Prima la musica, poi le parole

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.