Prima la musica, poi le parole

Once, twice, six times a goddess

I am not falling into my old habits, traipsing across countries or oceans at the drop of a hat in mad pursuit of Australian sopranos. I'd have been happy with my five Sydney Arabellas but since the opportunity of a sixth in Melbourne was offered, I was of course delighted by the prospect. There is no such thing as too much Cheryl Barker. Nor, for that matter, is there such a thing as too much Arabella — at least not this Arabella. John Cox's production is just as endearingly elegant in either setting. The principal cast is thankfully unchanged, which has meant double duty for a couple of the singers — Milijana Nikolic and Lorina Gore sang Adelaide and Fiakermilli respectively on Friday night, then Ulrica and Oscar the following afternoon, a feat for which I most definitely doff my non-existent hat.

The performance I saw was the last of the run. It seems my timing was just right — as I understand it, Peter Coleman-Wright was announced on opening night as singing through a chest infection and subsequently cancelled the next three performances. His cover was Warwick Fyfe, and I concede that, while Warwick's far from a favourite of mine, I can actually see him making quite an effective Mandryka — but the dizzying chemistry of Cheryl and Peter could not, I think, be recreated with half the partnership missing. And since that electricity is one of my favourite aspects of this Arabella, I'm very grateful indeed that Peter was back in health and on stage, as buoyant and teddybearish as ever.

Cheryl Barker was exquisite because she is always exquisite, because being exquisite is what being Cheryl Barker means. No change there, except in the details — no two of her Arabellas have been exactly the same, she is a living, breathing character whom Cheryl creates afresh with each performance. As ever — in Arabella and elsewhere — her voice grew warmer, more expansive, more secure and more enthralling as the evening progressed. She has nailed this role; I hope for the world's sake she's given opportunities to sing it elsewhere.

Failing that, let's just keep her singing it here forever. I'd happily let her lissome, spine-shivering singing keep right on sending me a little further round the bend with every phrase. By the time she says, with perfect coquetry "die drei sind lustiger" I'm already half gone, and at that point we've barely begun. I don't need to point out the aching beauty of the duet with Zdenka; if you don't feel it, then you've a heart of stone which no amount of pointing out could fix. Her "Mein Elemer" is a quicksilver tour de force. "Und du wirst mein Gebieter sein", well, I've already waxed lyrical about this —  Peter and Cheryl in duet radiate true love, vocally and physically, with a sincerity almost too potent to bear. She handles the Act Three confrontation with clarity, passion and towering dignity, a commanding presence and yet delicate, lovable and so, so, so beautiful. From opening night in Sydney to closing night in Melbourne, all this has been true of Cheryl throughout; but then, that's just what she does. She's Cheryl. (I'm mad about her. Is it obvious?)

Production, cast, consuming gorgeousness of Cheryl, all this was unchanged. One thing, however, was very, very different in Melbourne — the choice of tempi. I heard Lionel Friend conduct the opera once here in Sydney, when Richard Hickox was home with a virus. There, he was a proxy Hickox. In Melbourne, he is his own man and his conception of this opera is markedly different. This was fast. Sometimes pleasingly so; sometimes not. In parts, Friend's lightning dash did a nice job of draining off a bit of excess syrup (though I don't find this opera as saccharine as some do) and there were times his zippy recitatives did aid the pacing of the piece. All in all, though, he was too fast for me. A good portion of the glow of Arabella emanates from its ecstatic dwelling on gorgeous melodies, and I think it's okay to allow to just sit and radiate for a little while, no need to keep pressing on and on. Not that he denied us all luxury, not at all — but nevertheless I couldn't help but feel a certain impatience simmering beneath even the most drawn out passages.

The other issue with this fast forwarded Arabella — more obvious to me because I had the performances under Hickox for comparison — was its detrimental effect on the staging. Everything was happening faster, which meant that the carefully measured stage business which seemed so well matched to Hickox's performances, now appeared rougher and more rushed. There was a moment when Zdenka had to blurt a final line more or less over her shoulder, just to get off the stage in time. Arabella re-entered the room while the door was still swinging shut behind Matteo. I think Theodor was singing about his bills before even looking at them. And the depictive Act Three prelude turned from fervent to chaotic; evidently Hickox and Friend have very different visions of Zdenka's First Time. The change of pace, while awkward, isn't ever vastly problematic, and if, like a sane person, you've only seen the production in one city or t'other, I don't suppose it's a problem at all. Having seen it at both speeds, though, I can say I absolutely prefer the slower version, both musically and theatrically. Still, I'm pleased to have heard both, as there was much to love in Friend's reading and in the fluid, fabulous playing of Orchestra Victoria, ably assisted by a far kinder acoustic than that of the Opera Theatre.

And it seems I was not the only blogger making the Sydney-Melbourne Arabella road trip.   Marcellous was there too, and his post makes more detailed mention of the brisker tempi — apparently Friend's reading of the score took about fifteen minutes off Hickox's time, which seems a pretty significant difference. Marcellous attended the same performance I did, which does make me wonder if he might perchance be the distinctively dressed gentleman whom I often see at concerts and opera here and whom I also happened to spot filing into the State Theatre on Friday night. But no, I suppose that kind of coincidence only happens in opera, not in real life. 

Spider and fly

So apparently this what I do on weekends. I go to the Eastern Suburbs to watch Ramon Vargas watch Angela Gheorghiu die.

With the headband and her hair out in Act Two, she even looks like Veronica Lodge. If she's Veronica then maybe that makes me a weird amalgam of Betty and Archie. As aware of her dangers as the former, as blissfully able to ignore them as the latter. No, that's going an inch or two too far. Angela hasn't completely consumed me and I don't believe she ever will. Nevertheless, she has bewitched, bothered and bewildered me more thoroughly than I thought likely — actually, before last weekend's Bohème, I didn't think she could do those things to me at all. That, to my surprise, has flown out the window and now her Violetta has stopped it, for the moment, from climbing back in.

There is so much baggage and back story with Angela. It is impossible to approach her with total innocence. I've spent years forming opinions of her that are only half related to her musical significance. And I'm not about to apologise for that, or try and back track. Very little that I have seen, heard or read of Offstage Angela has caused me to like her. Even during the Met Bohème moviecast, when I was enchanted by Onstage Angela, her non singing persona did not attract me. But rumour breeds rumour, misperception breeds misperception; we have to assume that some of the negativity is baseless. At the same time, I think it's clear that some, at least, is not. She hasn't the ebullient sweetness of Renée or the generous, immediate likeability of Glorious Joyce. Neither, I imagine, is she completely blackhearted. Is she likeable at all, though? I don't know. Do I like her? I don't know, and it depends what you mean. Incorporating all that baggage and back story, adding my own observations of her backstage antics during that Bohème broadcast and the hard-to-articulate impressions of her during this afternoon's La traviata — I don't think so.

But what if everything extra were cleared away? If I had never heard even the briefest mention of this Angela Gheorghiu until the opening credits today, had never seen her or heard her sing until her "Flora, amici", then maybe I'd write something like:

I've just seen this soprano sing Violetta at La Scala and she was captivating. Not perhaps the most aurally luscious Violetta of my life, better suited to the long lines of Act Three than the froth and coloratura of Act One but that's alright. And I'm nitpicking because her singing, whatever else it was, was always interesting. Her acting varied between devastatingly detailed and offputtingly melodramatic but there was a certain something in her stage presence which encompassed both these extremes, allowed her to flow from one to another without losing her magnetism. Occasionally she was completely over the top — has anyone ever made the "aaar" in "E tardi" so very very very long? But then in other moments — Dio mio, she was exquisite. Had I been in a different mood, had I had reason not to like her, I suspect finding fault would be easy. But I was in the mood I was, and I was happy to enjoy whatever kind of Violetta — and whatever kind of Verdi — she felt inclined to throw my way.

Well what do you know, I've gone and written it anyway. She divides me in two. Good twin, bad twin; rational awareness, irrational besottedness. One the one hand — you can practically see her drawing lifeforce from applause, which is a little disturbing. "Sempre libera" really did seem to tax her and I had the impression she was pushing and pulling tempi all over the place. Violetta's illusory "rebirth" just before she died was appallingly overacted. And on the other — I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

This was what it was. Angela is what she is, like her or hate her, pursue her or run a mile. And I? I fall into both categories simultaneously, or else I'm somewhere in the middle, toss'd like a ship in a Vivaldi aria. About the rest of world and time, I've no idea and I'm not about to go making rash declarations of anything. All I can tell you is that for the duration of this Traviata, Angela entrapped me. And I knew it, and I loved it.

Have diva, will travel: American edition

As some of you may remember, two years ago (to the day, as it happens) I announced that I was throwing caution to the wind and flying to the other side of the world in pursuit of diva.

Well, I'm doing it again. My Canadian grandmother is flying me over to Vancouver for a visit. On the way home, I'll spend five nights in San Francisco. The timing is obscenely good. I'm almost jealous of myself.

I'll see my first Das Rheingold, with a cast which includes a serious and long term favourite of mine, the gorgeous Jennifer Larmore. And since I like doing things in order, I'm pleased that my first live Ring opera happens to be the first one.

I'll see Handel's Ariodante. The cast is overwhelmingly starry. Susan Graham sings the title role. Ewa Podles — Ewa Podles!!!! — is Polinesso. And as Ginevra, the woman whose disc of Italian arias was one of the main reasons I fell in love with opera, the woman who essentially introduced me to the concept of bel canto, the ever beautiful Ruth Ann Swenson.

And. I will see. Natalie Dessay in Lucia di Lammermoor. If you read this blog with anything even approaching regularity, you can perhaps begin to imagine just how significant this is for me. Just writing it makes my eyes water. What kind of state I will be in upon seeing her live, and in Lucia, I don't know. Natalie. In Lucia. Repeating it doesn't make it any less mindblowing.

So that's the plan. I fly in June. Meanwhile any suggestions about what to do with the rest of my time in fabulous San Francisco — or insiders' tips on SFOperagoing, for that matter — are of course heartily welcomed.

More on Arabella (what else did you expect?)

The other women of Arabella

I did say in my first Arabella post that I would save comment on the singers-who-aren't-Cheryl for my review, but (as is my wont and my prerogative) I have changed my mind. Having spent two evenings and a matinée with them, a few among them deserve further attention; not to mention a bit of the uncritical adoration which this forum allows.

Lorina Gore is a blinding revelation to me. Though Fiakermilli is her Opera Australia début, I have heard her once before — as Norina in NZ Opera's touring Don Pasquale. As I recall, I was about the only person not to give her a total rave; I found her pretty and polished but not phenomenal. Fiakermilli is another story; whether the transformation owes itself to her own artistic and vocal progress, to the different repertoire, to the change in venue, or to all or none of the above — or whether it's just me, being my usual capricious self — I've no idea. But a transformation it certainly is, and she well nigh knocked my socks off on opening night. Here, operagods be praised, is the kind of full voiced, ringing, precise and genuinely virtuosic coloratura I've found disappointingly lacking from Opera Australia. Not an overpushed soubrette, not an agile but essentially lyric voice; she's the stuff of which Zerbinettas are made — indeed, having discovered she's out there, I'm keener than ever for an Ariadne. I wish she'd sung Olympia in last year's Hoffmann; and I hope Opera Australia plans to take sensible but full advantage of her talent, which is a rare one among their current stable.

I have already lamented the paucity of opportunities to hear Jacqueline Dark in this city. The fortune teller is another too small role but at least it affords a reasonable opportunity to hear her at full throttle, and I'm increasingly aware of what a pleasure this is. What impressed me in her Tisbe impresses me here too, which is that underpinning the rather gorgeous voice is a real idiomatic intelligence, an understanding of style and of phrasing. She struck me in Cenerentola as one of the few who knew how to make her recitative as lyrical and expressive as her arioso and her ensembles; how to integrate it into the musical whole, rather than chopping it up with the mannerisms of speech. In Arabella she carries those long, long Strauss lines exactly where they need to go without glossing over the details; we can enjoy the dialogue between her and Adelaide while simultaneously enjoying the opportunity Strauss offers to bask in two contrastingly lovely mezzo voices.

Which brings me to the other mezzo of Arabella, the ever more significant Milijana Nikolic. Every role I hear Milijana in leaves me more impressed by her — a real dramatic mezzo with the vocal heft, the range of colours and the versatile, vivid stage presence to do justice to the roles which should become her bread and butter. From a genuinely terrifying Zia Principessa, to a ghostly yet imposing Mother of Antonia, to a toweringly seductive Venus and now a hilarious and adorable Adelaide — she's fast becoming a very important part of the company, and I look forward to more and more and more of her. As I think we've already discussed in the comments elsewhere, Opera Australia looks to be doing Aida next year, and I can think of no better Amneris among the company.

And, just briefly, the one-and-only Arabella of Arabella

Fear not, you shan't have reprise of my last paean just yet. However I did my (delectable) duty post-matinée on Saturday, and queued in the foyer to have my programme signed by divine Cheryl Barker. Who arrived, let me add, in full Act Three costume — she only had twenty minutes to get from curtain call to signing session. We're talking lavish and lacy Viennese ballgown, hoop skirt and all, and flowers in her hair. She looked like a dream, was delightful to speak with, and I'm crazier about her than ever. She was also signing at the ABC Shop in the QVB today, so I hope some of the Cherylites reading this blog managed to take advantage of one (or both!) of these chances to enter the the radiant Presence Of.

Bella

I have the following problems with Cheryl Barker —

Strauss is eye-closing music, but I couldn't close my eyes to Cheryl's Arabella if I tried.

She keeps going blurry at just the moments I most wish to see her clearly. Curse you, tear glands!

She's messing with my senses. Peripheral vision — gone. It takes real effort to see what's around her. Sense of hot and cold — hard to tell, what with all the goosebumps, etc. Sense of hearing — is the famously consumptive audience actually coughing less? Or am I just oblivious? Oh, and rationality is shot too. On Saturday afternoon I will spend three hours looking mostly at a wall, perhaps the odd glimpse of stage; I appear to be happy and excited about this.

The operas she sings in end.

I came to her first Arabella already besotted. I expected the greatest of great things from her. I expected absolute gorgeousness. I expected a three dimensional and utterly believable Arabella for whom I could instantly fall head over heels. I expected that voice which is oh-so-Cheryl and oh-so-thrilling to be in full bloom and knock me over. It's difficult to imagine higher expectations than mine; so how, exactly, did she manage still to surpass them? Or perhaps I mean, to transcend them. She was all the above but more importantly, she was Cheryl and she was Arabella. If singing opera is just a job, she did her job to perfection; if it is an art then she is an artist of the first magnitude.

Little things mean a lot. She is supremely talented at pretending to look out a window. She colours the word "nein" during the lead-in to her duet with Mandryka in a way which manages, in one syllable, to express the entire character and emotional life of Arabella. When others are singing to her, she doesn't "react", she actually reacts, word by word, phrase by phrase. It is an actual conversation. She twirls gorgeously on the dance floor. Her voice blazes brighter the deeper in love she falls and when she reaches that final, crucial phrase — "Take me as I am" — it's a wonder the theatre doesn't just come crashing down. If we clapped hard enough, it might. We did try, I think. I did. (But they discourage long ovations at the Opera House. They bring the curtain down and the house lights up and give you no choice but to shut up and go home.)

And while I do not for a second doubt her acting abilities, it adds to the moving splendour of it all that she is actually in love with her Mandryka, and he with her. Husband and wife on stage together does not in and of itself guarantee electricity, but in this case, it's most definitely there. Never more so than in their Act Two duet. They pledge undying love to one another. Still in character, but with such palpable sincerity and affection that it seems almost intrusive to sit there and witness it. It's a moment of almost unbearable (and thus, completely and wonderfully bearable) beauty. Intense, but tranquil and assured; quite unforgettable.

The me of this moment would like to reach back in time and smack the me of October 2006 around the head, for hearing her Jenufa and not immediately feeling her exquisite power. I'm making up for it now, and then some. I cannot believe my luck — our luck — to have such a luminous and fascinating artist practically at our doorstep and fulfilling dream after dream. Just for now, forget I'm a foreigner and let me be Australian, so that I can say with pride: Cheryl is ours, and we adore her.

Qui la voce

Outside, grey skies and endless rain. Inside, all is bliss and sunshine, because I have Natalie. Or, more to the point, Natalie has me. Music to go mad to. You wouldn't want to be in the fragile state of Lucia or Elvira — Natalie's singing of their mad scenes would assist you, smiling to the abyss. I'm transfixed. How many times have I heard "Ah, fors'è lui" or "Caro nome"? But supernatural Natalie makes everything sound like the first time.  Her Maria Stuarda takes my breath away. Her high notes turn me into Pavlov's dog, I cry on command. And there's the other stuff — brilliant ornamentation, the weird and wonderful sounds produced by Concerto Köln, the glass harmonica for her Lucia (and the unexpectedly absent cadenza like at the Met, the cadenza that's only in our heads, and hers), a phrase or two from a typically overwrought Alagna. But the blood in all those veins is her inexplicable and bewitching essential Natalieness. Cataloguing her special talents and strengths, praising her vocal acting or her agility or her high notes or her fatally gorgeous timbre, that's all beside the point. WE KNOW ALL THAT. Natalie is singular, Natalie is magical, Natalie is opera, Natalie is perfect. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.

Advent

I did this last year and thought I might as well do it again. Here's an all-at-once video advent calendar. Each link a different bit of fabulousness, some operatic, some not. Enjoy.

December 1st — And I'll adore you too
December 2nd — Mamička
December 3rd — Two revelations in one
December 4th — A favourite triple threat (Her. Forget him.)
December 5th — Two for one
December 6th — Much much much too short
December 7th — Sorely missed
December 8th — An unsung great
December 9th — A knockout
December 10th — Unexpected and wonderful
December 11th — Credit where credit's due, I think this is great
December 12th — Glorious
December 13th — Impeccable as always
December 14th — Looks terrifying, sounds like heaven
December 15th — Gorgeous boy
December 16th — A tribute to my adopted home
December 17th — Still the greatest
December 18th — Knockout glitters
December 19th — Not sure which of the three I love most
December 20th — Caesar herself
December 21st — Bête noire (but she's growing on me)
December 22nd — Magic
December 23rd — I wish this was a video (but it isn't)
December 24th — Sie ist die erste Sängerin

And finally, an embedded Christmas gift. Happy holidays to everyone.

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.

Dear Santa

I figure it's the season for wishes, so I've been thinking about some of mine. Too late for this Christmas, of course; but Santa, if you're reading, keep this in mind for future reference.

From the record companies, I would like...

A solo disc by Patrizia Ciofi. Hasn't it been an awfully long time since the Vivaldi motets and Amor e gelosia? I think not baroque this time, though. I'm in the mood for 19th century French repertoire. Massenet (my guilty pleasure) and Berlioz — I know she's recorded Benvenuto Cellini, I'd love to hear her "Entre l'amour et le devoir" without buying the whole damn opera. Some Offenbach wouldn't go amiss and some Meyerbeer too, perhaps. I'll stretch the French theme to include Donizetti en français, too — Marie, obviously, since I'm still obsessed with her Fille, and Lucie's mad scene, which I did have on another computer once and which was odd and fabulous. 

From Cheryl Barker, maybe something in the vein of Renée's Signatures — big scenes and arias from the music she's her best in. I'd like some bits of the roles I regret missing her in — a healthy (or consumptive, for that matter) chunk of Violetta, Elvira's "Mi tradi", Salome's huge final monologue, Tatyana's Letter Scene, even Hanna Glawari... and then, just to indulge me, some things she's never (to my knowledge) sung — the Marschallin's Act I monologue, Elisabetta's "Tu che le vanita", Marietta's Lied, and - why not? - some Vitellia. It would certainly keep me going for a while. Failing that — Chandos, how about a Cheryl Barker Sings Great Operatic Arias for Opera in English? She seems to be a Chandos in-house diva these days, after all — Cio-Cio San, Katya Kabanova, Jenufa, Emilia Marty, Rusalka and counting...

Finally, a recital disc dream I've cherished for several years. Way back when I was first enchanted by Patricia Wright, I imagined her singing Copland's Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson. I don't now them as well now as I used to, but something in the fragments I recall still seems like a beautiful fit. Actually it's more than that — the fragments I recall, I hear in my head in her voice. And when I listen to her sing Vaughan Williams or (sigh) Bax or even (different kind of sigh) Richard Strauss, this idea always re-occurs to me. They don't fill out a whole CD on their own, though, so I'd pair them — just to make for an all-out lyrical feast — with Golijov's Three Songs. Patricia's take on these is exquisite. I have a recording of them; the world at large deserves the same privilege.

Two other wishes I would have made are already to be fulfilled of their own accord. Natalie Dessay's Italian arias comes out next month; later in the year there's an all Handel recital from Glorious Joyce.

From Opera Australia, I'd like...

As always, Poulenc. Les dialogues des Carmélites seems the likeliest, so I'll make that my number one wish. Antoinette Halloran as Blanche de la Force? Elizabeth Whitehouse as Madame Lidoine? But not Hye-Seoung Kwon or Taryn Fiebig as Soeur Constance (it would inevitably be one of them) — just import Sarah Tynan, she's magical on the Chandos recording.

Bizet's Djamileh, as I've probably said before. Beats Carmen and Les pêcheurs de perles hands down, though it's only one act, so it needs a partner. How about Bizet's Le Docteur Miracle about which I know absolutely nothing except that it's also a one act opera. Viardot's Cendrillon has three acts, but only lasts an hour, so it might fit too. Not that I see Opera Australia leaping at an Obscure French Double Feature any time soon.

More Cheryl vehicles. I don't have to wish too hard for these, I suspect; they just happen. My hope at the moment is that the Madama Butterfly and Manon Lescaut currently listed on the calendar at the ICBA website with "Will be announced soon" instead of a company name will prove to be Opera Australia ventures. Especially the Butterfly — I'm besotted enough with her Cio-Cio San on film, but to see her in person, in the same beautiful production would make my little heart flutter even faster.

And for Pinchgut, I'd like...

The funding and resources to allow them to double, triple, quadruple or quintuple their season. Or more than that. I wouldn't dare to wish for specific operas from Pinchgut as they're much better at coming up with fabulous ideas than I ever could be. This year, Vivaldi; next year, CAVALLI. I'm very happy. The thought of future seasons has me salivating but oh, what a joy it would be not to have to wait a year between productions.

Back on earth, some slightly more possible wishes for the near future:

A Mimi so revelatory from Antoinette Halloran that I start to think I like La boheme; a shop which actually has Opera Rara's Entre Nous: Celebrating Offenbach in stock so I can finally buy it; good sound quality (despite this ominous post from Bardassa) at the Met cinema broadcasts; continued speedy access to NatalieTube, lately becoming KathleenTube; and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of music in my stocking next Tuesday.

Marie revisited

As fixation and obsession and all their cousins are very much the stock in trade of this blog, I'm returning again to Patrizia Ciofi's Marie in La fille du régiment. I have more to say, especially having watched her again this evening.

She's an extraordinary little creature. Off the top of my head, I can't think of another among my favourites who looks so downright strange when she sings. Quite frequently she actually looks like she's in pain. In repose, she's rather lovely, in her redheaded mouse kind of way, but the act of producing That Voice distorts her face something shocking. And yet she makes a virtue of this. She looks weird, but she looks interesting — and even without the sound on, the way she looks when she's singing makes it plainly evident that something important is happening. Adding to the appeal is the fact that her external contortions aren't reflected in what's going on internally; her face might be twisted but her voice isn't. Patrizia isn't always the easiest singer to watch but she's unfailingly exquisite to hear. Besides, there are moments when the unusual physicality of her singing only helps to heighten its intensity. In the final ensemble, for instance, she and Tonio reprise "Salut à la France" with as much fervour as they can muster. When Marie's high notes emerge from Patrizia, they look like a scream but they don't sound like one — they're just thrilling and passionate pristine high notes, with the force and fire of a scream, perhaps, but none of the ugliness or strain.

The other aspect of her performance which warms my heart is in a sense not really a part of her performance at all. It's the response from the audience. Without wishing too much to dismiss or denigrate the audiences of my adopted country, it disappoints me sometimes to find that rapturous applause, shouting, stomping and so on tend only to come in response to something overtly virtuosic. Loud and fast, in other words. Emma Matthews' Konstanze only received an exceptional ovation for "Martern aller Arten", though her gifts were (I thought) on lovelier display in "Traurigkeit". Frank Peter Zimmermann was incredible in the Berg Violin Concerto, but those who stood were only moved to do so by the preposterously difficult showpiece he gave as an encore. I've no doubt this is the case in many many other places too. But at the Teatro Carlo Felice, at least, the audience is just as enthusiastic and adoring in its response to Marie's fireworks-free "Il faut partir" as to her more coloratura laden moments. Yes, they go wild for Juan Diego's high Cs, but there's as much appreciation here for beauty and depth of expression as there is for vocal acrobatics. Tonio gets to sing the "hit" but come the final curtain, Marie is just as warmly received, if not more so — whether the same would be true here (now that Joanie's long past taking on the title role) I honestly don't know. Though, let's be fair — if Marie is Patrizia Ciofi, I don't imagine any audience could fail to go crazy for her every phrase.