitals; she finishes up with a very sweet and pointedly sleepy rendition of Brahms' Wiegenlied before sending everybody home to bed.

For the moment I have no plans for a post proclaiming Diana Damrau the Best Soprano in the World Ever and my Utter, Utter Favourite Glorious Revelation and so on. You know me, so this may change. But I like her. A lot. And every YouTube video I see of her makes me like her even more. Like will do for now. I think she's great.

Lovely victor

I've loved Purcell ever since I spent an eye-opening Christmas Day with The Fairy Queen. Sung excitingly, his is among my favourite music. Alas, Purcell is not always sung excitingly. And whereas boringly performed Mozart often retains a bit of Mozartean brilliance just the same, boring Purcell easily becomes unremittingly dreary. I have all the time in the world for period practice (I'm not using the word "authentic" here; I think "authenticity" has a whole lot more to do with heart, sincerity and musicality than which instruments you use or your choice of pitch) but I have no time for colourless, boring performances which sound more like an instructional guide than anything with a personality.

So thank god for Carolyn Sampson, whose new all-Purcell disc Victorious Love manages to be at once exemplary and exhilarating. She shows off both her own extraordinary versatility and Purcell's — every facet of the composer is here in these songs, which encompass loss, love, death, rage, rapture, madness, sweetness, seduction and out-and-out lust.

Here I have difficulty continuing. Because this album is not conducive to balanced, thoughtful sentences and considered praise. It makes me want to shout its praises on street corners, or at least to everyone I meet with the slightest interest in this kind of music. I think this CD is incredible beyond words. Obviously it was always a winning combination. Purcell = good. Carolyn Sampson = indecently gorgeous and gifted in all matters Baroque. This, though, isn't just a winning combination of elements, it's an explosion. Explosion? In Purcell? YES.

And — I've a suspicion I've wondered this before — where in the world did she get that voice? I'm on the verge of declaring it the most fundamentally beautiful sound being produced by any currently working singer. Clearly, that's a crazy kind of claim to make, as there are a thousand kinds of vocal beauty and no one singer can wear the crown, unchallenged. But still... I remember the first time I heard her Rameau disc, finding it physically difficult to grasp just how gorgeous these sounds were. And, it should go without saying, not emptily gorgeous. Carolyn is the whole package, impeccable in every respect. On the list of What Makes My Heart Go Pit-a-Patter, she ticks every item.

Down to specifics. She opens with "Sweeter Than Roses", which is includes the lyrics from which the title is drawn: "what magic hath victorious love". What magic indeed. This song is a perfect bait-and-switch; she starts out by doing breathy languor so well that, if you didn't know what was coming next, you wouldn't guess it. Then from the dream state she bursts suddenly into florid rapture and in the process, with her very first track, conquers every heart. (Well, every one of mine anyway.) Then immediately to something much more serious, "The fatal hour comes on apace". Every word is heavy with meaning and yet she doesn't overdo it for a moment — "certain misery" sound like certain misery, nothing more and nothing less. Purcell has, of course, that very baroque habit of repeating a word or phrase over and over, and Carolyn ensures this sounds like the most natural occurence in the world. She sings "may I not" several times before revealing what she may or may not do (which is to hope) and it doesn't sound like baroque convention, just natural human inability to express a desperate and delicate emotion. That's almost two hundred words on just two songs; if I keep on like this you'll never read to the end.

But for the moment I have to continue like this and mention track three. "When first Amintas sued for a kiss" ought to have earned this CD a "contains explicit lyrics" warning sticker. Read them. And just in case you were in any doubt about what that voyage to the golden coast entails, Carolyn's singing makes it tremulously clear. Now I suppose I ought to pick out just a selection of highlights, or I'll be here all night. Honestly, I could stick a pin in the track listing at random and write up any one of the songs — every single one is exceptional and a treasure. However, I'll choose three of the strikingest, and then attempt to leave it at that.

1. "Man is for the woman made", a cheery little ditty, full of suggestive and sometimes downright phallic imagery. My previous exposure to Carolyn hadn't prepared me for the fabulous sense of humour on display here. The fun she's having is contagious. The fact that she has all that fun while retaining crystalline tone and flawless diction just makes it all the better.

2. From one extreme to the other. The Blessed Virgin's Expostulation, a surprisingly operatic seven minute lament by the Virgin Mary. She glides from straight recitative to suddenly intricate and wide-ranging coloratura and back again, and is deeply moving all the while. A human, flesh-and-blood sort of Mary, whose cries of "Gabriel" come not from a placid saint but a desperate mother.

3. "From silent shades." Stiff as the competition is, this is still the most stunning piece on the album. It's also known as "Bess of Bedlam" — the mad song to beat all mad songs. Carolyn's performance is a tour de force, spellbinding and spooky; a riveting balance between comical craziness and the outpourings of a deeply distubed psyche. I shan't attempt any kind of useful description. About halfway through, though, come these lines:

"Did you not see my love as he pass'd by you?
His two flaming eyes, if he comes nigh you,
They will scorch up your hearts..."

and I can say that whatever a person might pay for this disc, it's worth it just to have heard the exquisitely terrifying way she sings them. I'm a bit of a mess again just thinking about it.

There, as promised, I'll draw to a close. I'm conquered. Carolyn is victorious.

Pilar Lorengar

Is it possible Pilar Lorengar is the voice in my head? Following up on my love affair with her Prima Donna in Vienna, I've finally bought a second Pilar Lorengar CD, a nice double disc compilation. I'll ramble about the gorgeousness in a moment, but what's intriguing me is the familiarity of it all. Apart from the few tracks which are drawn from Prima Donna in Vienna, I've never heard any of this before, and yet this doesn't feel like a first time. Which is not to say I actually think I've heard any of it already, because I know that I haven't. But she makes so much sense in every aria, sings everything so properly and in such total accordance with my wishes (even wishes I didn't know I was wishing) that I feel she's in some way giving voice to ideas and conceptions I already had. As I say, it's as if she's the translation into real, listenable singing of the voice in my head. This isn't just some kind of elaborate bit of fawning; I'm not calling her my destined diva or my new favourite or any of that. It's really just a statement of, if not fact, something vaguely resembling it.

Anyway, let me move on to the gorgeousness. Of which, it has to be said, there is plenty. She may look like Sybil Fawlty but, thank god, the resemblance ends there. Disc One offers seventeen arias, each one a shiny, happy delight. The first half is all Puccini, with no boring fall into Generic Doomed Girl — Mimi is not Liu, Angelica is not Cio Cio San. She's all rounded vowels and delicious vibrato, robust but not overpowering. A full lyric who can power her way through Puccini and then turn in a totally refined and subtle Fiordiligi. Without the dynamic extremes or provocative sighs of, say, Monserrat Caballe or Kathleen Battle, her "Depuis le jour" is ecstatic and luxuriant just the same. "Glück, das mir verblieb" comes from Prima Donna in Vienna; I think it's my favourite track on both albums — it's pretty obvious that Korngold and I need to get to know each other better, and soon.

Disc Two is all Spanish — Granados, Falla and Turina, some of it with orchestra, some with Alicia de Larrocha at the piano. It shall have to be liveblogged as it's only just started. Granados' "La maja y el ruisenor" is radiant; "9 Tonadillas" now, and before she's even started, I love Alicia de Larrocha and these songs. This is bliss, she's so bright and so lovely. And so free of self indulgence, almost matter of fact about things, but expressive at the same time. Turns out she's not just my inner voice of opera but of Spanish songs too, even if I still don't really know what I mean by that. Just a weird sense that this is the original. Which makes essentially zero sense. This is a much more peaceful, simple kind of Spanish album than a few of the others I have (and adore — I'm thinking of Maria Bayo, Joyce DiDonato, parts of Kathy's Pleasures of their Company) but no less evocative for it. Indulge me in a sigh or three... unless this cycle finishes and she suddenly breaks into Rex Harrison sprechstimme for La maja dolorosa, all I foresee is more sweetness, light and perfection. So I think I'll finish this post on that assumption, stop liveblogging and return to just listening. This is lovely. I wish I could italicise that word more.

New

Gothic Baroque

Magdalena Kozena's new Handel CD, entitled Ah, mio cor, is an odd mix. Half radiance, joy and sweetness; half madness and black magic. The photos in the notes have her looking very serious and possibly a little bit evil. What this translates to in terms of sound is that when she sings about insanity, rage and despair, she makes them sound like themselves — not ugly, as such, but not pretty either. This may take a bit of getting used to for some; and some will probably not like it at all. I'm wrapped tightly around Magdalena's little finger, and I love it. And besides, she makes the happy parts sound just as convincing; she rattles (no pun intended) through "Oh had I Jubal's lyre" at great speed and with a totally charming accent, and her "Scherza infida" is quite mesmerizing.

Brilliant boy

It hasn't been packaged nearly so lavishly, but Juan Diego Florez has released a CD with a concept not unlike Cecilia's Maria — his Arias for Rubini is a tribute to "the first superstar tenor", Giovanni Battista Rubini. What can I say? I've only heard it a few times and haven't had a chance to concentrate properly but the boy is pure magic as always, exemplary and brilliant. (And I probably shouldn't call him a boy but he's so adorable I can't help it.)

Mrs Fischer-Dieskau

I happened upon a disc of Julia Varady at a very reasonable price and thought I might as well. She's singing Mozart and Strauss Lieder and is a total delight. I was startled a little by the size and richness of her voice, not having previously heard her sing anything except Rosalinde. I wouldn't normally expect to hear an Arabella and a Komponist take on the Brentano Lieder — usually Zerbinetta territory — but what a luxury to hear them given such sumptuous voice.

Serendipity

In the same shop as the Julia Varady CD, just as I was about to leave, I spotted something I'd missed the first time — Cheryl Barker's disc of Puccini arias. For $10. I practically skipped out of the shop. And it is heavenly, as it would have to be. She covers every opera except (and fair enough) Fanciulla — Le villi and Edgar through to Turandot, and a couple of songs at the end for good measure. She makes me a million times more interested in Butterfly than I ever have been, she's a drop dead gorgeous Magda and her Liu is perfection. She's vulnerable, delicate; and just when you think she might be about to overreach herself vocally, her voice does the opposite and simply blooms. So we will overlook the fact that the title of this disc appears to be "Puccini = Passion".

More of the same

And today in an op shop I found a copy of the famous Baz Luhrmann La bohème with Cheryl and David Hobson on VHS. Yes, VHS, but I do still have a player. And it was $2. Who would say no?

Maria

Several years ago, Cecilia Bartoli's Chanson d'amour introduced me fleetingly to Pauline Viardot Garcia, a woman who has fascinated me ever since. However, it seems that all along, it was Pauline's big sister that Cecilia really had her eye on. Her new recital disc, Maria, pays tribute to nineteenth century mezzo/soprano superstar Maria Malibran, and marks the culmination of a long time passion and obsession on Cecilia's part. She has even assembled a travelling Malibran museum, so I understand; the large format special edition of Maria comes packaged with a catalogue of her collection.

Even those who can't stand her would surely have to concede that Cecilia is, if nothing else, unique. Eccentric, too. These adjectives work both ways; but for those of us who adore her, they're the reason we do adore her. She has the imagination to conceive of her off the wall projects, the commitment and the clout to see them through, and the innate musicality to do them justice on record. Her ventures into obscure repertoire might sometimes come in gimmicky packaging — the photos in the notes for Maria are, I admit, quite hilarious — but her musical inquisitiveness is genuine. Her singing will never be universally swooned over, but it is special and distinctive enough always to be swooned over somewhere.

I fell in love with Cecilia for the first time when I was nine years old. I fell for her the second time when I was eighteen and opera was moving out of the background and taking over my life — at the birth of that passion, she was my first diva obsession. I was irrationally, overwhelmingly enchanted, and every note which dropped from her lips was perfection to me. And I loved her for her personality too. She was charming, adorable, sincere and sweet. In our household she was christened, on more than one occasion, The Best Person in the World — an epithet generally reserved for Lucia Popp. But you know, things change. I kept loving Cecilia but became a little less irrational about her singing. I began to understand a few of the negative comments. As a person, I've never stopped loving her; but recently I've not been so fond of her singing. I listened to Opera Proibita and I gave it a rave review. It deserved all that I wrote, but some of it sprang from loyalty rather than actual musical response. Dr B. put it best — "spectacular but cold". I think I've felt the same; since that review I've not heard it more than a handful of times. Troubling as it was, I'd come to feel that her present day voice just wasn't any longer one I could feel that fervent diva worship love for. I still loved her, but I was sticking with the past and not the future. News reached me occasionally of her progress into soprano repertoire and, despite enthusiastic reviews, it didn't warm my heart; this wasn't my Cecilia anymore, and I didn't feel that old "I wish I'd heard her sing that" sting.

Until Maria. She is back, my Cecilia, and I am happier to see her than I can express. Is it a change in her, or in me? Both? The repertoire perhaps. Her Vivaldi album was brilliant, the Salieri impressive if occasionally a bit abrasive. But of all her rarities discs, not one has excited or touched me as Maria has. Her return to bel canto marks the return to my heart of the Cecilia I fell in love with — both the first time and the second. Her infectious joy in singing, her perception and insight and, yes, her VOICE. I thought I'd lost it, or at least my love for it, for good. But it is back, if indeed it ever left — and even the recordings which earlier didn't appeal are woven into the spell.

The disc itself is bursting with treasures and pleasures. Comedy, tragedy, novelty songs and prayers. Rarities and world premiere recordings are mingled with cornerstones of bel canto. In Hummel's "Air à la Tirolienne avec variations" she yodels; in Garcia's flamenco filled "Yo que soy contrabandista" she shows off her flamboyant Spanish side. There is a "Rataplan" by Malibran herself in which those characteristic rolled "rrrr"s, familiar to fans and un-fans alike, are even further exaggerated, to an extent either irritating or completely engaging, depending which side you take. Even in my darkest, doubting days, I could never deny that nobody expresses utter joy quite like Cecilia — here, you can hear without out a doubt how totally thrilled she is to be singing what she's singing, and if you've any kind of a heart, that feeling will rub off. The same goes for the recital's serious moments. Her "Ah, non credea mirarti" is one of the most moving I have heard, sung with a pure, limpid sadness and no lachrymose overacting, a quality which makes the joyous cabaletta all the more meaningful. The scena from Pacini's Irene which opens the CD is a tour de force on the level of her stunning early Rossini recordings, bright-toned, mellifluous and captivating, with a resonant lower register, gleaming top and cascading coloratura — no machine-gun here, believe me.

In Malibran's footsteps, she fearlessly tackles music for mezzo and for soprano and sails through beautifully. The selections which gave me pause on first seeing the tracklist — Amina's aria, Elvira's "O rendetemi la speme...Vien, diletto" and yes, even her eerily hushed "Casta diva" — removed all my doubts the moment I heard them and left me quite breathless with joy. Are all her renditions typical? Of course they're not, but then, when has anything about Cecilia ever been typical?

From start to finish I am utterly taken with this CD. It's one thing to adore an unusual recording by a singer whose every note you already worship on principle; another to have adoration re-awakened by that recording. Maria is a magical creation. And this time when I say it, it's not just loyalty and affection which speak, but a passionate response on every level, both personal and musical. There is nobody like Cecilia, and nobody else who could (or would) have thought of this, let alone brought it to such glorious fruition. For that she should at the very least be commended and admired; but more importantly, she should be heard. The concept is attractive, but its execution is what really matters — and it's magnificent.

Hansel and Gretel / The Carmelites

Notes on two more Chandos Opera in English releases.

Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel is not an opera I can claim huge familiarity with. And yet, with all the folk tunes it incorporates, it's hard not to at least recognise parts of it. This recording has quite a bit going for it — Charles Mackerras conducting, for one thing, which is always a good thing; and a pretty starry cast, including Jennifer Larmore as Hansel, Rosalind Plowright as the Mother and a rather lovely cameo from Diana Montague as the Sandman. There are those who'd question the need for German opera auf Englisch, but then an opera such as this surely benefits from being made as accessible as possible. That said, I can't help thinking that the folksongs at least probably do sound a bit more appealing in their native tongue, which is so much better than ours at cutesy diminutives and nonsense rhymes.

There's attractive singing all round here, but in the case of the children, it has to be said, a little too grown up and polished. Jennifer is an experienced Hansel and a master of the pants role, it's true, but I've always felt her voice in such roles was more man than boy — she's a better Sesto than a Cherubino, and her Cesare is superior to both. She sings beautifully, even if without quite the incredible radiance of a few years ago, but is only occasionally truly convincing; the role also emphasises her slightly bothersome tendency to over-enunciate her final consonants. Rebecca Evans is sweet enough as Gretel, but again, she sounds too much like a sensible grown up. Robert Hayward is jocular in a generic sort of a way, while Rosalind Plowright is spot-on as their frazzled mother Gertrude. I was interested to see that the Mother here is a slightly more sympathetic character than the one I'm used to — it's true she allows her children to wander into a dangerous forest but at least she doesn't actually send them out there specifically to get rid of them. As is no doubt always the case, the Witch steals the show. Jane Henschel puts on a brilliant show, terrifying as she shrieks her spells but with enough beauty of tone when she sings straight to add a sort of dangerous sophistication to her evil deeds. Diana Montague, as I've mentioned, puts in a characteristically excellent appearance as the Sandman; but the vocal highlight of this Hansel and Gretel is undoubtedly the enchanting Sarah Tynan as the Dew Fairy, whose gossamer aria gives the recording its moment of purest magic.

The Philharmonia Orchestra, which can be a bit on the nondescript side under house conductor David Parry, displays a bit more verve and awareness under Sir Charles — the atmosphere of slightly frightening enchantment in the forest scenes is especially well captured. However, I suspect this is an opera which really needs to be seen as well as heard, and which perhaps more vivid performances from its singers in a live situation. Musically it's relatively satisfying, but it lacks a certain exuberance which you might expect from an opera so full of children and magical characters. It's also not, if I'm honest, in a style which I'm ever likely to find hugely engaging.

Whereas Poulenc's The Carmelites (its Opera in English title omits mentions of any Dialogues) is in quite the opposite situation. Despite the fact that he only wrote three of them, Poulenc remains one of my favouritest composers of opera. La voix humaine is among the pieces of music closest to my heart. And while The Carmelites deals with vastly different subject matter and in a very different way, there is nevertheless a recognisable musical language which the two share — moments which, though I don't know The Carmelites nearly so well as La voix humaine, make me feel I'm in familiar surroundings.

Poulenc was very much in favour of his operas being performed in the vernacular. The translation here works particularly well, with none of those obviously twisted phrases or unidiomatic expressions which remind you you're not hearing the original words. Unsurprising, then, that it's by Joseph Machlis, also responsible for the excellent translation of La voix humaine which Opera Australia used in 2005.

For Chandos, Paul Daniel conducts the English National Opera Orchestra and a very strong cast in an absolutely riveting performance. Among them is none other than the incomparable Josephine Barstow, a moving Mother Marie; I think she is actually in better voice here than she was for Gloriana, recorded back in 1992. Felicity Palmer is gut-wrenching as Madame de Croissy, throwing herself into the role — and the death scene in particular — with unsettling vigour. Her death rattle is realistic enough to make one feel vaguely voyeuristic; and the shadow of her electrifying Prioress hangs over the opera long after she herself has died.

Blanche de la Force is Catrin Wyn Davies, a somewhat surprising casting choice — her rather dark toned, earthy soprano is hardly immediately suggestive of a nervy, neurotic girl such as Blanche. This disadvantage becomes rather less as the opera progresses, however, as Blanche's own fortitude grows, and ultimately she delivers an expressive and persuasive performance. Once again, though, it is Sarah Tynan who is the opera's stand out performer. As Sister Constance she is utterly beautiful, by turns frivolous, playful and genuinely touching. Her singing is unfailingly gorgeous, sweet and bright but with a real backbone to it, no saccharine mannerisms or overacting. Elsewhere, casting is strong across the board; particular kudos to the chorus of Nuns, whose solemn and transcendent singing is ideal.

You could say that The Carmelites hinges on that final scene. Here it is managed with chilling panache, building to a point of excruciating intensity as the blade falls faster and faster, before falling away into beatific peace. Daniels draws all his orchestral and vocal forces together to create a scene both hard to bear and eerily beautiful — a description which could in fact be applied to the recording as a whole. Quite stunning actually; a definite recommendation from me.

Jennifer Larmore — Great Operatic Arias

It's my birthday today, and I'm taking myself to the opera to see Cheryl to celebrate. But the best present of all came a couple of weeks ago in fact, when Chandos very kindly sent review copies my way of several new Opera in English releases. I could hardly imagine a selection better suited to my tastes — two Jennifer Larmore recordings (a recital disc and Hansel & Gretel), a Poulenc opera (The Carmelites) and, double joy, a Janacek opera starring Cheryl (The Makropulos Case). I'm beginning with Jennifer's Great Operatic Arias. More to follow.

The working title for this CD was apparently The Best of Both Worlds. It might also have been titled Jennifer Larmore: Look What Else I Can Do! This is no English-language rehash of previous recitals; rather, it's Jennifer in a selection of often surprising operatic repertoire, which just happens to be sung in English. The first surprise — half the selections are soprano repertoire, whence the working title. Among her mezzo arias, too, there are a few familiar Jennifer selections but also some unexpected choices.

The Princesse's de Bouillon's aria ("Star of the Evening", or "O vagabonda stella") is not something I was at all familiar with, but it certainly makes for an electrifying beginning. Forget refined Baroque Jennifer, here she bares her sharp verismo teeth. They come out again a few tracks later, too, with the brilliantly venomous duet "Love like mine is the light of creation" ("L'amo come il fulgor del creator") from La Gioconda, both she and her rival (soprano Susan Patterson) in excellent form. But is in bel canto that Jennifer is really beyond reproach. Leonora's "O my beloved" ("O mio Fernando") from La favorita, is an ideal showcase for the contours and colours of her darkening voice. Even better is her "Tell me, my beating heart" ("Di tanti palpiti", from Rossini's Tancredi). I have always loved Jennifer best in Rossini, and this is no exception, her singing at once fluid and dazzlingly precise. Marginally less successful is Elvira's "That ungrateful man betrayed me" ("Mi tradi"), which is ferociously sung but a little thin up top.

There is Verdi here too, another surprise. She sings "Fierce flames are raging" ("Stride la vampa") and "O hated gift" ("O don fatale") with remarkable power. This is not the sort of repertoire I ever expected to hear Jennifer in it, but she's rather persuasive. And Wagner! In one of only two pants role arias on the CD, she gives us, of all things, "Where was I?" ("Wo war ich?") from Rienzi, a passionate and lyrical thrill. Returning to slightly more familiar territory, she is a moving Adalgisa to Susan Patterson's Norma; their duet is a little on the heavy side, but still beautiful. The disc ends, oddly enough, with Juliette's Waltz Song. I did come across this aria in an anthology for mezzo soprano once, so perhaps there is a precedent here. In any case, she sings this superbly. Vocally she doesn't at all resemble a fourteen year old girl; but musically she is impeccable.

I cannot claim this is my favourite of Jennifer's solo releases, but I'm certainly impressed. It's an ambitious programme — can there be any other solo recital disc which begins with the Princesse de Bouillon and ends with Gounod's Juliette? — but Jennifer is Jennifer, and she pulls it off. Not all of this repertoire is ideally suited to her, but then that's sort of the point — when Jennifer strays, she does it in style.

Surfeit

 

The bad news: one of the city's major music retailers (not the one I work for, Gott sei Dank) has brutally halved its already patchy classical section. The good news: as a result of this clearance, I bought all the above (plus one) for less than $150. At their original prices, that's about $400 worth of CDs. So of course now, I can't help but gloat. Indulge me as I parade my pretty new children.

Maria Bayo — Canciones espanolas. I have a vaguely troubled relationship with Maria. I adore her Chants d'Auvergne, was disappointed by her Handel and couldn't abide her weak and watery Amenaide in Rossini's Tancredi on film. But I suspected this kind of repertoire would suit her as magically as the Canteloube and sure enough, it does. I'm again enchanted. Sunshiney and delicious.

Juan Diego Florez — Sentimiento Latino. Utterly utterly irresistible. Crossover? If it is, then I'm happy for him to do all the crossing he likes. Dangerously catchy, this — but then, who wouldn't want this in their head all day? Is there no limit to the gorgeousness this boy can produce?

Victoria de los Angeles — "The Modest Prima Donna". I have to confess that, to my unending shame, I don't know Victoria nearly as well as I ought. However, this CD helps a lot. Everything she sings is just so right. And I think of her as being small, sweet and pretty but there are some astonishing reserves of power in this voice too.

Rossini — La Cenerentola (Carlo Rizzi). Two words: Jennifer Larmore. Dazzling always, and especially in Rossini. There was a time when I'd accept nobody but Cecilia as Angiolina, but times have changed and there's room enough in my heart for both of them now. (Not to mention Glorious Joyce.) It does help, though, that this is the issue with a nice, innocuous painting on the cover — not the one which had Jennifer posing in her rival's costume.

Mario del Monaco — Great Tenor Arias.
Giuseppe Di Stefano — Operatic Recital.
Rolando Villazon — Italian Opera Arias.
Three tenors. My horizons are broadening. Of the three I think perhaps Mario is my favourite; there is something wonderfully decadent about basking in so much voice. Giuseppe is a bit quieter and less lavish. Very Italian and yet my favourite tracks are all the French ones — "En fermant les yeux" is perfectly floaty and dreamlike and "Salut! Demeure chaste et pure" make me care more about Gounod's Faust than I ever have before. Rolando always surprises me — he's sweeter here than I expected. Quite a vibrato, but it's rather appealing most of the time. I especially like his Donizetti.

Anna Netrebko — Violetta. It's all about the packaging. This is actually just a highlights disc of the now almost legendary Salzburg Traviata — but the more Netrebko-centric a thing is, the more it will sell, and so it's called Violetta and features Anya looking sinful on the cover. And why not? I go back and forth still about Anna — and the interviews making the rounds at the moment don't help — but here she is magnificent without question. Thomas Hampson bothers me far less than usual when I don't have to look at him. Rolando is excellent again but it's inevitably Anna's show and she rises to the occasion with what must be one of the classiest and most exciting of her performances on record.

Mozart — Messe en ut mineur (Emmanuel Krivine). 2007 seems to have become, among other things, my Year of the Mass in C Minor. I've bought two recordings, listened to several others, and I'll hear it at the Opera House three times next month. I'm not sure about this. It's all very crisp and precise, which is a positive attribute to a certain extent but occasionally comes across as a bit soulless and clinical — military almost. It's all relatively Mozartean but not very spiritual. However, it does offer a radiant Sandrine Piau as Soprano I. Soprano II Anne-Lise Sollied, on the other hand, is listenable but far from amazing. Accentus are in fine form though they tend to overshadow the orchestra when they get going.

Renata Tebaldi — The Best of Tebaldi. Just as the title suggests, Renata at her best. Beautiful golden Renata in beautiful golden repertoire. Just quietly: I think I sigh over her "Si, mi chiamano Mimi" even more than I do over Mirella's. And I have always been in love with her Liu — her "Tu che di gel sei cinta" gets to me every time, as I simultaneously swoon over Renata and rail against that insensitive idiot Calaf for ruining her life.

Inessa Galante — Heroines. Bought mostly out of curiosity. This is an enjoyable enough recital, though I doubt she's destined to become one of the loves of my life. Most of it is pretty standard soprano fare — "Caro nome", "Io son l'umile ancella" and a Jewel Song in some the weirdest French I've ever heard from a singer. The highlight for me is the Russian repertoire — one selection from Tchaikovsky's Pique Dame and two from Rimsky-Korsakov's The Snow Maiden. They're familiar to me from Anna's fabulous Russian Album but Inessa makes for an interesting contrast — her voice is lighter than Anna's, with a bit more silver in it, and somehow more friendly.

Barbara Bonney — Im chambre séparée: The Operetta Album. Perfection. I've said so before. I re-discovered this CD a few months and now I own it and it's still just as adorable and perfect as I thought. By singing these arias with piano instead of orchestra, she's removed the schmaltz and kept the sparkle; and because she's not competing to be heard, her voice in its full bloom is on delightful display.

Barbara Bonney — On Angels' Wings. More Barbara, this time a double disc "best of" compilation . I needed this. Not just because she's Barbara and she's beautiful, but because most of what's on this CD I don't own in any other form. Most of the Barbara I listened to back home belonged to either my father or the library. And then there's music on this compilation which I've never even heard before. Her "Exsultate, jubilate", for instance, is a treasure; not to mention the excerpts from her Susanna, her Zerlina, her Servilia and her Pamina. And Strauss Lieder. All of it bliss. I adore Barbara — I'm so glad she's back.

Handel — Clori, Tirsi e Fileno / Apolle e Dafne. Actually I've only listened to Clori, Tirsi e Fileno so far, but that's reason enough to own this because it contains the incomparable Lorraine Hunt Lieberson. She's singing as a soprano and she is mindbendingly exquisite. Transcendent is such an obvious word to use for Lorraine but it's true, and so here it is — she's transcendent here, elevating a slightly silly pastoral to a thing of such beauty and sincerity you'd swear it must have a deeper meaning lurking somewhere.

Felicity Lott — Sings Schumann and Mélodies sur des poèmes de Victor Hugo. It was always going to happen. I am learning to love my bête noire. I knew, deep down, that one day I would. Especially since an experience a few months ago, when I walked into a classical music store and they were playing something which stopped me in my tracks. I thought, this is actually the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in all my life. And it was Felicity Lott singing Reynaldo Hahn. So I when I saw these two CDs on sale I decided it was time. The Schumann is lovely, though the darker moments of Liederkreis probably do really need a male voice to do them justice. The real revelation, not surprisingly, is the disc of French songs. It's a couple of decades old, and she's in ravishing voice. The repertoire helps as well — I could just about re-title this Felicity Lott Sings MY Favourite French Songs. Gounod's "Sérénade", Fauré's "Le papillon et la fleur" and Bizet's "Les adieux de l'hotesse arabe" are all among the mélodies I love best. Alongside the favourites are songs I've never heard before — Bizet's  florid and fabulous "Guitare" and Wagner's "L'attente" which, weirdly enough, is the shortest track on the disc. Both CDs are excellent but this French recital is the real tour de force — if Felicity is now to be friend rather than foe, I couldn't have chosen a better starting point.

New

I don't seem to be posting much lately. That's at least in part because I've been posting far too much on my other blog — an over-thought series dissecting Streetcar in the run up to opening night. However I need variety, so here I am. (Besides which, Typepad has apparently broken said blog. The address still works but I can't post to it. So far the helpdesk's only solution was the helpful offer to delete the blog. Awaiting further assistance.) Not much posting, as I say; but plenty of shopping. Two sprees. Among them, the following.

Natalie Dessay — Vocalises. This had been the only one of Natalie's solo discs I didn't own. I've never really felt too terribly compelled to buy it, because the whole concept seems to sort of defeat the purpose of Natalie. She's not just a pretty voice. However, I heard an excerpt from her Proch variations and realised I needed this CD in order to maintain a full and happy existence; and then I found it secondhand for ten dollars. So much the better. It's brilliant, and I was wrong. It doesn't defeat the purpose of Natalie. Natalie is multipurposed. She's all kinds of spectacular. And while I love to hear her act, I also love to hear her just fly brilliantly through all kinds of ridiculous coloratura, which is what much of this CD is about. The Proch variations, as mentioned, are a particular delight, especially when she uses a bit of Lucia as one of her ornaments. The disc covers both kinds of vocalise — those designed to show off agility and high notes, and those designed to celebrate vocal beauty. Ravel's Vocalise en forme de habanera is delicately spun and wonderful.

Lucia Popp — Slavonic Opera Arias. One of the great tragedies of my move to Australia was that none of "my" Lucia Popp CDs were actually mine. I had to leave them all at home with their rightful owner, and so now I find myself utterly bereft of my beloved operatic mother. I did manage to pick up her Operetta Arias a while ago, thank god and now — thanks again to EMI Red Line — I have her Slavonic arias. Another recital to sell one's soul or first-born for. At least that's what I would say if it didn't feel a little odd to speak of one's mother in such passionate terms. Every time I look at the tracklist for this CD, I think I don't know anything on it except Rusalka's Song to the Moon and Tatyana's Letter scene and probably something from The Bartered Bride. Then I play it and realise that in fact I know every moment. My knowledge of the Slavonic repertoire is, shall we say, not vast — but because of Lucia, there are at least these ten arias which are old friends.

Richard Strauss — Récital de Lieder. French title because it's from EMI France. I bought this for two reasons. One, I wanted to hear Margaret Price, who sings the first seventeen songs. I've never really given Margaret much thought one way or the other, but then I read an interview with Sandrine Piau in which la belle Sandrine named Margaret Price among her absolute idols.  Which surprised me, so I thought she was worth a try. And she probably is, but not on this CD. Strauss Lieder are the best thing ever (or almost) but her performance here is just a bit laboured and plain for me. However, the second reason paid off much better. Tracks eighteen to twenty-nine are Lucia Popp. I'd no idea this recording existed. Now she makes Strauss Lieder sound the way I want them. Magical.

Don Giovanni — Hans Rosbaud, Orchestre de la Société ds Concerts du Conservatoire. Mono recording from the late fifties. It came doubled with a Figaro which I haven't listened to yet. Honestly, it's a pretty average, plodding kind of Don Giovanni. But it comes with a few rather special performances. Lovely Suzanne Danco is a surprisingly full and fascinating Elvira. Nicolai Gedda is my kind of Ottavio. Teresa Stich-Randall is weird as Donna Anna. And an especial treat — Anna Moffo, at her magnetic best, as a delicious Zerlina.

Mitridate, re di Ponto — Christophe Rousset, Les Talens Lyriques. Allow me to cast my mind back. I have wanted this recording for...five years? About that. Originally I wanted it because I was an aspiring Cecilia Bartoli completist. I was also, however, a miser and this set is invariably overpriced. So I never bought it. But it has continued to hover in the background. As the years have passed, it seems, the cast of this Mitridate has, one by one, entered my life. So that now, alongside Cecilia are three more singers I adore. Natalie. Sandrine. And Juan Diego. Oh my. Obviously it was meant for me. And then I contrived (shan't tell how) to buy it new at a highly reasonable price; more like what you might expect to pay for a single CD. So, is it worth the wait? Yes and no. I'm ambivalent about Cecilia here. I prefer her in true mezzo territory and Sifare is soprano castrato stuff. Natalie is MAGNIFICENT. Of course she is. Natalie is Natalie. Sandrine is as crystalline and perfect as she always is. And Juan Diego? Juan Diego manages to be more beautiful in a few lines of functional recitative than just about anything else in the opera. No wonder his aria, which could easily be cut (and I think mostly is cut) is left in. I'm more and more his swooning, sighing fan. Naturally I am emerald with jealousy at all those who have seen the La fille du régiment which Natalie and Juan Diego have been doing all over the place. It isn't fair.

Orphée aux enfers — Marc Minkowski, Orchestre de l'Opéra National de Lyon. Speaking of ridiculously starry casts, how's this one. Natalie Dessay. Patricia Petibon. Véronique Gens. Ewa Podles. All together in one opera. Which turns out to be unbelievably hilarious. When the overture is followed immediately by Ewa Podles declaiming melodramatically in French, you know you've discovered a Very Good Thing. Natalie is Eurydice is just so wonderful it hurts. I never expected to hear Véronique sing Offenbach but of course, being Véronique, she's by definition ideal. Patricia Petibon was of course born to sing Cupid. She does so in the serious Gluck Orphée as well. But it's not just the presence of four of my girls which makes this recording is utterly brilliant. It's all fantastic. The cast, the conducting, the opera itself. The quotes from Monteverdi and Gluck are priceless. It's my new favourite thing. Well, perhaps second favourite — there is a DVD as well which I want to own yesterday.

There's more to come but I have to listen to them first. A Sinopoli Ariadne auf Naxos with dream cast — Deborah Voigt, Anne Sofie von Otter and Natalie. And Lucie de Lammermoor with — surprise! — Natalie. The eagle-eyed may notice a pattern emerging. Lately I'm crazier about Natalie than ever before. So crazy I'm not even going to start writing about her tonight because I really will never stop and it's almost bedtime.

Floridante

Generally I tend to think the plot of an opera matters quite a lot. Even if it's stupid (and I don't necessarily think operatic plots are as frequently or extravagantly stupid as people sometimes make out) I do think it's important to know, at least roughly, what's going on. If some gorgeous singer is up there emoting his or her heart out, one ought to know what it's all about. But then I come across something like Handel's Floridante, and I wonder. I have, at last, made it all the way through the synopsis and so I think I vaguely know what happens now. But I only did so just this evening — whereas I've spent the last couple of weeks falling in love with the opera, oblivious to its bizarre intricacies of plot. I think with Handel, though, this is something you can get away with. The arias aren't about advancing the plot — they're about the expression of a given emotion. So you can comprehend and appreciate them while remaining all but clueless about the plot. In this way, I prevent myself from feeling guilty. It's not just a case "aren't they pretty sounds, who cares what they mean". I know what they mean. Handel makes sure we can hear what they mean. I just don't necessarily know how they fit into the mindboggling mess that is Floridante — prisons, poison, a Persian satrap, everyone in disguise, children swapped at birth, star-crossed lovers, treason, state politics and (almost) incest.

As I say — this is music well worth falling love with. I know I have. How is that I've been oblivious until now to the existence of Alan Curtis? You would think I'd have found him years ago and yet, no. But now I have discovered him and he's clearly a man after my own heart. This whole opera just bursts with baroque exquisiteness, it's Handel the way I dream of hearing it. Even at this stage of the Handel renaissance, Floridante remains a bit of an obscurity. This is its first full recording. It doesn't contain any of the big hits which show up on every second Handel Arias recital disc. So why does it sound so familiar. Partly, I suppose, because it's Handel, and Handel does always sound like himself. The arias follow familiar forms. We know what kind of accompaniment signals a storm metaphor, we know when someone's about to compare themselves to a bird and so on and so on. Still I don't think that's the whole explanation. I think there's something in Alan Curtis' approach which makes this opera seem like such an old, adored friend. He gives it such grandeur and such brilliance it simply doesn't seem possible that an opera like this could have languished in oblivion. Sometimes when you hear an obscurity, you can't help but think — there's a reason this is obscure. Not so here. It's not likely Floridante will enter the standard repertory any time soon. Of course it won't, and that's probably fair. But this recording could make you believe, for three hours at least, that it should.

And then there's Joyce. Have I mentioned lately how mad I am about Joyce DiDonato? Yes? Well there's more to come. Here she sings Elmira who, despite the title, is the real star of the opera. And not just because she's sung by Joyce, although that helps. A lot. I feel as if every single time I listen to Joyce sing, I hear something new to adore. With this recording, she has become one of those singers — the ones who make me sigh their name every few minutes while they're singing. The shimmer and sparkle and unearthly lightness in her voice take my breath away. I've known from the start that she was superb in Handel — the first time I heard her was her operatic duets with Patrizia Ciofi. What's special, though, is her adaptability within that repertoire. With Patrizia, she took all the male parts. Soldiers and princes. And was thoroughly persuasive throughout. Now as Elmira it's she who is the beleaguered heroine and she's just as vivid and just as beautiful, in an audibly different way — retaining all the mezzo richness and not a trace of the machismo. Her voice goes all the way from a deep golden lower register to a fairy floss top, seamless and agile and, well, just lovely. I think she's wonderful. This you can probably tell.

Enthralled as I am, I nevertheless have noticed the rest of the cast. They're hard to miss in fact. The impossible to type Marijana Mijanovic is excellent in the title role — a proper boyish contralto to match Joyce's pretty mezzo. She has the only two arias I recognised. "Bramo te sola" and "Se dolce m'era gia" both triggered my memory immediately. I knew I'd heard them somewhere but couldn't think where until I started mentally scanning my CD collection for Handel contraltos. Not Ewa. Nathalie! Both arias appear on Natalie Stutzmann's Handel disc, which I'd only listened to a few times — but Handel tends to stick with me, it seems. Sharon Rostorf-Zamir is our seconda donna, the adorable Rossane. Her pretty, fluttery sound took a little time to grow on me, but only a little. I don't know that it's a voice I would love in everything, and I wouldn't necessarily recognise it in a crowd, but for this role she's just the right choice. Roberta Invernizzi as Timante I liked straight away, but sadly she gets very little to sing. Vito Priante is brings nobility edged with lechery to the seriously badly behaved king Oronte. Oronte is the Woody Allen of Persia, creating all kinds of turmoil and trauma by attempting to marry his own adopted daughter. She, understandably enough, wants none of it — especially as he makes his move while she still thinks he's her biological father. Not clever. But Priante's singing makes him at least compelling, if not at all sympathetic.

I would like to create the illusion of credibility and impartiality by finding something to criticise about this Floridante, but I just can't. Maybe after I've lived with it a few months, or years, a flaw or two might emerge. This does happen sometimes with the things I fall in desperate love at first note with. For the moment though, there's nothing. I just love it, every moment of it.

Dreamgirls

Louis Langrée's recording of Mozart's Mass in C minor is gorgeously inspired. Clean and elegant and wholly idiomatic; tangible urgency balanced and illuminated by beautiful precision. Le Concert d'Astrée is sounding just magnificent; though of course they would anyway. I've known this Mass in pieces but haven't owned a recording until now. I love it. And there's no original way left of declaring one's desperate love for Mozart so I probably shouldn't try. The point is not so much that I love him — that's a given — but rather that this recording reminds me of that every few seconds. Generally a good sign. But wait, there's more. This isn't just fantastic Mozart. It's fantastic Mozart with Natalie Dessay. But no,that's still not the end of it. It's fantastic Mozart with Natalie Dessay and Véronique Gens.

That sound you hear is my cup of joy as it runneth over. Natalie and Véronique. Both of them. And in duet. There's nothing better. Especially since both women are (as usual) in outrageously ravishing voice. It's wonderful to hear Natalie given a chance to sing music which explores her enchanting middle and lower registers — further proof that her magic is not exclusive to the stratosphere. Véronique is her usual flawless and quietly astounding self. Here, as in absolutely every other facet of her repertoire she is totally ideal. Besides which her voice just might have actually gained in sheer sonic loveliness since her last recording, which I wouldn't have thought humanly possible. Together they're a desperately perfect pair — not just in terms of my own personal wish fulfilment but in terms of Mozartian excellence as well.

Can there be even more to celebrate? Of course. I bought the special edition, which includes a 56 minute DVD of the recording sessions. Natalie is charming and slightly mad. The filmmaker is evidently fascinated with her, zooming in on her eyes and her mouth as she speaks. She reads from Mozart's letters and discusses singing sacred music as a non-Christian. I thought maybe I couldn't get any more smitten but every word makes me love her a little bit more. Louis Langrée is totally engaging in his enthusiasm— and conducts the whole thing with a broken arm. I think I expected Véronique to be slightly intimidating and Parisienne but in fact she's just totally normal and sweet — and then sings like that.

Were I better behaved, I would finish now with some suitably sweeping bit of praise for the recording as a whole, for its interpretative insight and aural glory. That's all there. But I have to be my shameless self — I would love it anyway, but what pushes me into bliss is unquestionably Sopranos I and II. You'd think they organised it with me specifically in mind — another triumph for my musical Fairy Godmother. Two triumphs really, because frankly having just one or the other of them would probably have been happiness enough. Both? Heaven. Just don't make me pick a favourite.

As steals the morn

My first introduction to Mark Padmore was via Harmonia Mundi's La clemenza di Tito last year. Among René Jacobs' many virtues is the gorgeous casts assembled for his recordings; this was no exception. I was prepared for a boring, blustery and imperious kind of Tito — and wouldn't necessarily have been disappointed if I'd got one. Because Tito as a character doesn't interest or appeal to me a great deal; all that clemency is difficult to credit. Give me a nice Sesto and/or a gorgeous Vitellia and I'm happy. But Mark's Tito was different. Sung with delicacy and elegance, so adorably beautiful that Tito became a human being  — and one I liked. From the point of view both of character and pure sound, he was no longer just a necessary plot device but a positive pleasure for me. I've remembered that.

Which is why, even though he is, after all, a tenor, I let out a little squeak of excitement when I saw he was releasing a disc of Handel arias. I even thought I'd probably buy it. As it turned out I didn't need to — an occupational perk. I'm happy to say, he has not disappointed me. I've been listening to this CD (beautifully titled As steals the morn...) every day for a week, and I'm a bit in love really. Transfixed might be a better word. His Handel is hypnotic. Technically sound, obviously — that goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. Every theoretical difficulty is in practice effortlessly assailed; one of those occasions where I cease to think of coloratura as coloratura — it's just easily assimilated into the music in its entirety. The sound of his voice is fascinating, full of sweetness but with enough grit to keep things (very) interesting. His "Where'er you walk" is a radiant lullaby and it could make you think that such quiet prettiness was his forte. But he does cheery and bright just as well — the opening aria from Alceste for instance. If his invitation to "Enjoy the sweet Elysian groves" doesn't hook you,  I despair of you. However the centrepiece of this recital, its stunningest moment, comes with the scene from Tamerlano. It's Bajazet's death scene and he actually dies, singing his final speech with the kind of death throes phrasing we expect in verismo but perhaps not so much in Handel, whispering, rasping and choking on poison. In the wrong hands such an approach could just turn into unconvincing excess but he knows how to make it work and the result is spellbinding. 

I've just pulled out a few select highlights. I could have mentioned every track because I love them all. What I love even more though, beyond individual glories, is the mesmerising effect of the whole recital. His singing is surpassingly lovely but it also surpasses lovely;  the softly lit beauty comes with dark shadows too and it's this which makes his performance so beguiling.

Re-Joyce

Apologies, I couldn't resist the cringeworthy pun. Anyway, yes — another post about Joyce DiDonato. Can't be helped. And yet, I'm starting to run out of decent adjectives. It isn't that she leaves me breathless and inarticulate. Rather it's because she doesn't. My response to Joyce is not the incredulous ecstasy which leads me to into diva obsession; it's a quieter, softer kind of happiness. For that, my usual florid hyperbole doesn't seem quite the right note to strike; but words like "lovely" and "wonderful" are too plain and definitely inadequate.

As planned, I brought Joyce's live Wigmore Hall recording home on Monday and have been listening to it all week. Evidently she's a mezzo after my own heart. Her recital has a theme. I love themes. Hers is "A Journey Through Venice" — four song cycles dealing with the city. First of these is Rossini's "La regata veneziana" — the three songs sung by a girl watching her boyfriend in a boat race. Of course she's ideal for Rossini; effervescent and charming, but unaffectedly so — so that all that Italianate enthusiasm comes across quite genuine. Nevertheless it's in the following cycle that she really comes into her own. Michael Head's Three Songs of Venice. Head dedicated them to Janet Baker and though it may just be the power of suggestion, I think you can hear echoes of her voice in what he's written. That's as may be; Joyce takes complete possession of these songs. Her natural warmth is well suited to their tranquil beauty and her diction is quite stunningly clear. In Fauré's Cinq Mélodies de Venise she achieves such a sense of intimacy you'd hardly believe she was performing in a concert hall full of people. Hahn's Venezia allows her to let her hair down, and her sense of humour and colourful singing are irresistible — little wonder the very well behaved audience can't help applauding halfway through the cycle.

After all of which she gives us two encores. Both of them totally unVenetian. Firstly an indescribably exquisite "Cara speme". It seems a little unfair, after she's gone to the trouble of planning her Venice theme, to name the unrelated encore as the recital's greatest moment — but it probably is. As before, she evokes a captivating intimacy — the sense almost that she is singing by herself. But note —that's  by herself, not for herself. A large part of what makes her so engaging is the simple and generous way in which she communicates what she's singing. No overstatement or self indulgence; she trusts her composers and their music, and offers that music up to us, untampered with. Her final encore again draws on that sincerity. Of course seeing as it's  "Non piu mesta" from La Cenerentola it displays a few of her other attributes too — she handles  its coloratura perils fearlessly and imaginatively, the virtuosity underpinned at every turned by a glowing daydream of a voice.

Typical. I said floridity was inappropriate and yet look what I've gone and done. "Glowing daydream of a voice". Well, I'm me after all — no use fighting it. In any case I think the description more or less fits the gradual, happy way she's entered my world. Not in a flash of lightning; not instant insanity. I just love her voice and the way she sings, so I'm glad I found her. And I think I'll probably keep her.

Various

Recital discs

Anna Netrebko is tormenting me slightly. I surrendered to her. Then the Puritani broadcast made me reconsider. Now I've started listening to her Duets with Rolando and I'm back to thinking she's rather wonderful. Maybe she's more comfortable in the studio and with her friend. Also it's better repertoire than Elvira was, mostly. I love the Roméo et Juliette selection; there's something a little odd about the Manon duet — I'm not sure what — but it works all the same. I can't hear the Leila/Nadir duet without also hearing the questionable Opera in English translation, which includes the immortal words "For both our sakes, please go away". Rolando I like more and more all the time. I think there's a sort of old-fashioned appeal to this CD. For lack of a better description, it sounds like opera. Not just opera in the intimate sense we know it but opera as it exists in popular consciousness as well. If that makes any sense. I suspect it doesn't.

Another Deutsche Grammophon project — Elina Garanča's label debut, Aria Cantilena. I own her Mozart arias from Virgin Classics, which I suppose is a few years old now. Her voice has softened and lightened somewhat since then and there are more colours in it too, all positive developments for the moment; only the very top of her voice worries me a little but not in any world shattering sense. The programme here is rather wildly varied — Rossini, Villa-Lobos, Richard Strauss plus some Offenbach and some zarzuela for good measure. It shows her off well for the most part but I think a more focused programme would be even more satisying and do her truer justice. But she's gorgeous. Photogenic, too, it has to be said — you might remember one of the main reasons I bought her Mozart CD was the colour of her eyes; pity the back cover photo of Aria Cantilena makes her look like Gumby.

But the one I really love is Joyce DiDonato's ¡Pasión! Is this really the same woman as sang the swaggering male interest to all Patrizia Ciofi's silvery heroines on their Amor e gelosia? That alluringly dark vein is still there but what this repertoire (all Spanish songs) really capitalises on is the sunshine in her voice. Her love for these songs is obvious and terribly infectious — she transmits all the deliciousness she finds in them while steering clear of self indulgence. It's not a case of listening to her enjoy them — rather she offers them up, simply and beautifully, for us to taste and discover. And fall in love with too.

And in other news

Every now and then I get a definite sign that moving here was a good idea. One came just yesterday.. The Sydney Symphony has announced that when its current chief conductor finishes his term, his replacement (in a modified role) will be — Ashkenazy.

And everyone everywhere seems to have something to say about the Washington Post's Joshua Bell experiment, in all kinds of ways. My favourite response is Jeremy Denk's, hands down; there's also been some brainmeltingly absurd PC ranting which I'm trying to ignore. I shan't try and add anything intellectual to the discussion but I did want to share one tiny little story. A day or two after the article, I served a customer who, as he told me, knew nothing about classical music and had never bought a classical CD in his life. But he was so fascinated by the article he came and bought a Joshua Bell CD so he could understand better what it was all about and find out if this was a musical avenue he felt like pursuing. Make of that what you will.

New toys

One of my semi regular secondhand haunts has laid its hands on what I suspect is part of a deceased estate — almost an entire bookshelf full of CDs, most of them vocal recital discs and most of those by mezzos and sopranos. Yes. You can imagine my glee; and now you can wonder at my superhuman self restraint. I only bought six. They are —

La traviata. Joan Sutherland, Carlo Bergonzi, Robert Merrill; conducted by John Pritchard. This one of the series which Decca re-released last year in their midprice range to celebrate Joanie's 80th. I, however, was too stingy even for that. Ten dollars, on the other hand, I can definitely cope with. Of course it's worth far more. Everything I can say about Joan's Violetta is just stating the obvious. I mean, we're not expecting the kind of shattering credibility of, say, Anna Moffo (still my One True Violetta) or, if she's your cup of tea, Maria Callas. But as a sheer sonic experience this must be unparalleled. It just cannot be possible for one human being to produce so much beauty from within herself; where in the world (or outside of it) does that sound come from? This is bliss. No, it's not hugely involving as drama; but as a transcendent musical experience she's beyond compare. And even when Joanie's not around, it ain't half bad. Bergonzi? Yes, please. And I love Robert Merrill. 

Handel Opera Arias — Nathalie Stutzmann. Handel arias + contralto + Hanover Band = combination I can't resist. I read the tracklisting on the back and figured, there's just no way this can fail. And I was right. She's not someone you'd sell your firstborn to hear, like Ewa Podles, but it's still a thoroughly excellent CD. The programme is suitably varied, a few well known arias alongside slightly more unusual choices and (I always give bonus points for this) no "Ombra mai fu". Interestingly, the second track is "Qui l'augel di pianta in pianta", from Aci, Galatea e Polifermo, which Natalie-without-an-H takes on in her Delirio — but the difference between the two is so vast you'd hardly recognise them as the same aria. All in all, the whole thing's an object lesson in repertoire choice, an interesting and well chosen programme which showcases her perfectly.

Rossini — Marilyn Horne. Well, what more is there to say? Peerless.

Bellini & Verdi Opera Arias — Montserrat Caballé. This is actually the second time I've bought this CD. I picked it up at the Dunedin Public Library sale but years of borrowing had damaged it beyond repair and it played no further than the third track. Like Joanie, a flood of impossibly gorgeous sound to just get lost in. I love Montserrat; I always forget how much until I hear her again. Those inevitably cited pianissimi — there's a reason nobody can mention her without bringing them up, they're heaven. And do you think Desdemona's Willow Song and Ave Maria might just be among the most distressingly beautiful pieces of music ever composed? That scene makes me feel much as the Four Last Songs do — thank god it occured to somebody to tangibly compose what, in some celestial sense, must always have existed. And I don't often feel like that in Italian opera but that scene is something else.

Chant d'amour — Cecilia Bartoli. Another one I already owned, except I didn't really and I've lost it anyway. About time I owned it properly, since I've suggested it may just be my favourite of all Cecilia's solo recordings. Not that I could ever choose just one. This is an amazing CD though, so unlike anything else she's done before or since — and yet, she's so well suited to it. No, perhaps not the most idiomatically French singer in the world but who cares? I don't think anyone conveys sincerity, simplicity and total joy in the way Cecilia can. The three Viardot songs are each of them absolute treasures. Maybe it is my definitive favourite after all; it comes close. She looks gorgeous on the cover too, very serious and française; of course on the back she's wearing one of those huge bows in her hair.

Viennese Operetta Arias — Lucia Popp. I grew up with this CD. To what extent, however, I didn't realise until it began playing. At which point it dawned on me — this CD was my introduction to, and definition of, opera. My beginning. When I was still very small, years before I could have put a name to it, this CD made me aware of the concept of opera. So I find I know this recording in the way one knows a first language; it's just there, too deeply ingrained and essential to recall or even conceive of a beginning. About Lucia herself, I find it hard to say much of any use; she's my operatic mother and you can't listen to family members critically. Still, filial obligation aside, has anyone ever sung anything so perfectly ever in the world ever? Ever?

Delius Songs - Yvonne Kenny

For the first time since I fell, Yvonne has a new solo CD out — a disc of Delius songs on Hyperion. And I tried but failed to find a more normal way to deal with it. So here it is, a track by track celebration.   

Twilight Fancies and Young Venevil both appeared on The Salley Gardens. The versions here are both... what's the word I'm looking for? Oh, that's it — better. They just are. Her diction is better, they make more sense musically, their meaning is clearer. Hidden Love is gorgeous melodrama and the kind of song I might expect her to blur a little in making it as aurally beautiful as possible but it's crystal clear in fact, which is good because there's a story to tell, and she tells it. The Minstrel is among my new favourites. It makes fabulous use of her low low register which is stronger and more thrilling all the time. But what I love most about it is this pair of lines, written by Ibsen and translated by Peter Pears just for me to hear sung by her — "She'd listen to all of my singing / She'd follow me everywhere." Sound like anyone we know? The Bird's Story is perhaps where the normal reviewers start making tactful comments about her upper register but really it's only under the tiniest bit of pressure and any strain is pretty much diffused by her masterful dynamic control. Cradle Song is perfect peace. Ever since the "Wiegenlied" on her Wigmore Hall recital she's my number one singer of the Art Lullaby because she makes them just sound like lullabies sung to actual children. This is no exception, and sits in probably the easiest and most beautiful part of her voice. The Homeward Way has a slightly sappy text but she's sincere enough to mask that and at the same time proves her upper register isn't in quite such peril after all. In the Garden of the Seraglio isn't nearly as Oriental or exotic at you'd think but just her drenched violet "in drowsy air" is evocative enough. Irmelin Rose is a fun little fairytale miniature in which she takes clear delight. A bit of a metallic edge shows itself as the song progresses but it's expressive and quite appropriate really. Il pleure dans mon coeur is the first of four Verlaine settings. Languorous and semi-French, which I don't think is either Delius' forte or hers, but they both of them do quite nicely just the same. Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit is definitely more interesting though it's hard not to hear Fauré's "Prison". She's as expressively alive as ever, even without the latter's big, swelling "Qu'as tu fait". La lune blanche is a bit like "Il pleure" really. These settings if nothing else are nice opportunity to display her still-radiant (in fact maybe more radiant than ever) pianissimi, particularly on her "exquise" which is, indeed, exquise. Chanson d'automne is different from the other three, a bit more of a sway to it. It reminds me a little of Poulenc's "Violon" and in fact there are violins in this text too. Her French diction is limpid and clear; it's also less and less French (though still accurate) with every passing year but this of course is a part of her considerable charm. Summer Eve is a jolly, sunny sort of tune, which succeeds because she keeps things light and simple, sings with warmth but doesn't over-do it (either by taking it too seriously or by making it too cutesy). Longing is a bit unconvincing to be honest — I blame Delius. Too fast for that weary, Mariana kind of yearning but not exciting enough to sound desperate and impassioned either. Those acquired-taste high(ish) notes make another appearance but actually if you listen, it's still a beautiful sound. Sunset  (Delius' is a bit cheerier and less laden with death than Strauss' Abendrot) is another reminder to me of the extraordinary richness of her present day voice. Gold, mahogany, red wine — my kingdom for an original piece of imagery. The nightingale has a lyre of gold is a bright, straightforward, about-birds kind of song, and then at the end she sends a shiver up my spine with "sang / Our hearts and lips together". I-Brasil begins with the single most seductively sung "there's" in the history of recorded music, ends with a shimmeringly piano "away" and in between is the most intoxicating track on the CD. Among her most beautiful moments on record. Summer Landscape is just that, the point being that the colours and shades of her voice describe that landscape better even than the actual text. O schneller, mein Ross — I always love to hear her sing in German — is another of these perfectly balanced moments, semi-operatic ecstasy but which doesn't crush the song's lighthearted spirit. Aus deinen Augen fliessen meine Lieder I'm in love with. Before I'd even heard it to the end I felt it had always been in my life. So white, so soft, so sweet is she is terribly, terribly gorgeous — what business has anyone making such an amazing sound on words like "the nard in the fire" and "the bag of the bee"? To Daffodils surprises me every time with its variety and its wealth of opportunities for her to sing in ways that weaken my knees. Love's Philosophy doesn't match Quilter's but comes closer than I used to think; until I heard her sing it, I thought he'd missed the point completely but it seems that impression was down to the singers and not the song — in her hands it's spot-on. Summer Nights comes as the perfect conclusion. Everything I've praised above in one two-and-a-half minute song. Except a perfect conclusion is impossible — I'd rather no conclusion. Time she recorded the other thirty-eight songs he wrote.

My greatest joy in this disc is the radiant simplicity with which she has approached the whole programme, her willingness to scale down her voice and just let the essential, natural beauty of her singing speak for itself. You might say it's the serious, grown up version of The Salley Gardens. And I'd place it among her most musically and intellectually satisfying albums. Maybe that's because unlike The Salley Gardens and others, this isn't an ABC Classics "Australia's Favourite Soprano" venture. It's centred on the composer instead; she's there to serve him, functioning purely as an artist rather than an image or an icon. Which isn't to say her ABC recitals lack depth; she's incapable of anything but complete commitment. But this disc proves she doesn't need to be packaged like a star to shine like one. Shine she does; and for me she's the sun.

La clemenza di Tito

I just know I'm about to start repeating myself. A while back I wrote about Harmonia Mundi's pretty special La clemenza di Tito, led by the ever-brilliant René Jacobs. Now I've gone and bought myself the DG Tito which came out at around the same time — Charles Mackerras with the Scottish Chamber Orchestra and Magdalena Kozena in the lead. And I wonder how many original things there are to say at this point about a new(ish) Clemenza. Words like revelatory inevitably arise, but I think perhaps we're past all that and can just accept that, while it ain't Cosi or Die Zauberflöte and never will be, is nevertheless just not as boring and dry as we (or I, at least) have been accustomed to suggest. It's Mozart, after all — how dare I be mean to it?

Anyway. Charles Mackerras — who I'll see here in Sydney later this year, conducting Mozart and Strauss — does gorgeous things. This Clemenza lacks the electric energy and urgency of the Jacobs recording, but makes up for it in sheer wallowable beauty. Jacobs gives us surprising Mozart; Mackerras gives us the gloriously familiar version — I'm happy with both. Magdalena as Sesto is... well, she's Magdalena, and I've already made my position clear in this respect: Magdalena Is Perfect. She is. I don't think I'll even try to come up with any other adjectives. Rainer Trost as Tito, however, made me miss Mark Padmore, who sang the role on the Harmonia Mundi recording. Trost is fine, I suppose, but just a bit too strained and one-dimensional for me. Hillevi Martinpelto is the kind of Vitellia I want — suitably dramatic, a little bit nasty, but still Mozartian through and through — but not, I have to say, in a way which I found particularly exciting. Still, I liked her well enough. Christine Rice and Lisa Milne as Annio and Servilia respectively are both them pretty much ideally cast. Christine's Annio is a nice vocal complement to Magdalena, the voices (which aren't too dissimilar) blending beautifully but always easily distinguishable from one another. Lisa Milne is lovely of course, as she was in the Zauberflöte Met broadcast way back when. And she beats Sunhae Im (Servilia for Harmonia Mundi) hands down, singing with all the requisite sweetness and light but with none of the latter's oddly soubrettish mannerisms. Im, though not without her appeal, made Servilia sound like Zerlina; Lisa, on the other hand, makes her sound like what she is — young and pretty, yes, but also the kind of Roman aristocracy Tito could consider marrying. Oh, and we can't forget the token compliment for Publio. I expect I've said this about every Publio I've heard, and will continue to do so in future, but too bad. Here it is: John Relyea was excellent as Publio. Enough? Probably not, but it will have to do.

When the two recordings of La clemenza di Tito arrived so close together, reviewers seemed to feel obliged to declare one or t'other superior. Me, I declare victory on neither side. Why choose?

Neruda songs

When Lorraine Hunt Lieberson died, the blogosphere was overwhelmingly filled with tributes from every person whose life she had even slightly touched. And indeed it seemed there was nobody whose life she had only slightly touched — anyone who had encountered her voice or her spirit, however briefly, felt it long afterwards and profoundly. I know that every time I listened to her I was in awe of her. Still, when she died I tried to be careful, and not to claim a stronger link than existed. I've always been bothered by the tendency among some, when an artist dies, to only at that point become a follower and a fan, to mourn them with a passion umatched by anything one expressed when that person was alive. No singer should have to die to be adored. So I posted a tribute, a brief one, and I did nothing else. Lorraine Hunt Lieberson was a singer I thought the world of but the truth, after all, is that I owned one CD (her Bach arias) which I only occasionally had the strength to listen to; and had borrowed her Handel arias from the library once, gloried in them for two weeks and then never heard them since. When I signed up to iTunes, I downloaded a track from a much earlier Handel arias disc. Nothing more. She was magnificent but I cannot claim devotion, worthy though she was (and is) of it. It might come, with time, but it would be disingenous — and do her no justice — to manufacture it.

All this is by way of attempting to explain the position from which I come to her recording of her husband's Neruda Songs, which I've listened to for the first time this afternoon. There are different kinds of responses which a work created in these particular personal circumstances might evoke. I know that for some they may prove too much to bear, that for those close to Lorraine (and I suspect you need not ever have met her to feel close to her) the response will be — and rightly so — wholly emotional. And nobody could remain wholly detached; if you knew neither of their names and none of their history until buying this CD, you still could not fail to grasp the beauty and the heartbreak of this song cycle.

Still I want to write about these songs as songs too. We can't separate them from their own particular story — but if that story didn't exist, and the songs still did, they would matter just the same, and be just as disarming, just as strikingly beautiful. They would be differently extraordinary but they would, nevertheless, be extraordinary. Lieberson's music sways and glows, languid and peacefully summery without ever becoming lazy or insubstantial. It's underpinned by a radiant and determinedly passionate energy, its emotional world defined positively and fearlessly. The songs are inseparable from their singer — Lorraine is as much their creator as her husband. Her voice of course is of uncommon beauty, incandescent,  and the palette of expression she draws from more varied, more subtly shaded than could be imagined. She is limitless. What makes her performance aoll the more arresting is that everything flows so utterly naturally. There's not a trace of artifice, of calculation or of self-indulgence; she's patently incapable of all three. Text and music are heavy with strong feelings and she expresses every one with complete and exquisite sincerity. To call her ideal for this music is both obvious and inadequate; she simply is this music.

Beauty is beauty is beauty I think. Lorraine created beauty constantly and effortlessly. These songs have a particular kind of emotional weight because she died. Were she still alive, the nature of that weight might be different — but it would be just as heavy, and the songs just as beautiful.

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.

Various

If I gave every CD I ever bought the IanBlogging treatment as below (which I actually wrote a few days ago but hadn't got around to posting) we'd all die of boredom I'm sure. However, a few other new babies (I found a shop with dangerously low prices) worthy of mention...

Juan Diego Florez - Rossini Arias. I am such a fool for good coloratura. Juan Diego's one of these singers now about whom it's impossible to say anything new in praise so I shan't try very hard. But what a gorgeous combination of everything, technique, style, polish, beauty of tone, nothing lacking anywhere. Are you listening, Rockwell Blake? See, it actually is possible to sing this kind of stuff without yelling like that. Try it.

And more Rossini, Cantatas Vol. 2 - Le nozze di Teti/Il pianto d'Armonia. More Juan Diego here too but brilliant as he is, this is all about Cecilia for me. Not that she has anything like enough to sing. Forgive me, I had forgotten a little just how impossibly wonderful she is (was?) in Rossini. And maybe even a little just how gorgeous she is, full stop — all of my Cecilia CDs are still in Dunedin in boxes, it's been too long since I've heard her. Inspired by this I played at work the Erato Mozart Arias disc, compiled from her complete opera recordings with them, and was truly blown away. I own this but haven't heard it for a very very long time; in any case I don't think I'd ever realised just thrillingly she sings her. How can anyone manage to make "Non so piu" sound so spontaneous and new?

A Streetcar Named Desire. Oh yes. It's begun already. I've decided that this was the real cosmic reason behind my sudden Renée conversion during Rodelinda — an act of intervention by the opera gods to ensure I'd be willing and able to purchase the one and only recording of Streetcar available to prepare myself with. After a couple of weeks soaking in it (and it's the kind of languid, hot humid summer music you do soak in) my feelings are mixed. In all honesty I never really cared too much what I made of Previn's music, I just like the idea of an operatic Blanche DuBois, so any opera which gives us that is fine. It could be better, though. It does seem sometimes as if he's just haphazardly applied whatever musical idea came to mind to the next bit of text he had to set, rather than taking particular care to match them. He stretches out and weighs down certain lines and in doing so distorts or destroys their meaning. And I guess the biggest problem is this: he has made the opera absolutely about Blanche, and then miscast her. Now you know I love Renée. I still do. But she's completely wrong for Blanche. All the qualities which are vital to Blanche — fragility, vulnerability, that slightly dark and sordid edge — are qualities which Renée and The Beautiful Voice just cannot express. Blanche also requires a genuine actress and Renée just isn't that.  I don't blame Renée for all this. After all Previn wrote the part with her in mind, and conducts on this recording, so we have to assume that the way she sounds is more or less exactly what Previn wants from his Blanche. But I think, presumptuous as I feel to say it, that he got it wrong. I shall stop myself here, since I still have another eight months in which to bore you to tears with my Streetcar ramblings. Except to say, Elizabeth Futral's Stella is fabulous.

La forza del destino. With Renata Tebaldi, Mario del Monaco, Ettore Bastianini, Giulietta Simionato etc etc. Bought because I craved something genuinely Italian for a change, and oh my, this certainly is that. Deliciously so. Renata is straight from heaven of course. Her gorgeous golden voice seems to have an actual physical presence and weight to it, as if I could reach out and touch the sounds flowing from my speakers. Giulietta Simionato is the best. This is my first Forza by the way and it's brilliant fun, especially all that bizarre Rataplan-ing, which is hilarious. But oh, I think I may have fallen in love with Mario del Monaco...

Ian

I can't help feeling there must be a whole world of tenors out there just waiting to receive the kind of devotion I've so far reserved for female singers. Because Ian Bostridge can't be the only one. Surely. For the moment, however, he is. There are plenty of other boys with gorgeous voices, and voices which appeal to me. But only for Ian do I swoon ...

And maybe for Michael Chance. I'm liveblogging. "The World of Ian Bostridge". And here he is duetting with Michael, who I do in fact adore, mostly on account of his star turn in The Fairy Queen. The sound on that DVD, however, is not the best. Now I can hear him clearly and he's just beautiful; and blending perfectly with wonderful Ian. Oh my. Haunting stuff.

Back to Ian. A change of pace. Stravinsky. The Rake's Progress. I've never actually heard him in opera before. This is brilliant. Delicious and witty, and diction so crystal clear that you don't really notice how clear — you just understand every moment without trying. Even while typing meanderingly as I'm doing.

And now into Bach. "Ich will bei meinem Jesu wachen." You know, just the impossible beauty of tone in this voice would be quite enough, I think, to keep me very happy. But everything else about it is just as wonderfully in place as well. Now, there's no singer in the world who doesn't attract one or two non-fans (Lucia Popp excepted I should think!) and I'm aware that there are those who find little pleasure in Ian Bostridge. How this can be true, however, I can't imagine right now. There's not a moment, mannerism or sound here I can find fault with.

Finzi! This sounds very, well... very Finzi. Lovely; would it be as lovely in other hands? Perhaps, actually. Early 20th century English music is one of those areas I always like more than I think I do. (I got quite ridiculously excited the other day about the Sea Symphony, of all things.) What I'm really hanging out for, however, is the Britten...

... and here it is. "Asleep, my love?" Excellent. Too short. Don't end... gone.

More Stravinsky. Cantata; Ricercar II. Which lasts forever. Never mind. I'll cope. This is dedication, is it not? 11.30 on a Friday evening, listening to some tenor sing Stravinsky and Finzi and (soon) Michael Nyman. Only for you, Ian. Only for you.

Have I combined two different recordings in my mind, or is there really an Idomeneo with Ian and Lorraine Hunt Lieberson? I've checked — there is. I can't imagine what a deeply beautiful combination that must make.

Still with Stravinsky. "Westron Wind" and this time I'm listening to the tenor and not the soprano.

Nyman time. I could get used to this. But at this point it's pretty obvious the music in and of itself is really not my focus tonight... whatever he sings, I'm happy to listen to. This is interesting though, I suppose. Still I think I'd be even happier with more Britten and less Nyman.

Of course this compilation is a few years old and limited to his recordings with Decca. If only we could have some of the Virgin Veritas stuff. That extraordinary disc of English songs which I'm starting to miss tonight. His Bach CD (with the magnificent Fabio Biondi & Europa Galante) lives in my MP3 player thankfully enough.

Over now. I can think of better finishes than the Nyman made; but on the other hand I think it says something special about this man when his "World" opens with Handel and closes with Michael Nyman, having passed through Bach, Stravinsky and Benjamin Britten on its way and all of it sung as fabulously as could be hoped for. Again, I swoon.

An Sylvia

There are several reasons why I want so badly to love Sylvia McNair. When I was first falling for opera, it was via about six singers — Cecilia, Barbara, Kathy, Lucia, Jennifer and Sylvia. I didn't own any CDs; these were the singers my father owned on disc and played for me, and so when I started solo down my own yellow brick road of fanaticism, they were my entrée. Five of them have remained fixed among the delights of my heart. Sylvia hasn't. Why? I loved her and then I changed my mind. My experience widened, my knowledge of singers and my own taste in them grew deeper and I found Sylvia was no longer a singer I particularly enjoyed. Indeed at times I've found her downright difficult to listen to — Corigliano's dull and unnecessary Bob Dylan songs for instance. There are any number of singers whose singing I don't enjoy but none make me feel as guilty or sehnsuchtsvoll as Sylvia. On top of this, I see the love and affection she inspires in others, whose taste I trust and tend to share, and wonder why I'm so unable on this occasion to share it. The problem, I'm sure, is with me. I bought Love's Sweet Surrender this afternoon, I tried to do just that, to surrender, but I've failed again. The whole album strikes me as bland and colourless, nine tracks which do little more than re-iterate one generalized Mozartean emotion. Clear diction, immaculate technique, pretty voice, but still — nothing. Why does it sound to me as if she sings all music like it's the Great American Songbook? It sounds nice but it doesn't do anything. Consistent, overall prettiness isn't enough. If I'm going to love, there need to be those moments of specific splendour: a word, a note, a phrase, a colour, to make me say, or sigh, or shout yes, that's why I love you! Off the top of my head — the shimmer of the first syllable of "chemins" in Véronique's "Les chemins de l'amour"; the little vocal "flick" at the end of Kathy's "Ain't that good news"; Barbara's playful "Mir war's, ich weiss nicht wie" from whichever Mozart song that is; the agony-soaked breath Yvonne takes before the "Ah!" in the "Per pietà" recitative; Lucia's telling emphasis on the "io" of "Non mi dir". You see what I mean. Brief moments, but the ways in which singers take control of their music and capture my imagination. I know Love's Sweet Surrender should be laden with these. But I can't find them. Want to, but can't. Sylvia, I'm sorry.

New acquisitions

The Singers: Suzanne Danco

I know absolutely nothing of Suzanne Danco, except that I'm certain I've read about her somewhere, perhaps on somebody's blog. I can't even recall what I read, whether it was just a passing mention, praise or criticism. But it must have been praise — I can't think what anybody could find to fault in singing such as this. Though I must admit that to begin with, I really wasn't certain I would enjoy this disc much at all. My first impression was of a slightly small, pale voice, rather too icy and closed-sounding for my tastes. Yes, really. That impression, however, lasted all of about twenty seconds, before the silky timbre and free flowing beauty of Suzanne Danco's singing properly revealed themselves to me, and I knew I liked her just fine.

The disc opens with Danco's beautiful rendition of Dido's lament — Purcell ought always to be sung with a Belgian accent — but the true excitement begins with the second track, Alceste's "Divinités du Styx". A huge aria, and not a huge voice, but so strikingly expressive that not an ounce of the music's intensity is lost. That high note rings out perfectly; the low-lying "Ministres de la mort" is just as perfectly controlled, coloured with a subtly menacing darkness. She's a far from obvious Violetta, lacking, as Alan Blyth's liner notes concede, the requisite Italian warmth. Still, her interpretation remains a persuasive one; and her singing supremely lovely. I don't think I've ever heard clearer Italian diction in "Ah fors'e lui".

As Manon, Micaela and Louise, however, she is ideal. In arias which could all too easily turn cloying or melodramatic — "Adieu, notre petite table", "Je dis", "Depuis le jour — she aims instead for grace and simplicity, and succeeds wonderfully. A selection of Richard Strauss Lieder follows, including a sublime "Morgen" and a charmingly carefree "Ständchen", before Debussy's "Ariettes oubliées" which conclude the disc. They are faultless, exquisite — a textbook lesson in the art of the mélodie and exactly the right finish to a truly lovely compilation.

Joan Sutherland: The Greatest Hits

Since being in Sydney, I think I've fallen for Joan about thirty times over. To think that once, back in the dark, dank bad old days, I was indifferent to her! No more. So now I'm gradually accumulating more of her recordings, and "The Greatest Hits" is my latest acquisition. In theory, I object to the title, but in truth I can think of no better way to describe it. Because basically, she sings every aria on this CD better than anybody else ever has or will. Maybe that's a little too sweeping, but not much. I'm willing to state for the record that I think her "Let the bright Seraphim" is the best rendition ever. Ever. Piccinni's "Furia di donna" is one of my new favourite things in the world. Her "Les oiseaux dans la charmille" is preposterously good. And so on. In some singers, there's a pleasure and beauty in listening to how they cope with vocal challenges. With Joanie, though, the pleasure is in the absence of any audible coping strategy, or indeed any challenge — it's all just there, the easiest thing in the world. You want that note? Fine, here it is. Higher still? Not a problem. Four and half minutes of impossible coloratura? Possibilissima. And it's all of it meaningful, interesting and thoroughly musical, with not a hint of the mechanical or soulless. She's beyond belief really.

Stephanie Blythe: Handel & Bach Arias

This must surely go down as the bargain of the year, or at least the month. Seven dollars. Seven dollars. I mean, that's a more than reasonable price for just about any half decent CD. For a CD as fantastic as this one it feels a bit like theft.

I've heard Stephanie before only in the Met broadcasts of Rodelinda and have to confess, I really had very little recollection of how she sounded. Probably since I spent the most recent Rodelinda turning unexpectedly into a Fleming Flapper. However Handel mezzo + Virgin Classics + ridiculous bargain price is more or less a guaranteed formula for happiness so I made it mine without hesitation. And I love it. Her voice is much darker and more thrilling than I'd expected. Even track one, "Ombra mai fu" (because it's actually against the law not to include this on a Handel album) was genuinely exciting. The rest of it is just as good, better even. Her diction might occasionally be a little suspect, and there is a feeling sometimes that she's holding back a bit; I can't help feeling she could open up even further, maybe cause an earthquake or two. Her "Iris, hence away" could stand to be even more forceful (and the coloratura slightly more defined) but her Cesare is excellent, in both lamenting and action hero modes. She also makes a fine, if not so individual, Cornelia, though the duet "Son nata a lagrimar" with David Daniels sounds more like her father and daughter than mother and son. The Bach half is glorious, her earthy tone and heartfelt singing entirely suited to the music. "Erbarme dich" can't help but be sublime, regardless of who's singing it, but she gives it extra, individualised beauty as well; "Von den Stricken meiner Sünden" is another particular delight. It's wonderful to hear a nice big, dark mezzo sound once in a while, and I can only imagine that in the five years since this CD, the voice has becom even more gorgeous. Next time I hear her I really must pay more attention.

More CDs

Renée Fleming - Homage

For the first thirty seconds or so I was wondering what the hell she was doing but then good old recognisable Renée reappeared and won me over once again. The packaging for this CD is horrific but just don't look at it. Listen instead. And yes, there are some questionable choices here and surely only the most devoted of fans will approve of every aspect of the recording but all in all it's a success. Including "O légère hirondelle" which La Cieca brutalised weeks ago. What I love about Renée is how completely and overwhelmingly Renée she is. She's always herself. And when she sings, there's probably more of her there than anything else, composer included. Which I daresay makes this album concept her cleverest in a while, because it's allowed, indeed obliged, to be a shameless diva vehicle. The overpowering Renée-ness which can make her Handel CD a bit of a challenge is precisely what makes Homage such a heartwarming pleasure.

Bryn Terfel - Tutto Mozart

I assumed a Bryn Terfel Mozart disc would be yawn-inducingly standard. "Madamina", "Deh vieni alla finestra", "Se vuol ballare" etc etc. Not so. It isn't just "all Mozart", it's "all of Mozart" — arias, songs, duets, insertion arias and oddities. There's even some meowing. He sounds absolutely beautiful but more importantly, he manages to make a desperately predictable album concept genuinely interesting. It's the only Bryn CD I've ever been tempted to own. (Duets with Cecilia excluded).

Anne Sofie von Otter - I Let The Music Speak

Yes, the Abba album. I haven't gone and bought it, don't worry. And I probably won't. But if you're wondering, my advice is — try it. It's weird but it's not bad and you need to hear the bonus track. I've long believed that Anne Sofie can do no wrong and this is proof of it — it could have been an unmitigated disaster but I don't actually think that it is. Even if it were, though, surely by now she's given us enough utter glory to have earned the right to record an oddity or two. The title track is pretty lovely, too, by the way. But again, the bonus track... fabulous.

Enchantée

Among my bithday presents was Enchantment, Deutsche Grammophon's double disc compilation of Magdalena Kozena hits. It's all in the title, really — enchantment is something which Magdalena offers constantly and in abundance. I may well have waited years before actually spending my own money to have this one, given that I already own every one of her solo recordings and thus have heard most of this compilation's content. Not all, however, and so I'm very happy to have it — both for the new-to-me tracks and for the simple convenience of favourites from various albums all in the one place. Her role in Rameau's Dardanus is tiny, but now rather than fork over hundreds of dollars for the complete recording, you can find two of her delicious arias here and I suspect they just about constitute her entire contribution to that recording anyway. There's a taste or two of everything here, from the albums of Bach arias and Czech songs with which she first made her name to her recent Paride ed Elena. Her Cleopatra is very generously represented, with "Piangero la sorte mia", "Se pietà di me non senti" and "Da tempeste" — a veritable feast, though I still need to hear her "Venere bella" someday. The tracklist reads like a chocolate box sampler but the effect of it is rather more cohesive than you might expect, made so by the consistent beauty and unfailingly meticulous artistry of all Magdalena's singing. Included on disc one is a bonus video. Magdalena, or her director at least, could teach Anna Netrebko Inc. a thing or two about the right way to make a music video of an aria. Unlike Anna's embarrassing Rusalka-as-Esther-Williams or dazzlingly unsubtle Jewel Song videos, the little film for "Kommt, ihr angefochten Sünder" is lovely and very sweet, slightly silly perhaps but only in the charmingest sense imaginable. I'll say no more than that, and maybe you'll be tempted to buy Enchantment and see it for yourself. No matter how much Magdalena you have — though particularly if you've none — it's definitely a compilation worth having. You can never have too much Magdalena.

Rediscovered

Because I'm a bad, bad person, on occasion I buy CDs and then cruelly abandon them before ever really getting to know them. Not out of disdain or dislike but rather laziness and a fickle heart. Such was the case with Jennifer Larmore's Amore per Rossini. I bought it, listened once or twice, and then somehow it slipped back beneath my radar, sat on my shelf but never moved. Shame on me. I finally re-discovered it a few months ago and can't think how I didn't notice then what's so patently obvious now — it's a truly astounding recording. Jennifer was among my first loves in the early days of my opera fanaticism so has a special place in my heart and pretty much a free pass. But above and beyond that is this particular recording, which is just sheer knock-out virtuosity, her rich gorgeous and always so recognisably Jennifer timbre married to impossible acrobatics and a depth of feeling which, quite frankly, is probably optional in Rossini but makes it so much more interesting. In one aria she's a son suddenly hearing the voice of a father she believes dead, and she captures the wavering betwen trembling fear and utter relief with such realism you can practically see her. Honestly, she's stunning here and why it took me so long to notice this I'll never know.

Another treasure I've unearthed lately has been Lucia Popp's Frauenliebe und -Leben (along with other Schumann Lieder). I don't feel quite so guilty this one as, although I'd heard it a few times over the years, it's not actually my CD. But I got my hands on it lately and was reminded in a rush of insanely beautiful singing just why it is I adore both Lucia and Schumann so much. I adore this song cycle. Everyone seems determined that we ought to be at least a tiny bit disconcerted by its not particularly PC female perspective but why in the world should that matter? Listen to it: why should anything matter? Oh my but the woman can sing. And break your heart. Always, it seems, she manages to find a way of shaping this phrase or that, of taking that particular note, of colouring that particular word which distinguishes her interpretation from absolutely everybody else's — there's always a moment in Lucia's that's unlike any other I've heard. A few weeks ago I wrote a review of something (I forget what) and rather than change the CD, just let this one play three times in a row. It's that kind of CD. I could have listened another three times — there's such a world of wondrousness in there that it can never get old.

And speaking of Lucia retrouvée — having mentioned it in my Carmen review, I thought it was about time I actually listened again to Djamileh, my favourite Bizet opera. Believe me, this is neither a backhanded compliment nor recherché posturing — I really, really, really like this opera. I love the Orientalist music, I love the outrageous French accents, I love the jaunty choruses of "Salut, Seigneur Haroun". I love Lucia's sublime Djamileh, too adorable for words in the dialogue and heartstopping when she sings. Franco Bonisolli speaks French like an Italian and is all the more charming for it. It's hilarious fun. Frenchmen growling "Ah, les belles filles" — one expects Maurice Chevalier to materialise at any moment. This, like Semele, was something which, during my last year of high school, we'd play in the car on the way to and from school, leaving it in the player for days, weeks on end. As entertaining as it is, it's also truly beautiful with Djamileh's music especially ravishing as well as some delicious ensembles. For my tastes, far lovelier than Carmen. And not just because it contains Lucia, though that certainly helps — she is, as always and by definition, perfection.

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.

La Ciofi

Apart from Sandrine Piau, among my latest round of library borrowings is Amor e gelosia, Handel duets performed by Patrizia Ciofi and Joyce Di Donato. Clearly this is a recording with a lot going for it: the repertoire, the singers, the band — even the colour of the disc itself (purple!). I've long intended to borrow it and somehow, as usual, have never actually done so. This time I finally did, in part because I'm now going to see Patrizia Ciofi live while I'm in London. Not that I haven't heard her before: I have her Susanna in René Jacobs' Le nozze di Figaro and her cameo as Euridice in Monteverdi's L'Orfeo. Both are recordings I haven't spent nearly enough time with lately, however, and as a result her voice was not exactly fresh in my memory.

Well. This could not have worked better if I'd planned it. I am rather smitten. The album is even dreamier than it promised to be. Their voices complement each other beautifully while remaining at all times easily distinguishable from one another, so that their duets really do sound like duets — conversations even, and deep and meaningful ones at that. Truly an inspired pairing, and in deliciously ideal repertoire. But as well as all of this, I've been ensnared individually by Patrizia.

When I first knew I would see Grace Bumbry in person, I set out at that moment to become a fan; it worked, and I still adore her, but given her repertoire, she's somebody I might never have taken such care over had I not been faced with the prospect of a live appearance. For Patrizia Ciofi, however, I had no such plans. I borrowed the CD and was interested to hear her, knowing I'm to see her as Donna Anna, but felt no obligation to do anything more than listen and enjoy. I was already excited about seeing her, just because I'd heard her, heard of her, and liked her well enough. Now I find I'm extra-specially excited and anticipating that Don Giovanni even more fervently than I expected. I don't need any additional reason to count down the minutes (that's only a slight exaggeration) until my departure in six weeks and two days but still, it's nice to have a little something extra to look forward to.

In keeping with my duties as newborn fan I'm on the hunt for more to hear: first stop was, naturally, the Patrizia Ciofi Information blog, which in turn led me to Opera mp3, whence I was immediately whisked to this candy-store of a page. Rarely have I been so frustrated with my broadbandless status but I persevered and snapped up two treats: "Anche il mar" and "Mi sento, o Dio! nel core". The former is Vivaldi — I've heard Cecilia sing it also — and the latter a mindblowingly acrobatic aria by Cimarosa, from his L'Olimpiade. Both are stunning. I like the immediacy and seeming spontaneity of her singing, even in the most difficult of passages; I like the gleaming, polished sound of her voice; more importantly I like something intangible and impossible to articulate, something about Patrizia Ciofi which says, keep me around — and I'll try my best to do so.

This means, of course (if we admit variations of the name) that my Patricia count is up to four: Petibon, Wright, Racette and now Ciofi. And I can't shake the feeling that there's a fifth somewhere in the background whom I've forgotten. (Update: Patrizia Biccirè! Alright, not exactly a major passion but I did think she made a wonderful Serpina) Is it something about the name?

Sandrine Piau

School holidays have arrived and that means 2-for-1 at the public library's A/V section. I went a little crazy and among my borrowings is Sandrine Piau's CD of Handel arias, Opera Seria, after which I've been hungering for several weeks. A very nice baritone let me listen to a couple of minutes of this disc on his iPod - which was about 117 seconds longer than I needed to know I had to lay my hands on this recording. Until a few days ago it was still on loan; now I have it.

How marvellous to have a disc full of Handel arias which aren't on every single other soprano's Handel disc too! Though it does open with "Scoglio d'immoto fronte" which I'd previously only heard as recorded by Renée Fleming. We'll just say there's a marked difference between the two and leave it there. Best of all, no "Ombra mai fu"! Now, of course Lorraine is allowed to have it on her Handel CD, because she's Lorraine and can do absolutely anything she damn well feels like. Otherwise I honestly can do without it, both in and out of context. Probably it's the overexposure which has done that to me, but then again I'm not sure. Anyway, other than "Scoglio d'immoto fronte" there's only Cleopatra's "Se pietà" that I knew; otherwise it's all shiny and new, to me at least. My swooning admiration also for the ornamentation here and the two men responsible: Christophe Rousset and Jérôme Corréas, who between them wrote the da capos. Corréas wins, if it's a competition - and it might as well be. Thrilling, unexpected flights of fancy executed brilliantly.

As I say, this disc is fairly exploding with lesser-known Handelian gems. Currently among my favourites: "Brilla nell'anima" (Partenope) and "Cor di padre" (Tamerlano). I am, and always have been, a fool for quickfire coloratura, the faster and more complicated the better. Knowing it's been calculated to impress me doesn't make me any less impressed and Sandrine handles it all with such stratospheric style I never had a chance of resisting. Best of all, of course, are the arias with the lush, lamenting A section and then a fast, vengeful B section - the best of both worlds.

Colourwise, these are more or less exactly the shades I want my Handel painted in. That was never really in doubt: Sandrine is a child of Les Arts Florissants, the Baroque ensemble which William Christie, early music's Louis B. Mayer, created just for me. Not that this is the only approach to Handel with which I can fall in love. Oh no. This world contains too many beautiful sopranos and too many ways to skin an aria for that. But generally speaking, sopranos singing with Les Arts Florissants are sopranos I like. Add to that my apparent inability to hear a French soprano and not get attached and, though it mightn't quite be love at first cadenza or anything so drastic as that, I think see a rosy future for Sandrine et moi.

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.

Bien-aimée

Thirteen Yvonne Kenny solo recordings in existence: why, until last week, did I only own twelve? And, more to the point: why in the world did I think myself happy, when I was living a life which didn't include this? It's A Bouquet of Melodies, a selection of French songs recorded in 1995, with the matchless Malcolm Martineau at the piano. And it's dreamy.

Four songs from Gounod open the disc. "Le soir" gently glowing, "Ce que je suis sans toi" (a sort of 19th-century French "I'm A Poached Egg") given a sincerity which flatters the rather poem's rather facile imagery, and the fourth, "Viens! Les gazons sont verts", charmingly breathless and ardent.  The third, however, "Sérénade", is my favourite of the four, a song I love for sentimental reasons. It was the first piece I ever heard a friend of mine (a glorious contralto) sing and I fell in love with it immediately. I've never heard her sing it again, nor anybody else - except, of all people, Tino Rossi - until this CD. I couldn't help but be enchanted. It's a simple song, a serenade more soporific than seductive: and Yvonne has always had the winningest way with a lullaby.

From there the programme proceeds in chronological order. There are single songs from Franck ("Nocturne") and Bizet ("Chanson d'Avril"), followed by six from Fauré. Her ability to produce an infinitely shaded palette of vocal colours is at its evocative best here: the rush of sobbing distress in "Prison", the rapidly intensifying succession of emotions in "Notre amour", the silver-toned melancholy of "Clair de lune", all captured to such perfection that one needn't have a word of French to comprehend them. The three Duparc pieces which come next are likewise luxuriant and just as heartfelt. "Au pays où se fait la guerre" apparently has its origin in an opera which Duparc destroyed, Roussalka, and accordingly it receives suitably vivid and operatic treatment here. The sense of painful despair in the final strophe, where, after momentary hope, she returns once again to the songs recurring lines - "Et moi toute seule dans mon tour / J'attends encore son retour" - is shattering. "L'Invitation au voyage" is a rather happier experience, Yvonne's luminous tones a perfect match for the "luxe, calme et volupté" promised.

The final Duparc song is "Chanson triste" - after which, the fun begins. I have a weakness for Ravel in folksong mode, the result of a summer spent with Cecilia's Chant d'Amour, but hadn't until now heard the Cinq mélodies populaires grecques. The twisting, melismatic, sometimes chant-like vocal lines of these Greek melodies are sublime and full of sunshine, and ideally suited to Yvonne's radiant and vibrant sound. The fifth of the songs, "Tout gai!", which is, at 49 seconds, the shortest track on the CD, with its gleeful, tripping series of 'tra-la-la's, is also one of the most adorable and devastatingly charming pieces of singing I've ever heard, worth on its own thrice the price of the whole disc.

Four songs by Hahn follow, all of which I ought to (but didn't) recognise from Susan Graham's recording of Hahn songs. Two, however, I did recognise. "L'Enamourée" is this album's representative on A Portrait of Yvonne Kenny, a compilation released by ABC Classics in 2000 to cash in on her appearance at the Sydney Olympics Closing Ceremony. I've thus heard it many many more times than any other song on the CD: but for all the song's extra familiarity, I still thrill to it every time. "O délices, je respire / Tes divines tresses blondes": there's no getting used to that sort of thing. "Si mes vers avaient des ailes" is terribly familiar too of course, having been transformed into the oft-recorded "If my verses had wings". Personally, I know it via Julie Andrews (pre-The Sound of Music and still a brunette). A thousand times better in French, naturally, as almost everything is.

Two to finish: "Je te veux" and "La Diva de L'Empire" by Satie. Both of them so delicious it's tempting to wish she'd made a whole disc of Satie songs. Three times the chorus to "Je te veux" returns, three times she sings "Fais de moi ta maîtresse": each time more slyly suggestive than the last and culminating in a beguilingly believable "je te veux". Her sense of humour appears to agree with Satie's and she relishes the flounces and flourishes and Anglicisms of "La Diva de L'Empire". I can't begin to imagine how much more fabulous her performance of this song must be when seen and not just heard.

In some ways it is not perhaps the most français of French recitals.  Yvonne's is a relatively straightforward approach, her affection and attention given to the text of course, but to the music even more. There is no kaleidoscope of subtlety and nuance, not a great deal of your cool European sophistication, but instead a sunny personability and an unmistakeable joy in singing, married to that meltingly beautiful voice. She is not champagne so much as a gorgeous and expensive Australian Shiraz: warm, rich, full-bodied and delicious. Not to mention utterly, utterly intoxicating.

Blog power

There's been a good deal of discussion lately concerning the wisdom or otherwise of blogs by opera singers: how frank is too frank, and so forth. Many intelligent observations have been made - along with a few slightly over-the-top ones - and I won't add to all of that. However, if I may, allow me to be a little more commercially minded about the issue, and say this: they're an awfully good marketing tool. Or at least, they are to someone as easily swayed as myself. You sing, you start a blog, I read it: I want to hear you. And it's not just my curiosity you win: provided your blog entries do you credit (which is the case for the vast majority of the singers' blogs I've seen so far) you also win my good opinion. If and when I do hear you, I'll want from the very beginning to like you. We can all be as high-minded as we like but singing, and the love of certain singers, is a deeply personal matter, and personality - of both listener and singer - counts for a lot. Which is in my view is exactly as it should be. I've never claimed to be objective; and if I did you wouldn't believe me.

None of this is my point, however. This is: reading La Belle Canadienne's blog has made me long to hear her sing. I haven't so far (I did consider staying up until 6am for a Così webcast but didn't manage to last the distance.) But, degrees of separation and all that: in Melbourne I ran across a copy of Elina Garanča's Mozart Arias. Elina Garanča! I thought. She was Dorabella to Canadienne's Fiordiligi! Alright, I'll buy that then. Simple as that. No, perhaps not quite that simple: I also thought, what fabulous blue eyes. She must be an equally fabulous mezzo soprano.

My terribly superficial decision-making process has been vindicated. Evidently she makes a magnificent Dorabella, if her 'Smanie implacabili' here is anything to go by; and the eyes do not lie: her voice is just as beautiful as those eyes told my shallow self it would be. I've rarely heard a more arresting beginning to a recital disc than her commanding 'Chi sa, chi sa, qual sia': the sort of introduction after which one simply wouldn't dare not listen to the rest. In 'Deh, se piacer mi vuoi' she is an incandescent Vitella; and 'Misero pargoletto' is a fourteen minute vocal tour de force.

Impulse buys haven't always panned out wonderfully for me. This one, however, is looking increasingly like a winner. Playing it now, as I write, I'm discovering ever more to like: it all augurs well. A delicious discovery.

Marie Theres', wie gut Sie ist.

I'm a terrible snob I suppose - and lazy to boot - but the truth is that under normal circumstances I'd likely never trouble to listen to a disc of Chandos Opera in English Rosenkavalier highlights. Generally speaking I do prefer my operas in their original languages; besides which, selecting an hour's worth of highlights and dropping the rest of it seems an awful waste with a piece such as Der Rosenkavalier, not easily excerptable, I would have thought. But what do I know? Gar nichts. If I nevertheless wish that Chandos had in fact recorded the whole opera, it's because these highlights are so magnificently realised. I didn't think I wanted to hear it sung in English, I'm quite attached to the German text, both on its own and its interaction with the music. However, the translation succeeds: it is above all unobtrusive, and please don't imagine I'm damning with faint praise. An English version which drew attention to itself, whether through uncalled-for floridity or downright idiocy, could wreck the entire show. Here, though restricted as all libretto translations are by the demands of the music, the English words tell the right story in the right manner. Perhaps some sections are more difficult than others to render in translation: "Mariandel" has disappeared entirely in these excerpts, so we're left to wonder quite what would be done with her. Antonio has a wonderful working class British accent in the Opera in English Figaro, but the effect of a similar transformation here would be jarring. They may be singing in English but the atmosphere remains inescapably Viennese.

The selection of highlights is satisfying enough. There are no arias to pick and choose of course; what's provided is the openings and conclusions of Act I and II, and the conclusion of Act III, meaning we get the famous parts: the Marschallin's monologue, the presentation of the rose, and the wrenchingly lovely Act III trio. But Octavian's Mariandel scenes, as I said, are gone, and Ochs doesn't make an appearance until Act II. What is preserved, however, is surprisingly coherent: enough is left out to avoid any plot holes, and the passages which remain are arguably those which truly matter - not to mention the opera's most musically beguiling moments.

Perhaps what truly makes this Rosenkavalier, however, is the performances within it. A disc of English  Rosenkavalier highlights, no matter how judiciously constructed, is only truly worthwhile if it can stand proudly beside its complete German counterparts: this one can. The singing is superb. Diana Montague's richly voiced yet always boyish Octavian brims with boyish enthusiasm, but with sincerity too. Although so much of this folle journée is excluded from these excerpts, the changes it has wrought in Octavian's emotional state can still be heard in that final scene. Rosemary Joshua is a charming, lissome little Sophie, truly lovely - so it's a shame that the Presentation of the Rose somehow misses its mark a little. The singing is fine, and the orchestra too, but all the same the scene comes across as just a little too of this earth, too hard to distinguish from everyday life as it was going on just moments before. There is far more magic and tension in the air at the conclusion of Act I, between Octavian and his incandescent Marschallin.

Haven't I mentioned her yet? I said at the beginning that under normal circumstances I probably wouldn't be listening to this Rosenkavalier; its Marschallin is the special circumstance, the reason I have been listening to it. (I don't own it yet, I have it for two weeks only from the public library.) She is, as if you didn't know, Yvonne Kenny, whose assumption of the role was surely written in the stars from the very moment it was composed. Within the very sound of her voice are all the women the Marschallin is: the girl she was once, the girl she recognises in Sophie, the woman she is now, and the old woman she sees herself becoming. She sounds at once eighteen and forty-eight, I've no idea how. Yvonne sings with enchanting acuity and impeccable taste; she is impossibly radiant and, quite frankly, irresistible. I can't imagine what Octavian is thinking of. There is not a Sophie on the planet could tear me from this Marschallin.

The bizarre thing is, this isn't the first time I've borrowed this Rosenkavalier from the library. I've had it before, months ago. I wrote nice things about it then too, but all the same, it didn't quite penetrate. I wasn't ready for it then, I suppose; this time I evidently was. I've been listening to it more or less every night; listening even to Act II, where there is no Marschallin, and adoring even that. Still, the greatest gift is Yvonne's Marschallin, about whom, though I tried above, I cannot properly write.

My life's delight

Barbara Bonney, whom I love unconditionally, has released this year a disc of American and English songs, called My Name is Barbara. Right: I can't read the title without hearing Barbra Streisand speaking it, and I can't look at the cover very long without...well, see M. C- for more. But I can listen to it. Actually, that post from M. C- reminded me that I've had this CD sitting about for a month or more, and had only listened to it once. It didn't, I'll admit, grip me hugely on first hearing, and so I've been terrible and lazy and haven't tried it again. However, last night and tonight I have been listening to it, and I think it's a winner after all. In fact, as I type this, she's winning me over more and more. I was missing the slightly more crystalline Barbara of Fairest Isle, say, but in fact I think she's still here. Just softened about the edges a bit, a little warmer and more laid back; it's not exactly what I expected but it's surprisingly engaging and I like it a lot. This is funny. I started writing this at the same times as I started the CD and as I'm writing, I'm falling in love. Last night I liked it, but tonight I'm finding it ever more wonderful. Perhaps because I've heard the songs a few times now, the diction problems I had are evaporating and... this is live blogging for you. A stream of consciousness post, almost. I've loved Barbara since before I loved opera and have no choice in the matter now - but how nice, once in a while, to be reminded just why. Because the girl can sing! She's beautiful. I remember listening obsessively to Teldec Fledermaus highlights, amazed that somebody could make Adele's 'Da schreibt meine Schwester Ida', much of which is sung on one note, so lovely and so sweet it brought tears to my eyes. I fell head-over-heels for Barbara's Dichterliebe long before I knew it was 'supposed' to be sung by boys.

But I should return to My Name is Barbara. This is gorgeous. The Britten cycle, 'On this island', is magnificent. And, no, actually, I can't really tell what she's saying right now, in 'Nocturne', only the odd word here and there but I don't think that actually matters; the music matters, the singing matters, Barbara matters, I adore her. Traction engine? That's the second time I've heard a song about traction engines this week. Revolting succubus? Delightful. But never mind. Leonard Bernstein's 'I hate music!' cycle is sort of irresistible. It could very easily become unbearably cutesy in the delivery, but our excellent Ms. Bonney shuns such party tricks. The Quilter Elizabethan Lyrics are nice too, though a few are take me time to get used to: 'Damask roses' and 'Fair house of joy' both appear, set by William Walton, on my favourite recording ever; 'Come oh come my life's delight' is on Patricia Wright's disc of Rebecca Clarke songs, and it's an odd thing to hear words you know so well sung to a different tune. Like the bizarre Corigliano settings of Bob Dylan lyrics. And whether it's habit, or diva bias, or genuine preference, I don't know but somehow I do think the Walton settings capture the texts rather better.

Oh Barbara! We're on to Griffes now: I'm playing the CD on shuffle, bad behaviour I know, but it does make me follow a little more closely. And now Barber. This voice, delicious. The Amazon editorial review for The Radiant Voice of Barbara Bonney - a CD significantly responsible for the devotee you see before you - begins thus: "Of all the laudatory epithets applicable to Barbara Bonney, the term "radiant" might not be the one that springs to mind--at least, not insofar as it suggests the warm luxuriance of sunshine." Whatever you say, but I certainly hear the warm luxuriance of sunshine here. Radiant and then some.

I also hear Malcolm Martineau of course. This man is, I think, magic. Not to mention ubiquitous: this is the third disc I've heard him on today. Yvonne's Walton and Lambert songs, Magdalena's Model of a Modern Multilinguist, this. Does he age, or is he sharing Placido's potion? In any case he plays like an angel.

And, with 'Sure on this shining night', we finish with a sigh. From me, that is, as I press play and start the bliss all over again. Oh Barbara, Barbara, do whatever you please on your album covers. Women who sound so gorgeous can do anything they like. My oh my but this is beautiful; and if I don't cut myself off right now, I'll end up with a second post just like the one above...

Deborah

The two Lucrezias aren't the only Handelian rediscovery I've made of late. I also finally listened again to Deborah. I bought this back in April, listened to it twice within a couple of weeks - and since then it has remained untouched. Which is particularly bad and particularly surprising because the title role is sung by the wondrous Yvonne. Ah, but the instant gratification of her Handel arias CD is too much to resist; it's much easier to listen to Yvonne and nobody else than to Yvonne, constantly interrupted by choruses and countertenors. However I'm incredibly glad I finally made that effort. Imperceptibly but undeniably my appreciation of her voice has deepened - though I'd hardly have thought that possible - since April, and what was simply drop dead gorgeous then has moved now to a whole new level.

To the recording as a whole, I must say I'm a little indifferent. It's Handel, ergo it's lovely, even though it's mostly recycled coronation anthems and, because it's an oratorio after all, a little static. Though the plot's not exactly subdued: egged on by Deborah, Jael nails the head of the infidel Sisera to the ground with a tent pin - and this is a happy ending. It makes for slightly odd listening. But not as odd as it could be, because for all the bloodshed and kinky murder, it still emerges sounding Very English and Very Oratorio. It has to, because that's what it is; and because of course the murderer is also the good girl. And the villain is a mezzo, so hard not to like.

Susan Gritton is Jael. Susan perplexes me a little. She's an outrageously appealing Cleonilla in the Chandos Ottone in Villa; here she's lovely though not nearly as remarkable; and then there's her oddly matronly, vaguely Fleming-shaped Nannetta in the Opera in English Falstaff, which had me wondering if there might be two Susan Grittons. I think there are, in a sense - certainly a change has gone on, and not hugely to my liking. James Bowman makes a pretty excellent Barak. When I reviewed this the first time I commented that he was particularly distinguished by the fact that I didn't want to kick him. As I do David Daniels in Rinaldo (calme-toi, MezzoGregory, before berating me). He is good - James I mean. Very very good; but I think I prefer my countertenors a little edgier these days. Yvonne's Deborah is fabulous, but appears to be singing some other opera. As I said, it's all pretty standard sounding, nobody who'd sound out of place performing this in a nice church somewhere. Except for Yvonne. If Handel had done Salome, Herodias would sound like this. From her first recitative, this woman sounds as if she'd nail heads to the ground for the sheer fun of it. It's probably due as much to the contrast as anything else, Yvonne's naturally shining tone particularly brilliant against the greyish backdrop of all the rest. And of course, I like to hear my diva stand out - especially sounding as delicious as she does here - but I do think she'd be even better off with a cast who matched her excitement. I try my best to be well-behaved, to listen to recordings without skipping past half the tracks and turning them into a Ms Kenny Showcase but it's hard at the best of times - even harder when there's nobody else to get my teeth even slightly into.

La Lucrezia

I buy too many CDs. I freely admit this. If you read this blog with any frequency, you might have noticed it too. Far too many. Some, inevitably, languish. Blushing, I confess I have yet to make it to the Deutsche Grammophon Simon Boccanegra with Mirella Freni & co. which I bought some months ago. There's a Così under James Levine, with a lovely cast - Kiri, Ann Murray, Marie McLaughlin, Thomas Hampson - which I'm halfway through. The list goes on, to an extent; longer, however, is the list of things I've heard just once or twice and never quite made it to again. It's a terrible situation and believe me, I do feel guilty. But every now and then the terrible situation turns to a wonderful one: the half-hidden gems reveal themselves once more, and for once, without spending a cent, I make a discovery.

For one: though it embarrasses me a little to admit it, despite owning Véronique Gens Handel cantatas CD for several months and listening to it disproportionately often - and despite having owned and loved Magdalena Kozena's Handel cantatas CD for much much longer - it wasn't until last week that I looked at one, looked at the other, and - look at that, they both sing La Lucrezia. Magdalena's was one of the first discs ever to hit my mp3 player; that I didn't recognise the cantata when Véronique tore into it worries me somewhat, I must say. However I made amends: I listened to them side by side. They are - as they ought to be - different

Magdalena's Lucrezia wears her heart on her sleeve, and possibly brandishes weapons also. The CD is a live recording. I adore it; others wouldn't. It's a bit rough around the edges, fiercely sung and sometimes, yes, a little over the top. There is, after all, a measure of fury to be heard in the orchestra alone, which doesn't necessarily need to be underlined thrice and highlighted in blood by our wretched heroine. But there's an appeal to this kind of singing nonetheless. Overemotional perhaps, but not, I think, insincere. Though it's not to everybody's tastes, I do think this is Magdalena's sincere conception of her character, not simply theatrics. And though her oh-so-baroque moanings might seem a little much, they're terribly beautiful too. I wish I could say I loved Magdalena's voice from the first moment. I didn't in fact. I was all wrapped up in Cecilia Bartoli; Magdalena came to me in the form of Belle immagini - Mozart and Gluck, just what Cecilia had been reducing me to a puddle with. I viewed her as a pretender to the throne, I judged her against Cecilia's versions - I was very, very silly. But I did get over it quickly and fell heart and soul for that white Slovakian fire that is Magdalena. The voice which is so addictive you listen to her sing the Veil Song and don't even remember that she couldn't possibly ever ever sing Eboli on stage.

Véronique's Lucrezia as a rather more refined figure, though in her way, just as angry. I think there's an inborn dignity to Véronique's singing which can't and won't be shaken off. Her fury is all the fierier because it emerges from someone who at other times, for the fleetingest of moments, shows signs of a Contessa Almaviva kind of graciousness. I'm enchanted by the French silk which Véronique lavishes upon all she does, shaping those glorious vocal lines with such sensitivity and commitment. Her voice doesn't have quite the expansiveness of Magdalena's, but this for Véronique is an asset. She's focused, intense, poised - frightening at times. In another of the cantatas, Agrippina condotta a morire, she sings at one point 'Su, lacerate il seno, ministri, e che si fa?' [Translated in the notes as: Come, rend my breast you ministers; why do you tarry?]. That text is repeated and repeated of course; and the final 'e che si fa' is half-spoken, half-sung, truly believable expression of desperation. It's mild, on the face of it, compared to Magdalena's heartwrenching approach but just as potent.

Véronique seems to have come off rather better here. That's a little bit intentional and a little bit not. I love both Lucrezias (Lucrezie?) and both CDs in their entirety, Magdalena's no holds barred approach and Véronique's period performance sophistication. Despite the differences there's a certain something in each that reminds me of the other, just enough to make me wish for a duet. In fact, Magdalena has been Cherubino to Véronique's Contessa once at least, and it must have been a feast. I've never heard Camilla Tilling, who was their Susanna, but one would almost hope she was unremarkable (which no doubt she's not) just for a little relief from all that heat. So yes, I love both. But as I say, a little bit intentional too - because I do like Véronique's the best. But I'm terribly happy to have found I own both.

Some recent acquisitions

Sara Mingardo: Contralto

My second Sara Mingardo CD. This one is actually a collection of excerpts from various things she's recorded for Opus111, in complete operas, saced works, and so on. I'll admit, I bought my other Sara CD mostly because I was on a music shopping spree. I'd read a favourable (though very brief) review in Gramophone and figured I might as well buy it, seeing as I'd already spent so much that day. Of course, it turned out to be bewitchingly beautiful, and so I'm happy to say I bought this one not on a whim, but because I'm a Sara Mingardo fan. And shall continue to be, it seems, because this disc is just as gorgeous as the other. There's a deliciously hypnotic quality to the voice which I have yet to hear rivalled. She's glorious in the zippy virtuosic Vivaldi; elsewhere she's lush, lilting, but never soporific. Someone like Isabel Bayrakdarian, I can play in the background while writing an English essay (or stage adaptation of a Maupassant story, as the case may be...) but Sara? I wouldn't even dare attempt it.

Anne Sofie von Otter: Music For A While; and also this (which doesn't appear to have a proper title).

These two are, believe it or not, only the second and third Anne Sofie CDs to be added to the collection. Terrible, isn't it? I don't know why. I can only blame my own laziness, but that's hardly a decent excuse. However, I sincerely hope these mark the beginning of a new mezzo habit. Music For A While is, I think, Anne Sofie's most recent release. It's Baroque songs, mostly accompanied by just one instrument, and it's excellent. Admittedly it doesn't start too wonderfully: though it sounds lovely, she rather overdoes the archness in 'Amanti io vi so dire' and it all comes across as self-conscious and affected. But the situation quickly improves and the rest of the disc is a delight - though once again, it's in the sincere and loving melodies that she sounds her best; I'd say because she sounds like herself, rather than trying too hard to be arch and amusing. The other Anne Sofie CD is her very first solo recording, from 1983 - funnily enough, also a selection of Baroque songs and arias; and funnily enough, another one which begins as it doesn't intend to continue. The two Handel arias are undeniably excellent, but they're very much in the generic Handel mezzo mold. However, as soon as she hits the Monteverdi which follows, it's up, up and away - there's that irresistible Anne Sofie sound, still young but very much there. 'Lasciatemi morire' is a heartbreaker. But the highlight is Telemann's Trauer-Music eines kunsterfahrenen Canarienvogels. Yes, that's right, a lament for a dead bird. 'Oh weh, mein Canarie ist tot' and so on, ad infinitum. Very silly, but still, it's gorgeous music and she sounds sublime. And do you know what I think is particularly special? There's more than 20 years between these two discs and honestly - you wouldn't think it. Her prime must be lasting longer than Jean Brodie's.

At The Haunted End of the Day

A 1981 documentary profiling William Walton, now available on DVD. Now let's be clear about this: William Walton has his appeal (I'll get to that in a moment) but this documentary includes lots of performance excerpts and among them, Yvonne Kenny as Cressida in Walton's Troilus & Cressida. I could try to claim some intellectual reason for owning this (prize-winning, as it happens) documentary but that would just be lying. I bought this DVD and without watching it all the way through, I skipped straight to the two tracks featuring Yvonne's performances. They're breathtaking. Gorgeous, powerful music, sung to perfection by a young (still in her twenties - this is the earliest footage of her I've seen) and radiant Yvonne. Some people might query whether buying a $45 DVD for two or three minutes of singing is particularly good value for money, but those people clearly don't understand. Oh, but in case you're wondering, I have now watched the whole documentary. I thought I ought to - after all, William Walton is partly responsible for my ultimate desert island disc; I know his songs better than I do most Schubert, Schumann, Mozart Lieder.  Besides which, as it turns out, he's an interesting man. A little depressing at times. "What are you looking forward to?", asks filmmaker Tony Palmer at one point. "Oh, death, I suppose" replies the elderly Walton. But he's charming really, and fascinating. And I'm starting to get the feeling that even sans Yvonne, there's something about his music which appeals to me. The Chandos recording of Troilus & Cressida, with Dame Janet & co, has been added to my Christmas list.

The Beggar's Opera

Again, this contains Yvonne, so I own it. I haven't even been as well-behaved with it as with the Walton documentary: Yvonne is Lucy, Lucy doesn't appear until Act II, Act II begins on Disc 2 - so I've only heard Disc 2. I thus have absolutely no business reviewing the thing, but nevertheless shall. And I might listen to the first disc one day, because it's really quite an interesting piece. This is Benjamin Britten's realisation of The Beggar's Opera and he's definitely put his own stamp on it. None of it sounds very eighteenth century, but it's noisy and fun, just as it ought to be. The casting is particularly cute. Yvonne and Ann Murray, having been paired romantically in countless of the opere serie which The Beggar's Opera is poking fun at, are rivals now: Lucy Locket and Polly Peachum, both of whom claim Macheath as their husband. And Macheath is sung by Philip Langridge - Ann Murray's husband. But the best thing about the casting as far as I'm concerned is that Yvonne, with that sweet, bright tone, sings the scheming Lucy, rather than the (marginally) more ingenuous Polly. She's hilarious. More than either Ann or Philip, Yvonne enters wholeheartedly into the spirit of the piece, savouring the dialogue, playing around with her own voice and its opera seria knowhow, and just generally having a wonderful time. She's simply delectable.

Yvonne Kenny: 19th Century Heroines

This, I promise, is where I'll stop. Actually I've already reviewed this CD once. I've never written an Amazon review before, but I felt compelled - if three years too late - to defend the honour of My Diva. And really, there's not a great deal I can add to that one sentence review. Except that if the CD was blank, it would still have been worth the price I paid, because it's got some of the best liner notes I've seen anywhere, ever. Extensive notes on the arias of course, as always with Opera Rara; but more importantly, a lengthy and extensively illustrated biography of the soprano herself. I learned all sorts of new things. And the photos are wonderful - Yvonne the day after her triumphant debut, Yvonne modelling hats (!) for an Italian designer, Yvonne in fierce Maria Stuarda mode... my cousin was with me in Sydney as I read these notes - apparently my hands were shaking. So as I say - the book was worth the price of the CD. As it happens though, the girl can sing. Fearless and fabulous.