Prima la musica, poi le parole

Our Kiri

A few words about Kiri. Not a review — been there, done that. No, I just wanted to say how truly lovely it was to see our Kiri in the flesh. It was my first time. Which seems funny, because growing up in New Zealand, she was so omnipresent and so iconic that I've tended to forget that I've only ever seen her on screens and in photos. I don't know what it's like with children now, but when I was at primary school, everybody knew who Kiri was. No surname necessary. I heard opera at home, so I knew a few other sopranos too, but everybody knew Kiri. And I still think that if you stopped a New Zealander at random on the street and said "Name a famous opera singer", they'd be almost as likely to say Kiri as Pavarotti. (Or Malvina.)

So there she was, and the glossy photos for once don't lie: she's just as beautiful in person. I found her enchanting. The concert wasn't flawless, but it didn't especially need to be. She just had to be Kiri, and it was a pleasure to spend an evening in her company. And she was so warm, so personable, so Kiri and, dare I say it, such a New Zealander, that I found it harder than ever to believe I'd never seen her in person before. I knew she was charming, but it still surprised me how engagingly she spoke when she took the microphone; much better than her conductor, Brian Castles-Onion, whose two little speeches were rather, well, awkward. 

You can read my review (or somebody else's) for details of the program and so on. There were audibility issues but I suspect the basic beauty of that voice is pretty much indestructible, and it has held up better than those of some of her contemporaries: those floaty high notes in particular have lost none of their power to transport. Watching and listening to her, you realise (without necessarily coming any closer to articulating it) what it is that distinguishes a great artist (and a superstar) from the rest. She just is. You can't trace it to one element or another or to anything tangible or technical. She just is. 

And she's also ours. Mine. New Zealand's. Which brings me full circle. At one level, I enjoyed this concert as I might any other gala by a very famous and talented soprano whom I love without every having worshipped as such. But it touched me more deeply than that too, because she is, for lack of a better term, an essential part of my own cultural heritage and upbringing. I don't remember a time when I didn't know Kiri, and, unlike the other sopranos of my childhood, I shared this one with my whole generation and with my country. 

It's not often I get soppy and patriotic. But when Kiri sang an unaccompanied "Pokarekare Ana" as her final encore, I confess I welled up with tears and pride. Not just because it was so perfectly beautiful — which it was — but because it seemed somehow to belong to me. I've known the song as long as I've known Kiri, and I've been hearing her sing it for almost as long. It was already an affectionate and intimate concert, but that moment outdid all the rest and just went straight to my heart. She was our Kiri, my Kiri, and I loved her for it. 

Rodelinda

Having been quite reprehensibly slack about attending performances at the Conservatorium, this year I am trying to improve my behaviour. To which end, I went on Thursday night to see the Early Music Ensemble and Vocal and Opera Unit present a concert performance of Handel's Rodelinda. Not, I should add, the whole thing, and that's all to the good: hour upon hour of Handel is fine on CD, or in a fascinating staging (maybe) but in concert like this, the highlights approach (about two hours of them I think) was exactly right.

Who knows when or if we will see the whole of Rodelinda staged in this city. In the meantime, it was lovely to have this opportunity, especially in Verbrugghen Hall, not the most opulent venue but a very nice setting for voices. Neal Peres da Costa led a beautiful, bright performance, and there was very good singing all round from the student cast. Acting was patchy — I suspect they were more or less left to their own devices on this, and the traipse on-traipse off approach (as opposed to having all the soloists lined up on stage throughout, which might have been better) didn't help either. But in context, it didn't much matter, this performance was all about the music and on that score, it succeeded.

Celeste Haworth showed off an attractive, limpid mezzo as Bertarido, although the part did occasionally seem a bit low for her; her "Dove sei, amato bene?" was very nice indeed. Eve Klein was a striking Eduige, and Anna Dowsley a rather adorable little Unulfe. Simon Gilkes' Grimaldo had some beautiful moments despite a rather robotic presence, while John Donohoe was all villainous self-assurance as Garibaldo, with a rich, flexible baritone and a talent for the Russell Crowe Brooding Stare. Best of all by far, however, was the stunning Saira Luther in the title role, singing aria after fabulous aria with the kind of individual, shining, agile soprano I would pay real money to hear, and, despite the very minimalist setting, truly inhabiting the character. Happy as I was with the cuts, I would have been delighted to hear Saira sing this role in its entirety. She's going on my list of Students to Watch, and I will be on the lookout now for further opportunities to hear her — I think there's something special about this one. 

So, an auspicious start to my season of Con performances. Next on my list (unless by some miracle they schedule a masterclass which I can actually attend) is their production of Poulenc's Les mamelles de Tirésias. Alas, no Saira, though I bet she'd be an excellent Thérèse, but in any case I can't wait finally to see this opera, by one of my top six operatic composers, on stage.

(P.S. Thanks awfully to The Australian for the nod in this article, and to anyone reaching this blog via their link — welcome.)  

Everything at once

The problem with opera blogging is that it requires both time to see opera and time to write about it, and lately I've had plenty of the former and none of the latter. But now, at last, a moment to breathe — only a moment, I have a Butterfly on Monday — so it seems like the time to catch up. Can I, though? With three operas and a concert to cover, I fear that if each has its own post, they'll all just fade into oblivion halfway down the page. So I will attempt (no promises) to be brief and cover all four in one post. In chronological order.

Die Zauberflöte

I saw this for the third time on Tuesday evening. Mad as I am, even I thought it was a little odd that I was so determined to see it yet again, since (excellent individual performances aside) I didn't exactly have a marvellous time at either of the other two. Still,  I was determined to see the second cast in its entirety, and this was the first night on which they were all scheduled to sing — although I believe most, if not all, of them ended up substituting for indisposed members of the first cast earlier in the run as well. So off I duly trooped, to sit all by my lonesome in E-reserve, and there discovered a reason for my persistence — this was absolutely the best of the three.

Maybe it was the change of cast, or maybe the experience of a longish season, but Ollivier-Philippe Cunéo's leadership was much improved, a livelier and more stylish reading. Henry Choo and Hye Seoung Kwon were an ardent pair of lovers, more youthful than their predecessors (Andrew Goodwin and Emma Matthews respectively). Choo hasn't Goodwin's regal bearing, and he isn't, to be honest, much of an actor, but there's an amiable liveliness to his stage presence which made him, if not the more convincing Tamino, perhaps the more sympathetic. I can't fault Emma Matthews for a moment — she was a beautiful Pamina — but Hye Seoung Kwon's voice is one I respond to far more readily, and for that reason I preferred her, though it's true she hasn't yet all of Emma's subtlety or polish. Her accent was noticeable in the English dialogue but didn't interfere with her ability to act: she was well matched to Henry as a young, slightly petulant princess, her mother's daughter as well as her father's. Fabulous Emma Pearson remains this season's Queen par excellence; Lorina Gore struck me as having all the agility and high notes (it's definitely an exciting voice) but not quite the vocal or temperamental ferocity for the role. Andrew Moran as Papageno beat Warwick Fyfe hands down, as far as I was concerned. As excellent as Warwick undoubtledly is in the role, he just wasn't quite my cup of tea, but Andrew, with the same costume, same lines and same basic characterisation, had me laughing out loud where Warwick had raised only a smile. I also happen to love his voice, which helps; his "Nun, wohlan..." was beautiful. Among the unchanged cast, everyone sang at least as well before. Daniel Sumegi was perhaps more impressive than earlier in the run. The Three Ladies are still one of the show's vocal highlights and Catherine Carby is still a star. Also, Sarah Crane! But more about that shortly.

Werther

Genuine brevity here, as I still have two reviews to write. Fabulous singing across the board, especially from Aldo di Toro who will melt your kneecaps. Michèle Losier is an exciting import, very well chosen. Having seen the show, it's slightly strange to think Pamela Helen Stephen was the original Charlotte: I'd be more than happy to hear her sing the role, but I can't see her fitting into the Moshinsky/Neidhardt/Leona Edmiston conception of it. Stephen Bennett is wonderful, of course. I really, really like the production, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's going to be a minority opinion. Just one other point: when did Sarah Crane become so fantastic? She was fine as Oberto and Micaela, but didn't strike me as extraordinary; but as the First Lady and now as a completely wonderful Sophie (I just adored her) she has definitely got my attention. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part VII

Inevitably, after the transcendance of Saturday's performance, this was a slightly more earthbound experience. But still, it was a Cheryl Barker Butterfly, so you can fill in the rest. I have said this a million times, but I don't care — I'm still in awe of her ability to make it new every single time. Even if it's just a phrase here or there, or her pretty portamento on "il thè", or how much she cries before killing herself, there's just always some new little revelation to be found, always a fresh thought. Besides which, you haven't lived until you've heard Cheryl's "Con onor muore". 

Friday's performance brought the bonus of Jacqueline Dark as Suzuki, stepping in for an indisposed Catherine Carby; as we know, I am always always happy to see Jacqui, and she was her gorgeous self. (We always call Suzuki a thankless role, but I'd imagine having Cheryl Barker sing "Un bel di" with her head on your shoulder sits pretty high on the job satisfaction scale.) Rosario La Spina is mostly listenable as Pinkerton, though he still has a tendency to croon his high notes and he's often near-inaudible when the orchestration is heavy — most notably on those fina and rather important cries of "Butterfly!" We all know I'm not a fan, so I won't dwell on the point, but I'll concede there's an Italianate quality to his singing which is not without its appeal. I just wish he'd vary his delivery more — everything I've heard him sing, from Puccini to Dvorak to Bizet, has sounded more or less the same. Whether by accident (he's no actor) or design, he's a completely unsympathetic Pinkerton, in fact he's a sort of non-entity: an out-and-out cad would be one thing, but La Spina's Pinkerton doesn't really display much interest at all in his Butterfly, predatory or otherwise. Barry Ryan's Sharpless, on the other hand, is a stronger, more dignified presence than ever, aided perhaps by comparison to Pinkerton. The dynamic between the two characters seems to have changed with the change of tenor. There's not much sense now of a friendship between the two men: instead Sharpless seems barely to tolerate his rather detestable compatriot, and in the final act the look in his eyes is of outright disgust. 

Only one Cherylful week remains, with a Butterfly on Monday, the Four Last Songs on Friday, and one final Butterfly — her last ever, it seems — the following Monday. We're too spoilt. I almost (but don't) feel guilty.

Miriam Allan & Ironwood

This was tonight's Musica Viva concert. Miriam Allan is described everywhere as a "protegée of Emma Kirkby", which made me wary of attending, but curiosity — not to mention a free ticket — tempted me there, and I'm glad. She certainly is a soprano in the Kirkby mold, but in the best sense: she has a pure, agile soprano with impeccable early music style. It was a very appealing programme, Purcell songs and dances in the first half, followed by Handel's  Trio Sonata in D major and his motet Silete venti. Allan had a knack for making sure that small, sweet voice of her carried as far as it needed to, and both her diction and her engagement with the text were exemplary. Her wistful "Fair Cedaria" was beautiful, and she brought a bittersweet balance of sighs and wry humour to "If love's a sweet passion". Ironwood seemed at its best when in tandem with their soprano; the Trio Sonata was warmly played but didn't seem quite as focused or vivid as the other items. Silete venti was brilliantly sung and played, especially its striking introductory Sinfonia. The aria "Date serta, date flores" (whose orchestration bears a strong family resemblance to "Meine Seele hört im Sehen", one of the Nine German Arias) was excellent, especially in Allan's sensitively ornamented da capo, and was followed by a cheery (and immaculately sung) presto Alleluia. Best of all, however, was the sole encore. Allan explained that as a child, "growing up in Newcastle" [cue supportive hoot from the gallery] the ultimate thrill was to find one's name in a book. Since Miriam proved a hard one to find, Allan's father suggested a song instead — and so her encore was a virtuosic and utterly delightful "Oh had I Jubal's lyre...or Miriam's tuneful voice". Humble strains indeed. 

The Dream of Gerontius

It looked for a while like pathological laziness might win out, but ultimately a few wise words of encouragement from a persuasive person convinced me I really must take myself to the Sydney Symphony's Dream of Gerontius. And so I did, if only to prevent myself feeling guilty at having failed to take advantage of any offerings in the orchestra's Elgar festival, led by my candidate for Most Adorable Maestro Ever, one Vladimir Ashkenazy, whose tenure as the SSO's Principal Conductor and Artistic Advisor begins next year.

I have an intermittent and patchy relationship with Elgar, but like most such musical relationships in my life, when I drop the attitude and actually listen, I generally emerge the happier for it. I don't suppose my knees will ever weaken at his very name, but that's hardly mandatory. And hidden within such a half-hearted assessment is the fact that Elgar is actually responsible for one of my most loved non-operatic vocal works (the Sea Pictures). The Sea Pictures were performed earlier in the festival, in fact. I didn't go. Why? Because I'm an idiot. The least I could do was compensate with Gerontius, which even featured the same mezzo soprano, Lilli Paasikivi. In fact, the one doesn't really compensate the other, and I still regret missing the Sea Pictures, but Gerontius was a good experience. 

Yes, a good experience. I'm probably expected to use the language of transcendence now, but that's something one ought to be honest about, and the truth is that it didn't transport me as fully as I thought it might. There is much in Gerontius that is moving and beautiful, and I shan't for a second deny its power or its exquisite agony, but I can't lay claim to a deep and spiritual experience, or even to the musical simulation of one. That's neither dismissal or criticism, but rather a simple admission of fact, and it probably has more to do with me than with Elgar. I am a godless heathen, but I have felt closer to the purported deity in other music than I did in this, and when discussion of music moves into this realm, no amount of theorising can account for personal response. 

The best, most delighted part of my personal response, as it turned out, was not for the piece itself but the performance of it. I don't hear the SSO nearly as often as I ought, and when they play as magnificently as they did in Gerontius, I remember why I feel guilty about that. If this is the sound the SSO makes, then I need to spend more time in its company. The combined voices of the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs and TSO Chorus were no less gorgeous — indeed, despite my well known propensity to swoon for soloists, the chorus may just have been the vocal highlight of my evening. 

If I was going to swoon for a Gerontius soloist, however, it will be no surprise that I name Lilli Paasikivi as the swoonworthiest of the three. If for nothing else, I must express my admiration of Elgar for breaking with the convention of female voice casting, which dictates that soprano = angelic and mezzo = earthy and dangerous, and making his Angel a contralto instead. Lilli was resplendent in person and in voice, radiating divine love and benevolence. Her superb diction, graceful phrasing, opulent tone and warm, engaging stage manner added up to a persuasive angelic presence. Her wide, rippling vibrato might be troubling in other repertoire (or not) but here, it just enhanced the velvety texture of her voice. Also adding to the effect was the way the trailing sleeves of her dress occasionally caught the breeze of the airconditioning, giving the impression of wings. 

Alas, Gerontius himself was not quite so convincing. Mark Tucker has quite a lovely voice, but it frequently sounded stretched beyond its limits. A bit of grit and raw-edged passion is not unwelcome in a piece such as this, but that should be a question of vocal colouring rather than vocal difficulty. As it was, Tucker's occasional roughness, rather than intensifying the emotional impact of his singing, actually detracted from it. He has, however, a sweetness of tone which was pleasing in quieter passages and in broad terms, he's well suited to this sort of repertoire. But I couldn't help imagining Phillip Langridge in his place. David Wilson-Johnson was effective in his two solos, first a formidable priest and then a fervent Angel of the Agony. 

I was struck most of all by the unity of spirit which infused this performance. Musical coherence is one thing, but what made this Gerontius really take flight was the sense that maestro, orchestra and singers all seemed attuned to, and in harmony with, each other's conception — musical and otherwise — of the piece. Only Tucker's edginess was a little out of place, but as Gerontius is a confused, earthly newcomer to this heavenly realm, that's not inappropriate. 

It's curious. The longer I spend writing about this performance, the fonder my memory of it grows. A few more paragraphs and I expect I'd convince myself that I'd had a transcendant experience after all. The truth, however, is that I didn't. That doesn't mean, however, that it left me cold — I hope that's obvious. I'm very pleased to have met Gerontius, and particularly to have done so in a performance of such a high standard. It may not have unleashed a newfound passion for Elgar in me, but it has reinforced my existing affection — and along the way, it has increased my admiration of my adopted (if woefully neglected) orchestra, which is a happy circumstance indeed. 

I just wish I'd gone to hear the Sea Pictures. 

Sprung

Just back from a concert at the Conservatorium, styled "Spring Opera Gala". Alas, the fact that outside it still feels suspiciously like winter seemed to have kept the crowds away. We weren't many in Verbrugghen Hall, but we were nicely rewarded for having made it there. Our Gala involved three rising young artists (some perhaps risinger than others) and one established OA principal, aided and abetted by the one man orchestra that is accompanist David Miller. Standard opera highlights gala but with a twist or two. Twist #1: no sopranos! Twist #2: two, count 'em, two baritones! Twist #3: two baritones, and yet I didn't have to listen to a single rendition of "Hai gia vinta la causa"! Amazing.

So our sole female representative was the always lovely (and redheaded, which helps) Dominica Matthews. She was best in her first number, the duet from La Cenerentola, not surprising since she sang the role earlier this year. As the evening progressed she essayed a series of seduction songs, growing gradually more comfortable in their sensuality. So "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix" was delivered in manner perhaps better suited to "Divinités du Styx", but by the time she reached Cole Porter's "So in Love" she was rather more romantic. In between, a pretty fabulous Habanera.

First baritone (in order of appearance) was Barry Ryan, lately seen undergoing gentle Viennese humiliation at the hands of Cheryl Barker's Arabella. In robust, impassioned voice — "Vision fugitive" from Massenet's Hérodiade earned the ovation of the evening. "Cruda funesta" from Lucia was good too; lucky thing he sounded like an Enrico since he doesn't exactly look like one. I actually spent most of  "Ha, welch ein Augenblick!" just thinking, "Peter Coleman-Wright is going to be so right in this part next year". Which is not a criticism of Barry Ryan at all — I'm just suddenly really looking forward to Peter C-W's Pizarro.

Second baritone, the jolly Shannon Foley [note: link is to a PDF]. Like Dominica, he was at his best in the aria from a role he's sung on stage — in this case, Papageno's "Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen", which was lovely. But also, kudos for singing an aria from Hamlet! And rather well, even if the concept of Hamlet singing a rousing drinking song is a bit amusing. For the Act I Almaviva/Figaro scene from Il barbiere he sang from a score, having admitted with admirable candour that he was "having a tenor moment" and hadn't been able to memorise the scene. Fair enough, I suppose, and he sang it very nicely just the same.

However the man of the hour — and I think, the reason the Gala happened — was tenor Brad Cooper. Guess what, Australia? You've got yourselves a real, live bel canto tenor. From those first few ringing notes of "Tutto e deserto" from La Cenerentola, I knew we were in for something wonderful. This is one seriously beautiful voice. Especially in the beautifully live acoustic of Verbrugghen Hall — such an unexpected luxury for my ears, which have grown so resigned to the black hole of the Opera Theatre. If you know me and my partialities, you know the kinds of tenors I like. Juan Diego, Rolando, Aldo di Toro on the Italian side of things; Mark Padmore and Ian Bostridge for the English/baroque stuff. Those kinds of voices. Well, Brad Cooper is My Kind of Tenor. Gorgeous timbre, easy agility, graceful legato, sense of humour and sense of style and the ability to actually...act. Imagine! He did more on an empty stage and in the space of one aria than some of OA's current principals can do in a full and fancy production. You know it's a good sign when I'm actually wishing "Ich baue ganz" could last longer; and, shock of shocks, thinking thoughts like "I actually wouldn't mind if he wanted to sing Ottavio's arias." Ottavio! I ask you! No wonder they loved him in Opera Holland Park's Il barbiere di Siviglia. And there I should probably stop. He's here on what I believe is a rather fleeting visit home, before heading back to his ever glitterier European career (CV dotted with names like Horne, Minkowski and Netrebko...fine then). I hope the next time he's here, it's to sing something sensational for Opera Australia. (Memo to OA admin: three words — Fille du régiment.)

The evening finished up with lighter fare, musical theatre and so on. I've mentioned Dominica's "So In Love". Shannon Foley gave us a nice, understated "Some Enchanted Evening". Barry Ryan brought a tear to every pensioner's eye (and mine) with "Danny Boy". Best — and most fun — of all were Brad's two contributions. The "Agony" duet from Sondheim's Into the Woods, sung hilariously with Shannon, and "Before the Parade Passes By" from Hello, Dolly! Fabulous.

Missa Solemnis

A belated mention. This was on Saturday, after a pilgrims-only performance the previous evening. My first and lasting impression? LOUD. That's meant kindly; I thoroughly enjoyed it, but more in terms of sheer power than of beauty. My seat was and wasn't great. I was almost literally at the feet of Myrto Papatanasiu, a position I am more than willing to adopt. However, the front row of the concert hall is always a mixed blessing. I felt the full force of the orchestra — strings especially — but the choir sounded sometimes as if it was singing in a back room somewhere.

There was a prolonged pause at the end of the first movement, I think caused by latecomers and/or consumptives. Gelmetti made a characteristically hammy show of it but once back on track there was no more mugging until the end. Soloists were all great. Paul Whelan — my compatriot — was possibly the best I've heard him, there's something in his open-throated delivery suited perfectly to grand religious ecstasy. I thought über-lyrische Andrew Goodwin might be a bit too sweet and small for this,but he held his own nicely. Daniela Barcellona is a fabulous powerhouse and sounded better here than she does on Juan Diego's recent disc. Myrtò Papatanasiu was a knock out, no sign of strain anywhere; and not only could she sing all this terrifying music, she did so with quite extraordinary prettiness. Plenty of volume, but just as much good taste and grace — her pianissimi as exciting as her full throttle forte. If only we could snaffle her for something with Opera Australia. Maybe have her stopped at customs?

Devastating

I was prepared for Yvonne's performance of the Four Last Songs last weekend to be the very best kind of harrowing, and that's just what it was. I was a euphoric wreck. She sang them totally out of order — Beim Schlafengehen, September, Frühling, Im Abendrot — the reasoning or precedent for which elude me, and which made for an unexpected emotional experience, but did nothing to alter the wrenching beauty of it all. It's not the sort of thing I can really write about — I suggest this blogreview, which is pretty much spot on about the entire concert. Enough to say that I was ready for something extraordinary and upsetting and that's what I got.

Whereas the Mozart Mass in C Minor four days later took me completely by surprise. I was prepared in a sense, though even that happened accidentally — this year has, by chance, become my Year of the Mass in C Minor, where I've become quite familiar with the piece without ever really trying. But though I know it quite intimately now, nothing — nothing — prepared me for experiencing it live for the first time. Especially performed so gloriously, everything in place, everything just as I would have wished. Zarathustra in the first half was a little lacklustre (though in parts still as to die for as it undoubtedly is) but everything was forgotten and forgiven after interval.

I was in love with everybody — Mozart, the SSO, Charles Mackerras. I was even in love with Emma Matthews: regular Sydney readers (if such exist) might be pleased to know that for once, my praise for Emma is utterly unreserved. She was enchantingly lovely, and her "Et incarnatus est" was heartbreaking and exquisite. As if I wasn't already tearstained enough by that point. Emma in character mightn't always be quite my thing, but Emma as Emma I adored. And, yes, Yvonne. Whose "Laudamus te" was some of the best singing I've heard her do in these last few years of insanity; who was visibly moved when she wasn't singing and captivatingly passionate when she was; who seems as in love with this piece as I'm finding I am; about whom I've theoretically stopped really writing but, well, some things require expression. Still, even she was only part of the whole, one of the musical experiences of my life and all the more amazing because I didn't realise it would be. It's made even better by the fact that I get to repeat it twice more.

Competitions

Two big aria competitions this weekend. In Dunedin, the ODT Aria Final. Far away though I may be, I knew Claire Barton would win. And of course she did. I don't need to have heard her to know it was a richly deserved triumph — but I wish I had heard her. Claire's singing is still one of the things I miss most about Dunedin. So if you still read this blog from time to time, Claire — a thousand congratulations. (And on a related note — how dare you wait until I'm gone before taking on the Sea Pictures?)

Meanwhile in my own fair city — Sunday was finals night of the McDonald's Operatic Aria. Huge award, this: $5000 cash, a $35,000 scholarship and a return economy airfare, not to mention various other prizes. Not bad. It was a reasonably impressive night. Not as enchantingly enjoyable as the Mathy Award semis were, but still, a competition is a competition and you know how I feel about them.

However. Whereas I had no trouble picking the outcome of the ODT Aria from this vast distance, on Sunday evening I sat ten rows from the stage and got it totally and completely wrong. I could not have been more surprised by the result. Obviously three opera singing judges know a million times more than I do, so I bow to their superior knowledge and judgement — and to the fact that they were unanimous in their choice — and say congratulations to tenor David Corcoran and mezzo soprano Helen Sherman, both whom I've no doubt will put their winnings to brilliant use.

Meanwhile, though, I'd like to make briefish mention of the unplaced competitors. First, the fabulously named soprano Suzanne Shakespeare. I was sure she would win something. She took on two taxing and fireworks-full arias — "Où va la jeune hindoue", followed in the second half by "Ah fors'è lui...Sempre libera". It was just such a joy for me to hear all that coloratura sung with such clarity, such precision and, for lack of a prettier word, such bite. Coloratura which doesn't sound like lace and frills, but like something fiery and fierce and interesting. And how wonderful to see a virtuoso at work — pinpoint high notes sung with a smile. I was also impressed by the slightly unusual Jane Parkin, who opened by singing the other aria from Rusalka, with almost unnerving intensity. And then another acrobatic treat, Elena's "Mercè, dilette amiche" from I Vespri Siciliani, which was a bit patchy in the middle but good lord, what a sit-up-and-take-notice upper register! Lovely Lucinda Mirikata-Deacon showed off a rather sweet, luxurious voice in her two arias which perhaps just needs a bit more dramatic abandon to transform it into something truly special; she was best I thought in "Come scoglio", in which she was backed by the orchestra (the contestants all sang their first arias with piano only.) Andrew Moran was another I thought was bound to pick up a prize, but no — then again, he probably doesn't need it. He seems to be doing just fine. To be quite honest, he's not entirely my cup of tea, but he gave two very self-assured and polished performances — "Un dottor della mia sorte" and "Hai gia vinta la causa", both of them stage-ready. But I would be interested to hear him have a shot at something not comic — he's very good at blustery indignation, but can he do pathos?

Having said all the above, it's perhaps only fair that I return to the winner and runner-up. David Corcoran's first selection was not at all to my taste, a "Tombe degli avi miei" which I found altogether too excruciatingly laboured to watch or listen to. However, his "La fleur que tu m'avais jetée" was a rather more refined and appealing affair. Helen Sherman was also best in her second aria. Her "Parto, parto" was impassioned but lacked fluency; her "Una voce poco fa", on the other hand, was just gorgeous — relaxed, engaging and mellifluous, and nicely ornamented to boot. (And I have to say this, even though perhaps two people reading this blog will actually have any idea what I'm saying: she strikes me as Sydney's answer to Brigitte Heuser. This is a compliment to both.)

As I say, the judges were unanimous, and enthusiastically so, in their choice. So I'm sure they're right. All six finalists sang wonderfully and so of course they all deserve recognition. As for me, well, if I had my own $35,000 scholarship to hand out, it would go to Suzanne Shakespeare. But then, she's a soprano, and a glittery coloratura at that — so of course I'd say that.

Mathy Awards semi finals

I love competitive singing. All the musical pleasures of a normal concert, with just a hint of bloodsport to make life a bit more interesting. So I always enjoy vocal competitions. But my excursion to North Sydney for the semi finals of the Mathy Awards last Thursday night was a particular pleasure. As a concert and as a competition, everything about this event was right — a gorgeous and appropriate venue, an informed, appreciative audience (who didn't cough), an entertaining compere and, most importantly, a series of polished performances by singers with musical intelligence and excellent voices.

Soprano Sarah Jones opened the evening with "Johnny" from Britten's Cabaret Songs, by turns knowing, arch and touching as she moved through the song's ever-changing moods and (parodied) musical styles. It was perhaps more an acting showcase than a vocal one, but no less appealing for that. In the second half, her "No word from Tom...I go to him" (from Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress) saw a little less at ease, but was nevertheless engagingly sung. Both pieces suffered initialy from slightly fuzzy diction, but in both cases this cleared up as the songs progressed. Sarah didn't make the finals but was quite rightly awarded the competition's Encouragement Award.

She was followed by Emily Blanch, who was for me the stand-out of the evening. Her stage presence was not the strongest of the evening, nor were her interpretations the most detailed; but Emily has been blessed with something none of her fellow semi-finalists yet possesses — a unique, distinctive and breathtakingly beautiful voice. In terms of sheer beauty of sound, she was the clear winner. Hers is the kind of voice critics like to call "creamy" or "golden" but which possesses far more colours than either word suggests; a large voice but not so large it's beyond her control; aural luxury. Nor is sonic gorgeousness all she possesses; she is an appealing performer, obviously committed to text as well as music. The details can (and I'm sure will) come later, and when they do, Emily Blanch will be somebody very special indeed. In fact I think she already is — I became her totally biased fan when she reduced me to tears in the first two seconds of her first (wholly appropriate) selection, "Io son l'umile ancella". Again, in Strauss' "An die Nacht" she was exquisite and I was in ecstasy.

Helen Sherman was the evening's first mezzo and had my attention right from the start with a very interesting repertoire choice — a song by Schreker, "Stimmen des Tages" which she delivered with plenty of Romantic lyricism. Her second, slightly more conventional selection was perhaps even more impressive, the "Laudamus te" from Mozart Mass in C minor, which she totally aced — all the more so because she was the second singer of the evening to perform it. Soprano Lauren Oldham had performed it earlier in the evening,  but had rather less success with both the aria's technical demands and its sense of pious ecstasy. Lauren did better in her own second selection, "Le spectre de la rose" from Les nuits d'été, having more luck with those long, arching French lines than the coloratura flourishes of the Mozart, but ultimately I think lacked the stamina to carry the song (and it is a long one) cohesively to its conclusion. Both pieces were perhaps slightly too ambitious.

Happily for me, this was a very soprano/mezzo heavy evening, with only two men among the ten semi finalists, both of them baritones. Of these, the first was Laurence Meikle, with two vastly different pieces. First, Schubert — "Der Doppelgänger" from Schwanengesang; and then, of all things, Rossini — Dandini's aria "Come un'ape ne' giorni d'aprile" from La Cenerentola. Both were basically successful though the Schubert was probably the more fully realised and accomplished of the two. His fellow baritone was Michael Lampard — a finalist in the same competition last year — with more Schubert, "Wer sich der Einsamkeit", and Figaro's "Aprite un po'quegl'ochhi". Michael has several important things going for him: real musicality, for one, and a rich, glowing voice which belies his age (at 21, he was the youngest in the competition). But though his performances sound beautiful, and they're intelligently executed, for now he still lacks that certain spark which engages an audience, and which is definitely needed for an operatic (or Lieder) career.

Another of evening's revelations was the wonderful soprano Natalie Aroyan. Though a bit of breathiness in her first selection suggested she might have been suffering from the currently omnipresent flu, she nevertheless gave an enchanting performance, of Rachmaninov's "Ne poy Krasavitsa". Like many of the others, the nerves allayed somewhat, she shone even brighter in the second half. Natalie's second selection was an exquisitely shaped and compelling "Il est doux, il est bon" from Massenet's Hérodiade. Along with Emily's two selections, it provided one of the evening's loveliest and most thrilling moments. Natalie was followed in both halves of the programme by mezzo soprano Margaret Plummer. Again, Margaret's second selection was her best. Brahms' "Von ewiger Liebe" was sweetly sung but somehow never quite there; but her "Werther, Werther" on the other hand was excellent, lyrical and genuinely moving.

Soprano Mary-Jean O'Doherty came representing the stratosphere, beginning with a fiendish Mozart concert aria, "Ah, che non sei capace" — Natalie Dessay territory, this. I had to admire her courage and poise in taking this piece on, and there were some very impressive passages, though all in all I suspect it's not quite within her grasp yet. Nerves played their part too, though — she seemed altogether happier in Milhaud's "A Cupidon", which is in its own way just as acrobatic. Here her high high notes were rather more secure, and the piece as a whole had more shape to it. And finally, at the end of the evening — she's to be congratulated for her patience — was a mezzo soprano, Victoria Wallace. Both she and Mary-Jean before her were familiar from their participation in the early stages of Operatunity Oz (which makes me wonder about how stringent the selection criteria for that show — which is supposed to discover untutored amateurs — really are. But never mind.) Victoria gave us a sensitive, though slightly harsh-edged rendition of Gurney's "Sleep" and an impassioned "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix", which has certainly improved since she sang for Richard Gill et al in Operatunity.

Of the five finalists selected, I successfully picked three — Emily Blanch, Natalie Aroyan and Helen Sherman, the three obvious choices. I confess I was somewhat surprised by the other two, Mary-Jean O'Doherty and Victoria Wallace. But this competition, like the Lexus Song Quest, judges singers not just by their semi-finals performance on its own, but also by interview and private adjudication —  they're selected on a combination of factors, not just one night's vocal ability, but personality, study plans, potential. Thus, I gladly bow to the far better qualified judgement of adjudicator Anson Austin (my compatriot after all) and trust that his selections were the right ones. We'll have to wait until the finals in November to see just how right — on the basis of last Thursday's performances, I'd say it's set to be a brilliant event.

Philippe Jaroussky

Countertenorphiles of the world, unite in jealousy of me. Last Friday night I saw Philippe Jaroussky in concert with the Brandenburg Orchestra. And he is fabulous. As you might expect, given all the awards he's won and his growing superstardom.

His voice wasn't quite what I expected. I think I was expecting something a bit looser and more mezzo-ish. But he's a soprano, and a terribly beautiful one at that. The voice is focused, full of colour; the tone so sweet it's practically edible and yet not cloyingly so. He throws himself into the most fiendish coloratura fearlessly and with an engaging physicality. His agility is impressive; what's most incredible though is his simply stunning breath control — and, hand in hand with that, outrageously perfect pianissimi. To begin at the end — the sustained first note of his encore, Porpora's "Alto giove", was not of this earth. And I don't mean that as a  "countertenors sound ethereal and otherworldly" cliché — simply, it was a sound so shattering perfect it can't have originate from a boring flesh-and-bone human being. Alas, nothing in this paragraph gives any real sense of his appeal; he needs to be seen and heard. He's totally likeable; modest, even — no showboating, even when it would be quite justified. Besides which, the voice is something special. I like him a lot. I'm considering going back for seconds — he's delicious.

As was the programme — Ferrari, Monteverdi, Stradella, Handel, Vivaldi and more besides. In between his appearances, the Brandenburg Orchestra played orchestral bits and pieces, including some seriously impressive improvisations on seventeenth century pieces, where all that's survived are the melody and bass lines. Oh but it was as always upon the every word of the soprano that I hung — he was magical. With every item he just got better and better.  D'India's "Piangono al pianger mio" was perhaps the point where he captured me properly, a quiet and spellbinding lament which elicited a collective audience sigh when it came to a close. The first half was fascinating — all seventeenth century — but in the second half, with Handel, Vivaldi and Fux, that he shone even brighter. Actually he reminds me a little of Cecilia — the gutsy, physical approach to coloratura, coupled with a serene, deeply moving way with a lament. He thrills with brilliance and then moments later he's all hushed devastation. Gorgeous. His final programmed aria was one of few truly familiar numbers in the programme — Rinaldo's "Venti, turbini". To which all I can respond is — wow. Wow.

This, clearly, is not a review. I'm in devotion mode. Harriet Cunningham's review in the Herald provides a bit more balance and detail, though she loves him too. I would take issue with her opening words, however. I actually don't think it is "still a shocking sound". I think we're well and truly over that, aren't we? At least, those of us who hear a reasonable amount of countertenor singing, and I assume that's the case for both myself and Harriet Cunningham. Calling it "shocking" just seems to me a reviewing cliché. Be brave, say something different; just review the singer without feeling obliged to acknowledge how "weird" a male soprano supposedly is. Anyway enough reviewing-of-the-review. At any rate I certainly can't argue with the last word of her review. This was definitely bliss. If Philippe Jaroussky isn't a part of your life already, make him one.

Sydney Symphony Gala: Rossini Stabat Mater

I love Rossini. He's the Renée Fleming of bel canto composers — whatever the piece, whatever the occasion, he just always sounds so much like himself. Even when his immediately recognisable style mightn't perhaps be the most appropriate, he does it anyway — and if you're a fan, you love him for it. His Stabat Mater, performed last night by the Sydney Symphony and imported soloists, is not what you'd call a contemplative lament. When the soprano starts up her jaunty solo you'd hardly think it had anything whatsoever to do with pious reflection, or with a mother witnessing her son's crucifixion. But like Renée, when he's sincere about it, Rossini turns his potentially ill suited approach into a perfect fit. There's obvious solemnity and spirituality underpinning the piece and the operatic treatment manages to celebrate that rather than totally obscur or undermine it.

Leading last night's concert was the Symphony's chief conductor and artistic director Gianluigi Gelmetti. Gelmetti attracts a bit of criticism for various reasons, one of which is his allegedly narrow repertoire. I suspect there's some justification for that criticism but I doubt anyone would deny that, however limited his musical scope, Rossini is well and truly within it. The playing he drew from the Sydney Symphony was everything Rossini ought to be, vivid and bright, with just the right hint of religious gravity thrown in where necessary. The Sydney Philharmonia choirs did an excellent job, with a particularly wonderful ability to achieve radiant pianissimi en masse.

The four soloists were a varied bunch. Breathtakingest among them was the magnificent Daniela Barcellona, a totally ideal Rossini mezzo, her gorgeously pliable voice resplendent with luxuriant contralto colours. In the operatic excerpts which preceded the Stabat Mater, she dominated the Semiramide scena and duet and thus it broke my heart that she wasn't allowed a solo aria as well  — her "Bel raggio lusinghier" would surely be one to treasure, had we been given the chance. In the Stabat Mater itself she was captivating. Similarly excellent was the astonishing velvety voice of bass Roberto Scandiuzzi, whose solo in the Stabat Mater was among its most scintillating moments. Soprano Ana Rita Taliento, on the other hand, seemed underpowered and perhaps also under the weather. Her singing was appealingly pretty when it was audible, but was too easily swallowed up by the orchestra and occasionally marred by excessive vibrato. I remain ambivalent about the evening's tenor, Vittorio Grigolo — lately receiving a bit of press chez OperaChic. Despite his questionable (and cheesy) crossover career, he definitely does have a real voice. However he also seems just a bit too aware of this and of his effect on a certain sector of his audience, playing up in a way which to me seemed more calculated than charming. His "Se il nome saper voi bramate" was quite devastatingly beautiful but as the evening continued I grew tired of his determination to milk every note for maximum swoon value, and likewise of his tense and melodramatic vocal expression which made for choppy phrasing and numerous sharp intakes of breath. His inability to sit still while others were singing  — flipping the pages of his score, mopping his brow, fidgeting with his jacket — didn't exactly win me over either. An opera director could probably harness all this slightly manic energy quite effectively but in a concert setting his demeanour seemed to me out of place.

And having just devoted far too many lines to an unsatisfactory tenor, let me right the balance a bit by expressing once again my admiration of beautiful Daniela. I love my adopted opera company but so far there are very few singers in this country (and none of them mezzos) who I've heard come near to the inspired musicality — not to mention vocal glory — which Daniela achieved with such apparent ease. This apparently isn't her first Sydney visit so I can only hope she'll return.

Tenor posturing notwithstanding, the big applause went — and rightly so — to mezzo, bass and above all, maestro. Audiences, so I'm told, have a tendency to adore Gelmetti and they certainly did last night. I can't claim to have been quite so enthusiastic. Though I'd be hard pressed to find anything specifically musical to quibble about, the whole presentation of the thing seemed at times somehow makeshift and lacking in cohesion. The soloists sang passionately on their own but didn't always appear hugely engaged with one another or with the chorus, nor entirely comfortable on the concert hall stage. Still it was an enjoyable evening. Maybe not desperately brilliant but well executed all the same. Enough so that Rossini's adorability shone nice and brightly — and that's always a joy.

St Matthew Passion

I booked shamefully late for the St Matthew Passion last night. By which I mean, about seven hours before it started. My reward was a front row seat — in the Concert Hall, this means a sore neck if you want to look at anything other than the violinists' legs. In the case of last night, it also meant the soloists and most of the choir were basically invisible. Acoustically, too, it wasn't the best place to be — with the soloists positioned behind the orchestra, and my ears so up close and personal with the front half of said orchestra, the balance was occasionally a little skewed. I'm not complaining, however. As you might imagine, the lack of a visual experience served to heighten the aural one — and who needs visuals for the St Matthew Passion anyway? If it's not there in the music, it won't be anywhere else.

Reviewing a St Matthew Passion too critically seems to me a slightly creepy exercise in missing the point. This kind of music has a significance which transcends its execution. A few comments, though, because I can't help myself. Sara Macliver sang with practically super-human purity of tone. Fiona Campbell, whose Idamante frustrated me in December, still isn't my cup of tea, but came off far better here than in the Mozart. Paul McMahon as the Evangelist sounded a bit strangled in his uppermost register and sang with strangely chewed German diction but otherwise coped pretty admirably with what is, after all, a very demanding part. Tenor James Eggleston's light, attractive singing provided a nice contrast to McMahon's brighter, more dramatic sound; Stephen Bennett sang with suitable gravitas and authority — and I applaud anyone who can actually sing the whole of "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein", because I can't listen to it without going completely to pieces. Most magnificent of all was the overwhelmingly beautiful Christus of Joshua Bloom. So incredible that frankly it's hard to describe his performance without blaspheming. Let us just say, he was ideally cast; I had no trouble believing this to be God's voice on Earth. Surrounding our soloists, choir and orchestra were excellent, responding in kind to the obvious commitment of conductor Brett Weymark. 

What affects me most about the St Matthew Passion, irredeemable heathen though I am, is the extraordinary humanity it brings to its narrative. You don't need to be a believer to grasp the emotions portrayed in an aria like "Mache dich, mein Herze, rein" — whatever the moment's religious significance, it's also just the representation of one human being's grief at the loss of another.  The account of Jesus' death retains all its transcendent spiritual gravity; but set to such music, it also becomes an intense, immediate, sometimes unbearable account of personal loss and mourning. Which, regardless of your spiritual leanings, is just what it is.