Prima la musica, poi le parole

Tubular belles

What is a long weekend for, if not for sinking happily into the tar pit that is YouTube? And what is a blog for, if not for pulling you down there with me? An assortment of video treasures I can't help but share. (My apologies for the atrocious title, but once it had occured to me, I couldn't shake it.)

I started out trying to watch as many renditions of Desdemona's Willow Song as I could find. Evidently I am a masochist — this aria makes a mess of me every single time. A couple are audio only, but no less devastating for that — Anna Moffo is so delicately perfect you can practically see her anyway and, in her own way, Maria Callas kind of renders visuals unnecessary too. Lovely Barbara Frittoli (long time girl crush of the one and only vf) is another heartbreaker. Renée is surprisingly out there and powerful in concert at the Chatelet, despite wearing a truly inexplicable amount of clothing. (I heard her again tonight, on the Met broadcast of Otello and, well, there's no other way to put it — I burst into tears like a toddler.) But nobody, chez YouTube at least, can touch Mirella. Nobody else's high A# stabs me quite so painfully. I have perhaps mentioned my foolish habit of listening to Mirella sing this aria on my iPod, meaning that I find myself suddenly staring intently at the ceiling in public places, so as not to make a weeping fool of myself. And she's upsetting enough with audio only, but watching her makes it much worse. [Postscript: I just found Renata's. So maybe I'll declare a tie.]

Speaking of Mirella triumphans — I followed my Willow Song kick with a "Con onor muore" kick, and Mirella wins again. Not without stiff competition, though. Victoria de los Angeles is small and sweet but steely and determined. Renata is my first ever Butterfly (actually that's not true, but it might as well be), though it's a shame this clip doesn't actually include those opening words — everybody else I've heard sings them, but Renata speaks them in that distinctive, sonorous voice of hers and it's completely chilling. Anna Moffo makes another appearance, this time with visuals. But Cristina Gallardo-Domas is a rather frayed disappointment, and while I don't suppose she can be blamed for the weird death throes (yes, we get it, she's dying like a real butterfly, enough already) they're still offputting. Getting back to Mirella, though — I can't believe I'd never seen this before. It's unlike all the other deaths of Butterfly. She makes him watch. This took me entirely by surprising and it's quite beautiful while at the same time totally horrifying. (Speaking of horrifying  — forgive me, Gert, but I'm really not sure about the facial hair Placido is sporting there.)

So after all the above, I needed more Mirella. (I always Need More Mirella. It's a good rule for life.) I love this excerpt from her film of La traviata. The extreme close up of her eyes is a bit strange, but it also highlights just what a powerful actress she is — all the emotions you hear in her voice, you see in those eyes. In an odd sort of way, I also love this, from Act One of Fedora. Apparently Mirella breaks embargoes as well as hearts: that clip marks the first time I've heard even a note of Fedora since June 2006.  Above all, I love her Tatyana (Part One and Part Two). This is a revelation to me, but really shouldn't be — it's from the gala re-opening of the Zurich opera house, a concert I grew up watching. And yet I've very little recollection of this. There is a possibility it was on occasion fast forwarded (which is evil, I agree, but I wasn't the one holding the remote, I swear). Anyway I find it totally spellbinding. And there's no staging, no props or costumes. Just Mirella and the music and that's all you need.

Who else? This month, as noted, is All About Arabella for me. And believe it or not, not just Cheryl's Arabella. Karita is her glamorous, fascinating self here (with Thomas Hampson, endeavouring to deserve her) and here (with Barbara Bonney, looking like Le Petit Prince). I mean, she's clearly not trying to be a 19 year old Arabella, but who cares? It's not exactly a conventional staging in any other respect either. An old favourite of mine is Renata's "Voi lo sapete" — she's radiantly beautiful, her singing is sublime, but what it's really all about is that wail at the end, which has to be heard to be believed. There is the inimitable magic of Beverly Sills — in magnificent duet with Carol Burnett (both of them in top form), a totally age inappropriate and totally amazing Daughter of the Regiment and, maybe best of all, on the Muppet Show (Pigoletto, of course). Another more recent wonder, likewise full of sunshine — Glorious Joyce, as an unbelievably beautiful Rosina. And as my parting gift, though I've no doubt linked to it before, here's this. One of my favouritest things ever, and likely to stay in your head for hours if not days.

A/V

I've been watching DVDs this week. Not buying them, but watching them.

La fille du régiment

My favourite so far, without a doubt. Patrizia Ciofi as Marie and Juan Diego Florez as Tonio. Apart from a few clips of the Covent Garden production which I watched on YouTube, half a dozen renditions of "Salut à la France" and of course the tenor's high Cs, I admit not having been hugely familiar with this opera. It's rather more beautiful than I think I expected, not just unendingly frivolous and fluffy. The update to WWII seems to work pretty well; it's unintrusive at least and thankfully comes without dark undertones. I'm already an avowed adorer of Patrizia Ciofi and yet her gorgeousness here took me by a little by surprise; it's an unusual voice, to be sure, but as I've said before, addictive. Her singing lesson is a riot — that sometimes rather white tone she has is well suited to singing atrociously flat, and she sounds absolutely appalling until suddenly, seemingly by accident, she hits a glorious note which eventually blossoms into cascading coloratura. And then there's Juan Diego — what could little me possibly add to all that's been said about him in this role, and in that aria? But he is adorable and magnificent. He encores "Pour mon âme", of course, and it's even better the second time. What's so charming is that the encore comes not from a need to show off or bask in applause, but from a truly humble, obliging spirit — this is what the audience dearly wants, and deserves, and so it's what they receive. Francesca Franci turns in a rather fabulous performance as the Marquise as well. Actually it's all pretty fantastic. And now the fact that next year I'll get to watch the cinema broadcast of the Met production, with Juan Diego again and Natalie, is even more exciting than it was. If that's possible.

Le nozze di Figaro
I've also seen the first half of the frankly odd Salzburg Figaro, part of the M22 Mozart marathon. It's Figaro as a drama. Conventional but hugely oversized sets which make the singers look like dolls in a dolls house, and an invented, mute, dancing "Cherubim" (who's dressed like Cherubino but with wings) who comes and messes invisibly with everybody's minds and movements. Cherubino (Christine Schäfer dressed like a Von Trapp child) is the outlet for the Countess' pent-up longings and Susanna's as well; he's kissed deeply by them both, and more besides. Susanna is Anna Netrebko at her most engaging and truly lovely; her darkish sound isn't necessarily what you'd always want from a Susanna but for this conception of the character, it's ideal. Dorothea Röschmann's Countess brings me closer to understanding Maury's passion for her than anything else I've heard her in has, her singing building in intensity until, by the time she's barring the door, she's thrillingly fierce and wonderful. She makes heartbreakingly clear the real sadness and isolation Rosina feels, something which has always upset me and endeared the Countess to me. It really isn't very long since she was being wooed by an apparently unswervingly devoted admirer and now that's all gone; the tricks she plays with Susanna aren't just a diversion, they're all she can think of doing in a hopeless attempt to win back her earlier bliss — and even at the finale, when she's theoretically one, it's blindindly obvious that nothing has changed for good and she'll be singing "Porgi, amor" again before she knows it. Anyway, that's just me getting sidetracked; the point is, even in a fun Figaro, a miserable Countess appeals to me in a cathartic sort of way, and Dorothea is devastating. One other pleasing point — Marie McLaughlin's Marcellina, cast here not as a comical old bat from whom Figaro should rightly run a mile from marrying, but instead as a rather soignée woman of a certain age not without her attractions. This is definitely not a Figaro for everybody but it's oddly compelling.

Agrippina
I shouldn't include this as I only managed about twenty minutes. The orchestra sounds quite good. Most of the singers are terrifyingly miscast. The male roles have all been assigned to tenors and basses ("for verisimilitude" blah blah blah) which sounds weird anyway but especially so when accompanied by period orchestra. Added to which, the men all sing as if they've wandered in from a neighbouring Puccini opera; and even in Puccini their pitch issues would probably still be troubling. Barbara Daniels sings the title role and is actually quite good — I'm impressed that she can be convincing in both Handel and as Minnie in Fanciulla (not that I've seen her in the latter). In the recits she's really rather fabulous; come the first aria, though, and she's alright, but a few little cracks show themselves, including an upper register which doesn't exactly exist. I gave up. And went on to...

La cenerentola
1982 Ponnelle film from La Scala. Frederica von Stade, to state the obvious, is radiant perfection as Angiolina. Her stepsisters are flamboyantly wicked. And I've been obliged to revise my opinion of Francisco Araiza a bit. I've only ever seen him as a gormless and wooden Tamino (on the film with the divine Lucia as Pamina) but as Don Ramiro I quite like him and he sounds quite glorious. (When did I become so enthusiastic about tenors?) It's a typical kind of Ponnelle film, deliberately stagey but still utilising the advantages which this medium has over a stage production — close-ups, characters singing directly to the camera and so on. As is also typical of Ponnelle, it's beautiful.

Die Zauberflöte
I was only able to see the first half before I had to go home. This one is from the Met, during the early nineties. Araiza again, gormless again. Luciana Serra a somewhat scary Queen. Kurt Moll godly as Sarastro. But the point of it all? Kathleen Battle as a transcendent Pamina. Totally sweet and charming, and in phenomenal voice. She brings tears to my eyes. I love her. End of story. I will try and watch the rest tomorrow.

[The key to all this free of charge viewing? Late shift in a classical music section with almost no customers. Without DVDs to watch I'd lose my mind.]

My new favourite Puccini opera

Indirectly, Madama Butterfly was the opera which introduced me to opera. In 2003 it was to be my first ever real experience of live opera. I was not a fanatic at the time. It was in preparing for that production, with a nice Decca Puccini compilation, that I became one. But Butterfly itself was sort of incidental; the music made no great impression on me, Cio-Cio San didn't appeal, and I moved on and have never felt very tempted to return to it.

However, things change. Or rather, divas change them. I fooled you with the first paragraph; this is, in fact, pretty much another post about Cheryl Barker. Cheryl, who has filled the last few weeks with more Puccini than I'd had in the whole lifetime preceding them. Cheryl, who is such perfection in Puccini that I thrill to it as to Mozart or Handel. Cheryl, who has brought me back, in glorious fashion, to Madama Butterfly.

She's filmed it twice. Once in Robert Wilson blue, once in pretty pinks and reds for Opera Australia. I bought the latter and it's a revelation. I love the music. It fascinates me as much as La bohème bores me. Inspired, perhaps, by the exotic setting and highly charged plot, Puccini seems to create a far more multicoloured, expressive and evocative sound world in Japan than he did in Paris. Where La bohème plods, Butterfly enchants. At least it does me. That's helped by Moffatt Oxenbould's simple and beautiful production, one of the prettiest I've seen emerge from Opera Australia.

And I've had my preconceptions of Cio-Cio San smashed to smithereens. I've thought of her as irritatingly fragile, a boring, blank naive victim. Cheryl is none of those things. Her Cio-Cio San is bright and passionate, with a vivid sense of humour. Innocent, yes, but not an idiot. She's thought about life, made a decision and stuck with it. Most strikingly of all, she is, until everything falls apart, genuinely happy. When she smiles, she's not pathetic — you don't pity her, you just smile along with her, because her joy is infectious. Even her suicide, while devastating, is somehow a positive decision; neither that action, nor the woman herself, can be dismissed as Tragic Heroine and nothing more because whatever she is, she isn't tragic.

How much of this is down to Cheryl and how much to the character as written, I'm not sure. There was surprises for me in the libretto. Butterfly's resistance to Yamadori, for instance, is full of wit and humour, which I hadn't realised; I just expected virtuous vows of fidelity and childish obstinance. The unmistakeable Cheryl Barker Touch plays its part too, though, a special talent for intensity without cliché; she's thoroughly, thrillingly operatic without ever resorting to stock gestures or vocal tricks. Even "Un bel di" seems less of a warhorse in her care; she sings it simply and believably, to herself and to Suzuki, not as a party piece for the audience, all distant gazes and sweeping gestures. She's in outrageously good voice throughout, scaling the heights with glossy ease and fifty million expressive colours.

Pinkerton, by the way, isn't a revelation. He's a bastard. There are plenty of reviews which mention "unusually sympathetic" Pinkertons, but Jay Hunter Morris isn't one of them. Which is fine. True, he's convincingly remorseful in the final act but it isn't really enough to make up for what came before, nor is he three dimensional enough to care much about either way. Nicely sung for the most part, if a bit on the brutal side. Douglas McNicol's Sharpless is the Nicer American and a genuinely interesting character. Best of all (apart from Butterfly herself, obviously) is Ingrid Silvaeus' engaging and richly sung Suzuki, making the mother of all thankless mezzo roles seem in fact rather rewarding.

The question now is, is it Butterfly the character I've fallen for, or Butterfly the opera? Will my newfound affection endure with a different soprano in the role? I'm actually pretty sure it will. There was so much to love in this film, and while a lot of it was Cheryl based, a lot wasn't. I'll be testing the theory shortly; I've also bought a copy of Karajan's Butterfly on Decca, featuring my adored Mirella Freni and an all star cast. It's all looking rosy.

Elektra

Another bargain priced DVD is in my clutches — Götz Friedrich's wonderfully disturbing film of Elektra. Lately I've had more than one conversation which involved someone telling me I really must see this film. Now I have, and they were all right.

Would you believe it, this was my introduction to Leonie Rysanek. Previously I have known her only by formidable reputation. She lives up to it, and then some. I was ready for something pretty powerful, but I was still taken aback by just how ferociously she inhabits this role (or does it inhabit her?). The first shot of Elektra is quite extraordinary; she seems barely human. Just her sheer lack of inhibition is on its own worthy of applause. But what makes her performance for me is that she doesn't just set the dial to monstrous and stay put. Sometimes she looks like Linda Blair grown up, hideous, manic and evil; but at other moments she's a bit more Mrs Rochester, pale shadows of former beauty and majesty flickeringly apparent. Her voice, too, is multifaceted. At her most terrifying, it's a voice sheer fury and vengeance, incredible but with nothing much beautiful about it; but in other moment that rage gives way to something ever so slightly softer, her sound blooms and gains a little in colour and personability. Personable? Elektra? Apparently so. You can't just write her off as hideous and inhuman; Leonie won't let you, and her performance is all the more (sorry — can't resist) electrifying for it.

And that would be enough but there's Astrid Varnay too. Not sure I know what to say about her. Her Klytämnestra is unlike anything I've heard or seen before. This is not a statement of adoration but certainly one of utter amazement. She's nightmarish, grotesque. Her singing is bonechilling. I'm amazed it's possible to watch Astrid and Leonie sharing a screen without one's head exploding. Catarina Ligendza's Chrysothemis doesn't do much to help the mood of horror and lurid evil either. From a distance she looks almost like she might offer a bit of pretty, blonde relief but no. In her own, slightly less creature-feature way, she too is disturbing and disturbed and hard to watch without squirming a little. When Orest finally arrives, in the form of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, he brings not only hope to Elektra but musical respite. After so much huge soprano singing, his delicate, grounded baritone is a thing of surprising beauty, a voice of (comparative) sanity and the closest thing this opera has to a moment of tranquillity. He also does a wholly admirable job of remaining pokerfaced and heroic-looking while Elektra expounds at great length on her joy (if that's something she still experiences) at his return.

It's relentless, horrific and absolutely brilliant — an amazing film of a pretty amazing opera. Now if I'm honest, of course, this isn't really the side of Strauss which I fell in love with. It will be no surprise if I say that it's Strauss in Rosenkavalier and Capriccio mode which appeals most readily to my sensibilities. Still, Big Scary Strauss has its attractions, and it doesn't come much Bigger or Scarier than this.

Just one further thought...

I'm afraid the one brought the other irresistibly to mind.  

Giulio Cesare

A couple of months ago, I managed to lay my hands on a copy of the now famous Glyndebourne Giulio Cesare (the Bollywoodesque one) at an idiotically low price. I don't buy much opera on DVD, partly because much of it is still relatively expensive and partly because since becoming a responsible billpaying inhabitant of an expensive city with an opera house, I don't really buy that much of anything that isn't either edible or a ticket. (I suppose in desperate circumstances, the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.) Anyway, as I say, this particular DVD was not expensive so I made it mine. And intended to write about it then, but never did; so now that I'm running out of present moment subjects to write on, I might as well write about the past.

My favourite thing about this Cesare might seem stupidly obvious — it reminded me that this is an opera about its title character. More often perhaps than I should admit, I've accidentally called this opera Cleopatra, because that's who it's always revolved around for me, for more reasons than one. (Though the one's a rather major one.) But Sarah Connolly is so powerful as Cesare, so strangely attractive, and sings so fantastically that my focus shifted. She starts strongly and proceeds to get electrifyingly better throughout.

The production of course is pretty fabulous. The references to Bollywood seem slightly misleading to me — that's there, naturally, but there's a whole lot more besides. Egypt becomes a picturesque outpost of the British Empire, complete with Sesto the budding soldier. And Sesto, being sung by Angelika Kirchschlager, is absolutely adorable, a nervous young man with, yes, a bit of a mother fixation, who commits himself to a murder which is totally against his character. One of the most incredible moments in the whole opera comes when Tolomeo finally lies dead before him. He is totally shellshocked, disgusted. While he stares, unseeing, into space, his mother smears his face with Tolomeo's blood. It's a disturbing moment and a very affecting one. Proof, too, that Angelika's supreme command of pants roles goes beyond boyish Cherubino antics.

Blah blah blah...we all know who everybody went wild about after this Cesare opened. Danielle de Niese. Not hard to see why: she sings, she dances, she's unfathomably gorgeous. The very model of a modern Cleopatra. Very sensibly, the transformation of her Cleopatra is not the about-face from scheming nymphette to honourable, devoted companion that you might see elsewhere. Here, Cleopatra grows up, certainly; abandons her earlier plot and learns to act selflessly. But it's nevertheless still completely evident by the end that this woman still has plenty of havoc to wreak. She's matured, yes but reformed? No. She does a stellar job vocally, too. And yet, I confess, I was not entirely enthralled. Something, somewhere, rang a little false for me. Perhaps it's supposed to; but it just felt at times a bit too much like The Danielle Show. I also wasn't entirely enraptured by her singing, for reasons inarticulable this far removed.

The more I think back on this Cesare, the more I appreciate how brilliant it actually is. The kind of show that makes me want to sit here and lists its million little clevernesses and beauties — but they'd lose everything in the telling, at least they would if told by me. One especial treat, however, needs to be pointed out. The reviews will tell you how well Danielle dances, but believe me, she has nothing on Rachid Ben Abdeslam, whose Nireno totally steals the show with his "Chi perde un momento" — has to be seen to be believed. As, indeed, does the whole thing. Definitely worth your while.

P.S. — A Note on the Perils of Handel

When I watched this DVD, I turned all the lights out to heighten the effect. They were out in the rest of the house too. Evidently this gave the impression that nobody was home. Which I know because during Cleopatra's "Se pieta", somebody tried (and failed) to climb in my bathroom window. (Don't worry. There was no face to face encounter. Just a noise, and then a note from the landlord in all the letterboxes the next morning, warning about intruders who had climbing up drainpipes and through windows to rob apartments in my complex. Oh, the risks one takes for the baroque.)

Tribute

Tonight's viewing — VAI's Anna Moffo: A Tribute. And it really is a tribute, the best possible kind. Just Anna, looking gorgeous and singing beautifully. Some the excerpts from the Bell Telephone Hour I've already seen but Anna is ever fresh, a Violetta par excellence and the least innocent Zerlina ever, so sophisticated and seductive that it's she who makes her Don Giovanni (the excellent if somewhat simian George London) seem an easily swayed peasant. The Act One finale from La bohème is here twice, and I'd seen neither. Both are with Richard Tucker, one in colour from 1961 and one in black and white from 1963 and in both she is, well, as lovely as she always is. The 1963 one wins out in the end, helped by an even more touchingly detailed characterisation and a rather more flattering costume — nothing makes a case for modern dress productions like the sight of beautiful Anna obliged to wear a mass of matronly tartan taffeta.

Perhaps even better than the Bell Telephone Hour extracts, however, are the excerpts from her films of La traviata and Lucia di Lammermoor. Admittedly they're a little on the disembodied side. All the same the girl can act and the camera, of course, loves her to an insane degree. Her "see how crazy I am" eyes, with their oh-so-nineteenth-century mascara, make for a Mad Scene somewhere halfway between Joanie* and Natalie Dessay, darker and more convincing than the former but still rather more picturesque and less harrowing than the latter's outstanding performances. From Traviata we have the confrontation with Germont père (Gino Bechi) which is maybe my favourite part of the opera. Again, Anna is an ideal Violetta. Why I don't yet own the whole film of this I'm not sure — I remember a night once long ago, in the wake of the much lauded Angela Gheorghiu Traviata video, despairing that Anna never filmed it, then discovering she had. I ought to have bought it then; it will have to wait now for a more affluent moment. But never mind. I have this tribute to be going on with and it's absolutely worthy of her. If only VAI had the rights to her La Serva Padrona, though, where she's so hilarious and so impossibly perfect it almost hurts.

*Did I mention, Joan Sutherland is guest of honour at this Opera Australia Gala I'm seeing next week? They're celebrating her 80th as well. I get to be in the same theatre as Joan Sutherland. Terribly exciting, this.

Wie gut Sie ist

Elisabeth Schwarzkopf is gone at 90 and I'm caught completely off guard. I knew of her before I knew properly of opera. From an internet café in Sydney I've neither time, nor am I in the right state of mind, to write something, so instead I'm reposting this, which I wrote on the 14th of January this year.

Among my Christmas presents was an EMI Classic Archive DVD of performances by Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Irmgard Seefried and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. The Fischer-Dieskau (Mahler) I haven't watched yet, Irmgard is very good in Strauss Lieder though even the effusive liner notes by André Tubeuf concede she was not captured at her prime - but Elisabeth was the reason I was given the DVD, and it's Elisabeth I want to talk about.

The performance presented here is the Rosenkavalier Act I finale: "Kann mich auch an ein Mädel erinnern" and so on. Certainly my favourite part of the opera: better, even, (if only just) than that trio; in fact, one of my favourite operatic moments anywhere. What I'd forgotten until I played this DVD for the first time is that it's this very same film - or at least, the excerpt which comes as a bonus sample on the Régine Crespin DVD from the same series - which constituted my Rosenkavalier epiphany. I'd heard it and seen it before, I already was beginning to fall the Marschallin, but it wasn't until I saw Elisabeth look into the camera and sing those seven words, "Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding" that I felt this was something very special: and by this, I mean not just the monologue, but the Marschallin, Der Rosenkavalier and Richard Strauss in general - all of which loves continue to the present day.

The extract in full lives up to the revelatory promise of the few minutes I saw back then. This is not the colour film she made later. It's black and white, Charles Mackerras conducts, her rather lumpish Octavian is Hertha Töpper. Töpper is not a convincing Octavian to me: awkward in all the wrong ways, vocally fine but uncompelling, but she's almost irrelevant: it's Elisabeth's moment to shine and she's radiant. This is a spellbinding performance: an actress mouthing to Elisabeth's voice could not manage a more believable or touching interpretation. She strikes the perfect balance between tenderness and aristocratic reserve, something which comes across in her gestures and facial expressions and, of course, in her voice as well. She sings sweetly, gracefully: the Marschallin we hear at every moment matches perfectly the Marschallin we see. Elisabeth is often reproached for affected, mannered singing, but whatever one's feelings on that point, it's difficult to manage any such charges being levelled at this stunning performance.

I actually watched this a little while ago, but was reminded of it tonight by a couple of the comments left on this post at Vissi D'Amore. A commenter there mentions never having really "got" Elisabeth. I know she presents difficulties. I can hear them. I can't claim to love everything I've heard from her. But I do love her. I'm lucky, I think, in that I came to Elisabeth, and fell for Elisabeth, before I knew there was anything to "get". She was one of the first sopranos I latched on to when my proper devotion to opera was beginning: her disc of operetta arias charmed and delighted me, and by the time I finished watching her self-portrait documentary, I was ensnared for good. Only later did I start to read what others had said about her, about the complaints some had made. So I can see both sides of it: but I remain firmly in the pro-Elisabeth camp.

This evening I've been listening to her in operetta: Die Lustige Witwe and Die Fledermaus. It occured to me just a few hours ago that I hadn't listened to her Hanna since the day I bought the CD. Which sounds unforgivably terrible, I know, but there's a reason. I bought that recording partly on account of Elisabeth - but partly also to prepare for the performance of The Merry Widow I was about to see in Melbourne. In the end, I didn't prepare, and didn't listen to it again before the performance. And you know what happened next. Hanna Glawari took on a different significance for me and I'd all but forgotten I had Elisabeth singing it too. She recorded Hanna twice: it's the earlier one I have, from 1953. I love her sense of style, and her sense of humour. Her Rosalinde in Die Fledermaus is more wonderful still. Die Fledermaus holds a very special place in my heart. It's been a while since I've heard this one, too - or indeed any of my several Fledermice - but I still feel like I know every inch of it. I can't call Elisabeth my favourite Rosalinde - that has to be Lucia - but I do think that of all the Rosalindes I've heard, she more than anybody sounds the part. I adore the Viennese sparkle which she brings to her singing. Spontaneity is not a word which springs to mind when speaking of Elisabeth but nevertheless it's what I hear in this performance: something bright and lively - if subtly so - which I find terribly attractive. She makes me laugh as Rosalinde. Not all sopranos in comedy manage that.

It was Elisabeth's 90th birthday last month. So, a belated Herzlichen Glückwünsch zum Geburtstag to Walter Legge's better half, to the beautiful Elisabeth. Hoch soll sie leben.

Venus de Melbourne

I leave tomorrow (today in fact) for Australia to see Yvonne Kenny's A Touch of Venus. And yes, I know, I've only just been away and I travel far too much but remember, London was unplanned. Whereas this trip has been on the cards for almost a year. Time flies. I'm not gone for long, just ten days, and you'll probably hear from me sooner than that anyway because as we know, it's difficult for me to keep my mouth shut or typing fingers still after one of Yvonne's triumphs. But given that I'm more of a YouTube fiend with each day that passes, this is as good an excuse as any to direct you to a few (alright, more than a few) bits of filmed brilliance.

• Beverly Sills on the Muppet Show. Several hilarious videos of Beverly (not to mention Miss Piggy) being utterly fabulous: watch 'em all.
• And, slightly more serious, Beverly with an incredible "O luce di quest'anima".
• More Natalie, bien sûr: Ah, quelle triste destinée. Obsessed? Moi?
• Patricia Petibon: Les filles de Cadix. As the caption says, insane performance. No point trying to explain this. I doubt there is an explanation. I bought this recital on DVD some time ago and I've never written anything about it because the whole thing as is wonderfully insane as this clip, more or less. I adore the woman but she probably isn't for everyone.
• For Michael, Dunedin's leading Vivaldian: here's our adored Sandrine. If I ever needed a reason to have Sandrine's CD of Vivaldi motets as well as Patrizia Ciofi's this is well and truly it.
• My beloved Kathy, beautiful as ever in "Una voce poco fa".

And after profiting so much from other people's YouTube efforts I feel obliged to contribute another little something so here it is. Lucia Popp, divine as Arabella, "Er ist der Richtige nicht für mich". Julie Kaufmann is Zdenka. Apologies for not including the full duet but if the clip was much longer I wouldn't have had time to upload it. Anyway enjoy.

Lucia lucente

If just once in the two years (and four months) I've been writing this blog, you've found even one second of pleasure, it is to Lucia Popp that your gratitude is ultimately due. Lucia is my operatic mother; if there had been no her, there would be no me, or at least no me the opera devotee. So it's not just your gratitude (if you feel any) that's due to her, but mine as well.

And with all of that already set in stone, last night I experienced her at the absolute top of her game, almost too exquisite to be believed: and I say almost because when it's Lucia we're dealing with, no level of excellence can truly surprise. The performance in question is her Susanna, in a 1980 Le nozze di Figaro filmed in Paris and evidently released in Japan. Lucia recorded Susanna a couple of years later and that performance is itself gorgeous enough; but the atmosphere of a live performance, and the opportunity to see and not just hear, add a million layers of loveliness. Sweet and sparkling, but strong-minded and canny as well, her Susanna is effortlessly the heart of the opera, and could remain so with just a fraction of the stage-time. Naturally it goes without saying that she her singing is straight from heaven, so terribly beautiful that she'd break your heart, were she not so busy swelling it with love and joy. Unsurpringly, her "Deh vieni" is quite literally a show-stopper.

Though not, it has to be said, the only one. Though in my eyes the brightest, Lucia is not the only star in this production. José van Dam is her rather wonderful Figaro, possessed of a kind of careless elegance which has him at times a more naturally noble figure than the Count himself. No peasant servant he, and his warm and graceful way with both text and music is a joy to behold. Cherubino is Frederica von Stade — what more can I say? She's all one could ask and more besides, adorable and shy and, oh yes, vocally magnificent. The applause and shouts for both her arias is near deafening and must add a good few minutes to the running time. Gabriel Bacquier makes a (mostly) amiable kind of lecher as Almaviva and Kurt Moll is at his growly teddy-bear best as Bartolo. And just when you think Act I has been so full of brilliance there can't be anything left in the magic bag: along comes Act II and with it, the sublime Contessa of Gundula Janowitz, serene and regal but with a twinkle in her eye that recalls her days in Seville. Audience reaction to her "Dove sono" is so passionate and so prolonged she's obliged to return and bow not once but twice before the opera can continue. She's heartbreakingly beautiful in the serious moments and a charming comedienne as well — I think she won me over for good when she rushed to let her suspicious husband into her room, humming to herself in a hilarious attempt to feign nonchalance. Adorable isn't a word I necessarily immediately associate with Contessa Almaviva but in this case it's the right one.

The rest were excellent too. However, this DVD came from House of Opera and only those principals I've named are credited on the label. So the identities Marcellina, Barbarina, Don Curzio and Antonio remain a mystery to me: but they were all very good indeed. Truly a delight from top to bottom. And you know, though I'm grateful she's surrounded by such a worthy and dreamy cast, Lucia as Susanna would have been more than enough on her own. This must surely rank among her best performances; certainly it's one of the best I've experienced, on a level with her to-die-for Sophie. She's really just irresistably gorgeous. I adore Lucia unconditionally and, thank god, she's been in my life basically since I was born, so that I've never had to go to the trouble of discovering her. But if I had to discover her now, I'd say this Susanna would be a brilliant way of doing so.

Celebration

Forget In Search of Mozart. Even though it's really just a glorified sampler, the Mozart year celebration you want to see is not a documentary but rather, DG's Amadeus, a generous selection of arias excerpted from their current and upcoming Mozart DVD releases. Doesn't matter how fabulous any documentary is, nothing captures and celebrates the miracle of Mozart like the music itself: and a clutch of gorgeous sopranos to sing it doesn't hurt either.

Oh, and gorgeous bass-baritones. Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau as Count Almaviva. I've seen this one already but had forgotten his smooth, vampirish charm here. No wonder Susanna's confused "- we get "Crudel! Perchè finora" here, Mirella as cute-as-a-button as ever. From the same Figaro there's Maria Ewing, looking disconcertingly like a 14 year old boy and sounding disconcertingly unlike a 14 year old boy - indeed, unlike any kind of Cherubino. But as somebody who actually enjoyed her Salome on film, I cherish a (very) slightly soft spot for Maria.

Plenty of hits from Don Giovanni, too. From a 1954 film, there's Wilhelm Furtwängler leading a dark, brooding overture; I rather wish the arias presented had come from the same film, which includes two performances I'd love to see: Cesare Siepi in the title role and Lisa della Casa (with whom, yes, I know, I really ought to be acquainted by now) as Donna Elvira. Donna Elvira, as it happens, makes no appearances in the extracts here, unfortunately enough. However there's Bryn doing is Terfelmost best as the Don - this is now the fourth Bryn Terfel "La ci darem la mano" I have on DVD, and La Fleming with a strangely consonantless but also surprisingly exciting "Or sai chi l'onore".

I'll front up now and say that I haven't watched everything on this sampler yet; and because I'm me what I have watched is mostly sopranos. You probably figured as much anyway. So nothing to say for Francisco Araiza's Belmonte (I only hope it's marginally less ineffectual than his Tamino) but Edita Gruberova's "Martern aller Arten" is nicely fierce. My heart as you know belongs to a rather more fragile Konstanze, but there's something to be said for the spitfire approach. Actually there's more Edita Gruberova on this DVD than anything else, not just the Entführung aria but also "Der Hölle Rache" and "Per pietà". The former I watched, though I've been watching that Zauberflöte video since I was very small, mostly to see the silent but still show-stealing Lucia Popp (who also steals the show retrospectively as the greatest sternflammende Königin ever ever). The latter I haven't seen yet; I will eventually, I suppose. Generally I try to behave myself and be open to nine million and one interpretations of an aria because, after all, that's only sensible. With "Per pietà" it's harder: Yvonne's recording of it is unlike almost anything I've heard, musical or otherwise. One of her very finest moments and lord knows, I've got a million moments to compare. But I digress.

No. Actually I don't digress, because looking at the DVD booklet I see that the next item I watched last night was "Nel sen mi palpita" from Mitridate, re di Ponto, sung of course by Yvonne Kenny. It's Aspasia's second aria, a quick little scene of emotional terror which foreshadows her slightly longer and slightly madder third aria, "Nel grave tormento". I'm glad this was chosen to represent the aria: Yvonne's Aspasia is unquestionably the centre of the film, and this excerpt shows her vocal capabilities off nicely - not to mention her considerable talent for looking utterly and gorgeously deranged. Still, I think that all in all, her final aria, "Pallid'ombre, che scorgete" would have made an even better representative for the opera as a whole: while all the music in the opera is skilfull and impressive in the extreme, this is one of the rare moments where it really begins to break free from opera seria convention and give a true hint of the genius to come: of women like Elvira, Anna, the Contessa. Aspasia's earlier arias are all full of acrobatics and stratospheric high notes; this one is much lower and much slower, still virtuosic but demanding a very different, type of virtuosity, something more dramatic and deeply felt. But I'll admit it's not as immediately visually exciting as "Nel sen mi palpita": just (once the distracting little boy soprano is out of shot) the camera slowly circling, then closing in on, Aspasia, who remains so still and expressionless that the effect is almost hypnotic. And here's I've gone and got started on Mitridate once again, because I can't help myself - and can't wait to own it on DVD rather than slightly faded VHS.

Amadeus finishes up with the Introitus from the Requiem, Leonard Bernstein conducting, Marie McLaughlin the soprano soloist. The perfect finish, and especially this selection, which is all Mozart - no Süssmayr.

What. A. Man. This sampler, ninety minutes of bliss and only the tiniest fraction of the incredible gifts this person lavished upon the world before flying away again. Quite ridiculous.