Prima la musica, poi le parole

V is for Vivaldi

And V is for volte-face. Pinchgut Opera's production of Vivaldi's Juditha triumphans opened last night. I'm reviewing it for NZ Opera News, so won't do so here. However, there are few points I'd like to note and first among them is my total change of policy regarding Fiona Campbell. Last year she sang Idamante for Pinchgut and I was underwhelmed. Well, I don't know what made the difference — the music, the venue, my seat, my point of view, my tastes, my ear or what — but last night as Vagaus, Fiona Campbell was ON FIRE. She was everything I look for (and rarely find) in a mezzo soprano, in a Vivaldi singer, in an opera singer in general. Absolutely stunning. If I were richer (or just less cautious) I would go to every single performance purely to hear her "Armatae face et anguibus", which is — I'm serious — one of the most amazing things I've ever heard in a theatre. She'd just come across her general's beheaded corpse, and I thought — oh please, let her sing a vengeance aria now; then it began and I realised I knew it from Cecilia Bartoli's Chatelet Vivaldi concert. Let me say this now: if I had to choose, I would choose Fiona's. Elsewhere she was equally strong, a riveting presence in every way, musically and dramatically. Somehow when I review Juditha properly I will condense all of this into a relatively sensible sentence or two but for the moment, I'm compelled to go overboard, to declare my huge admiration and brand new status as A Fan.

A few other scattered thoughts:

-Three male roles. One countertenor, two mezzos. And yet, in this production, no pants roles. I think this is very, very clever.

-Attilio Cremonesi, who directed from the harpsichord, is not only brilliant but also totally lovable. I don't think I've ever seen a conductor shake the hand of every single member of the orchestra at the end of the opera.

-Everybody is good in their roles. But if I were queen of everything, I'd love to reshuffle and see what would happen — Sally-Anne Russell (Juditha) as Ozias (spiritual leader of Bethulia), Renae Martin (Ozias) as Vagaus, Fiona Campbell as Juditha. So many mezzos! All operas should be cast like this.

-There's a telling early encounter between Judith and Holofernes, as he tries at great length to make her sit beside him and she refuses. It's a wonderful aria (beautifully sung by David Walker) and was very cleverly staged. But when you have somebody pleading at such length "sit, please sit, please sit down" and so on, I'm afraid I can't help but think of Puppy Pre-School.

-And finally, I just want to say — thank god for Pinchgut. It's a unique and stylish company, with fascinating ideas and the best taste in repertoire. I say the best taste, because it's also my taste; I just wish I'd been here to see them all.

-Update: Actually, something else. I knew he was familiar. I've just realised that I've seen David Walker before. Three and a half years ago, as Arsamene in the New York City Opera Xerxes. One of my first experiences of live opera. Small world.

Why should we not let the mice be gay?

Why not indeed?

It's with this noble sentiment that the fun in Isaac Nathan's Don John of Austria really kicks off. After what seems like the world's longest overture — as if he'd got himself trapped, à la Dudley Moore's Beethoven sonata — there's a lengthy and jolly chorus, beautifully articulated by the Sydney Philharmonia Chamber Choir. Their master has been absent and while the cat's away...hence the title, only slightly less hilarious in context. It's a sign of things to come, libretto wise.

Don Quexada enters and ruminates at length on his foster son, the unruly Don John. Eventually he breaks into song — a soporific strophic lullaby-to-self, as he, highly poetically, proclaims "I cannot stay awake, so I'll go-oh to sleeeep". Shortly Don John himself appears, played by Steve Davislim as a Mike Myers character. (Think Wayne's World rather Austin Powers). A duet ensues: "You are not heeding what I say"/"I will break the walls away" (I think. There's no libretto to look at, I'm working on memory.) These two lines are repeated ad nauseam. Before they're halfway through, you'll find you could easily sing along (as is indeed the case for much of the opera.)

Forgive me. I'm not taking it seriously. But then, neither were they. There's no question this opera has dated; indeed, it may well have been a bit silly in 1847 as well. So this concert performance with the Sydney Symphony, while not totally frivolous or facetious, played for laughs where appropriate and made no effort to convince us that this was The Great Australian Opera. I doubt anybody imagines it is; it's enough that it's The First. The music is not exactly earth shattering — sometimes it's downright dreary — but there are few nice little surprises buried in it, and it also provides its share of hilarity. Donna Agnes is treated well, as a prima donna should be, though the incessant runs and trills in her opening aria make it well nigh impossible to understand more than about one word in four. But then, judging by the intelligible words, that might be for the best. This opera, it has to be said, makes a compelling case for singing in Foreign.

The singing, by the way, was very good. Paul Whelan as Don Quexada was sonorous if rather rough; the up-and-down coloratura requirements of the role seemed to have killed off the suavity notable in his Don Giovanni a few years ago. Steve Davislim was a natural comedian — helpful given the vast amount of dialogue in this thing — and even managed to look a bit Spanish. In Dorothy, servant to Donna Agnes, Nathan seems to have devised the most thankless role ever written for mezzo soprano. Forget Suzuki. Dorothy sings in one ensemble at the beginning and one at the end and that's it. She has a long speech as she frets about her mistress (who doesn't expect the Spanish Inquisition — nobody does — but ends up facing it just the same) but no aria. Thus I applaud Sally Anne Russell for looking so cheery and involved by the end. Grant Doyle made a good spoilt brat as Philip II, jealous of his illegitimate half brother Don John, whining that Daddy (Charles V — Don Carlos, of course) loves his natural child more than his successor. He's in love with Agnes, whom Don John wishes to marry and uses the Inquisition to make everyone as miserable as he can.

But Agnes is problematic for any man in the Inquisition era to love — she's Jewish. She tells Don John and he has no problem with it. Philip, on the other hand, plots to burn her (and anyone else he can manage). Despite the title, it's Agnes who quickly becomes the centre of the opera. Cheryl Barker imbued the role with such dignity and fragility that when she was there, it was almost like a different opera — not one to be affectionately mocked, just one to hear and be touched by. Her slender, faintly exotic and sweetly blossoming voice grew warmer and more brilliant as the opera progressed and she tackles even the most inane flourishes with style. Agnes has aria after aria lavished upon her and Cheryl aced every single one. It was only right that she take the final bow, even after Don John himself; this is an opera about Agnes and Cheryl is an ideal prima donna.

The whole show was very very well staged with the confines of the City Recital Hall, everyone in black and white except the now-cloistered Charles V, in his friar's robes, and Donna Agnes replendent in blues and greys and beads. Cast members sang and read from scores, while actors in non-singing roles moved among them. Charles' sudden entrance to save the day came from the back of the theatre, after which he (and the long suffering Dorothy) made their way up the aisle). The Sydney Symphony made gorgeous sounds — they were helped in this by two illustrious descendants of Isaac Nathan, namely Sir Charles Mackerras, who wrote the orchestration (with characteristic brilliance) and his very talented nephew, Alexander Briger, who conducted. Family affair.

Would I go again? Absolutely. Sadly, I can't, as the only other performance conflicts directy with something a little bit special. Were that not the case, I'd be there in a flash. For me, Don John was more entertaining and more musically satisfying than The Gondoliers the previous night; and besides, Cheryl Barker as Agnes is simply not to be missed. I'm looking forward to the broadcast on ABC Classic FM on November 10th and I feel like I read somewhere (though I can't find it now) that it will eventually be released on CD as well. It wasn't great art but it was definitely great fun.

Il Barbiere di Siviglia

After several months of withdrawal symptoms, Opera Australia has returned to Sydney, and Tuesday night saw the opening of the Winter Season with Leon Krasenstein's brightly coloured and cartoonish production of Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia.

Amidst an extravagant set inspired by Gaudi — though apparently realised by Disney — Krasenstein has shifted the action of the opera to a 1930s spa. Doctor Bartolo actually works as a doctor, Berta as a quasi-nurse, and there's even a clutch of mute guests thrown in for good measure — among them a pair of ornamental toreadors and a wildy moustachioed Salvador Dali. Visually the new setting is an appealing one and it has its share of comic charm. In terms of plot, however, the move seems both unnecessary and, at times, obstructive. Exchanges between Rosina and Almaviva which should take place outside are now happening indoors, with the Count halfway up the stairs and Rosina at the top. It's hard to see why they don't elope then and there — the usual locks and bolts preventing their elopement have disappeared and Rosina seems pretty easily accessible. Parts of the set seem to alternate between being outside and in, so that we have Figaro and Almaviva propping a ladder against a wall despite being about two feet from the internal staircase. Obviously there's a need for suspension of disbelief and all that but I can't help wondering whether a happy compromise might have been reached — keep the wacky Gaudi-esque aesthetic and the 1930s setting, but use them to create a slightly more conventional (and logical) arena for the action.

Barbiere is an opera which offers up three potential protagonists. Since every intrigue turns about her — and since she's the (mezzo) soprano — it can, if so desired, be Rosina's opera. It can also be the Count's; after all, it premiered under the title Almaviva. Or it can be, just as the title suggests, an opera about Seville's most indispensable barber. It's a question of casting and of directorial vision — and in this case there's not a shadow of a doubt that Figaro is our star. José Carbo is thoroughly in his element here. Both his comic timing and his bel canto technique are effortlessly idiomatic and quite irresistible. He glides through Figaro's coloratura with rich and ringing tone and exudes such charm you'd suspect he really was born Raffaello. Certainly he was born for this role — it's obvious how completely at ease he is when he starts throwing a bit of fancy footwork in to complement the fastest passage of "Largo al factotum". Evidently nothing in this role presents a challenge for José — it's a perfect match and a total success.

Amelia Farrugia turns in a very creditable performance as Rosina. This is her debut in the role and no doubt there is improvement to come, but even on her first night there was much to admire — she sounded far better last night than the last time I heard her live (as Manon in 2005) and certainly has improved since her recital disc Joie de vivre. Her upper register was brighter and more cleanly focused than I expected, her coloratura exactly as showy and silvery as it needed to be. Her ornamentation in "Una voce poco fa" was impressive if occasionally slightly wayward; but by the time of Rosina's singing lesson she was more settled and tossed off the interpolated Proch variations with style and shimmer. There's perhaps a tendency to squeeze the highest notes just a little but it does little to detract from the undeniable prettiness of her sound. My concern, though, is that she has lavished all possible care and attention upon the top end of her voice and neglected the rest. On Tuesday her lower register sounded breathy and artificial — the recitative in particular was delivered in a mannered quasi Sprechstimme and could stand to sound a whole lot more tuneful. Onstage she's an energetic and self-assured presence. Personally I found her Rosina wholly unsympathetic, a manipulative and superficial brat, but that's just a matter of taste — like her or not, it's certainly a vivid characterisation.

As a roly-poly, happy go lucky Count Almaviva, Henry Choo is quite charming but ultimately miscast. His smooth, honeyed tenor is a gorgeous sound but it's not suited to the rapid-fire demands of Rossini and as a result he comes off sounding weaker than he really is. He sounds like a Don Ottavio who has wandered into the wrong opera — quite lovely, but out of place. The contrast with Kanen Breen's darker, more solid sound will prove telling, I suspect, when Breen takes over the role in August. Warwick Fyfe was to have been our Don Bartolo but proved indisposed — the role was taken over at (presumably) short notice and with great aplomb by Andrew Moran, in what appears to be only his third Opera Australia role. Don Basilio was my compatriot Conal Coad, in his usual fine form, done up to look repulsively Rasputinesque and pulling out all his buffo basso tricks — "La calunnia" was a comical whirlwind. Lovely, too, to see Rosemary Gunn as Berta. I'd previously only ever seen her on DVD as Cornelia in Giulio Cesare — the thirteen years since that production have apparently done little to alter her voice and it was nice that Berta was given her aria to sing.

Our maestro was, of course, Richard Bonynge. If there's anybody I'm willing to trust with bel canto, it's him. He managed to pull off that overture without turning it into musical caricature and despite the odd mishap in the pit, he had the AOBO sounding warm and vibrant all evening. He seems to have aimed not so much for rollicking farce as for commedia dell'arte panache, and I think that approach, while it mightn't have audiences bouncing up and down in their seats in rhythm, nevertheless has a definite appeal. Bonynge's tempi mightn't be the speediest but the evening flies by pleasurably just the same.

New Year's Eve

"Opera at the movies" was the unifying thread for Opera Australia's New Year's Eve gala last night. No, hardly the most unusual or unpredictable theme. Without further prompting, you could probably guess at least two thirds of the programme. There were few surprises, it's true — but what matter? Of fabulous singing, there was more than enough — and that's what it's all about, after all. Maybe I hunger occasionally for obscure baroque or endless Poulenc, but I'm still a pretty mainstream girl, and once in a while I think there's nothing better than the joyous familiarity of operatic greatest hits. Over-exposed they might be, but in most cases there's some kind of musical reason for their popularity, excessive or otherwise. So, no sneering from me; I was happy to abandon myself to an evening of easy-going gorgeousness.

The concert opened with — what else? — the William Tell overture, followed by a very charming turn by José Carbo, relishing the patter of Figaro's "Largo al factotum" while climbing a ladder and handing out flowers to women in the front row. Of course, the last time I saw José was back home in Dunedin, as Opera Otago's dashing Escamillo, and his "Votre toast" made an appearance  here too, to much adulation. Naturally we were never going to make it through the night without "Nessun dorma". There are ways to mitigate the overfamiliarity of the piece (not least of which is making even the vaguest acknowledgement of its actual context) but sadly none of these were paid the slightest heed, and we were treated instead to the pedestrian crossover stylings and jarringly forced climaxes of Rosario La Spina. Of course he received the loudest ovation of the night, but that's to be expected. His second appearance was no more impressive — Rodolfo's "Che gelida manina" and "O soave fanciulla" both likewise lacking in either musical or dramatic nuance. But the other tenor of the evening, Henry Choo, stood in stark contrast, with a sweet and lilting "Una furtiva lagrima".

On the female side of things, there was, incredibly, no "O mio babbino caro". But we did hear the other Puccini moment from A Room With A View, Magda's "Chi il bel sogno di Doretta" from La rondine. It was just one of numerous appearances by Russian soprano Elvira Fatykhova, who seemed at times to be singing half the gala single-handed. Her most impressive moment came in Violetta's "E strano...Ah, fors'e lui...Sempre libera", sung with insight and lyrical precision. She also blended beautiful with the Catherine Carby's warm, rounded sound in the duet from Lakmé — which strangely enough was ushered in without a mention of The Hunger. Carby returned later with a lush "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix", suitably seductive despite a slightly rushed tempo from the orchestra.

I'm left with just one more soprano to mention — my life's delight, Yvonne. With the theme for the concert in mind, as well as her typical concert repertoire, I had my own predictions about what she might sing. But her first aria hadn't even entered my mind — "Lascia ch'io pianga. As featured (I'd forgotten this) in Farinelli, only, of course, sung far more exquisitely. I thought my chance had passed to hear her sing Handel live and with orchestra, I thought I'd found her too late for that. Not quite, it seems. And that it should be this aria  — the first track on the first of her CDs I ever owned and thus the first aria I really heard her sing. Nine years have made a difference, as does a concert hall instead of a recording studio. There's more vibrato, the ornaments are simpler, the timbre has a bit more metal (but precious metal) to it. What nine years don't change is that she sings this aria, which everyone with even the most tenuous claim to the title of soprano has attempted, with a radiant beauty and an understanding of the Handelian idiom of which the pretenders could hardly conceive, let alone match. 

And yet there was better to come. Two magic words, words which I'd tried not to let myself hope too hard for, lest they never come. But come they did — Shawshank Redemption. Yes. "Sull'aria". For me it's one of the most extraordinary beautiful pieces of music in existence. And I have the Chandos English Figaro, so I've heard her sing it before, but this was different. Hearing it live, and in Italian — and watching her sing it, seeing, if only fleetingly, her Countess Almaviva come to magical life... again these were joys I thought I should always be deprived of.

Finally came the prediction I did have right, Rusalka's Song to the Moon. In English as always— I'd adore her to sing in Czech but have long since given up on that. Like the Handel it showed the changes in her voice over the last decade and a half. This wasn't the same Rusalka as on Simple Gifts or even the 1999 gala with Bryn Terfel. Her sound is a little heavier now, the high passages require slightly more, and different, effort. The result is richer and more exciting than ever. She filled that concert hall with shining sound in a way nobody else last night approached. I think back to something I said all that time ago, after her Hanna Glawari — that even with no prior knowledge of any of the singers on stage, you still could not fail to realise that she exists on an entirely different level of artistry. There's a quality she exudes, even in silence, which distinguishes her immediately. No matter how many times I come into the presence of the glory she creates, I never get used to her — she always takes my breath away, and she always will. The fireworks in the harbour afterwards were impressive, but nothing in that display was even a fraction as amazing as she is.

Idomeneo (Pinchgut Opera)

The set might be sparse and the costumes a little on the beige side, but all the same Pinchgut Opera's Idomeneo is bursting with vivid life and colour. Directors I suppose feel obliged to do all they can to shake up this kind of Mozart, the relatively conventional (at least on the face of it) operas without the opportunities for subversion which Figaro and Don Giovanni, for instance, offer up on a plate. But thankfully enough, Lindy Hume's production for Pinchgut resists idiosyncratic directorial weirdness — no severed heads here — and just goes to the human heart of the matter. She draws, for the most part, heartfelt and convincing portrayals from her soloists, identifying the key psychological crises at play here and thus creating an intimate, tangibly personal drama. Transporting this opera, full of references to Trojans and the like, to another time or place would be at best difficult to do convincingly, at worst disastrous and absurd; so for all intents and purposes, this Idomeneo takes place in its original setting. But this scene is set in such a neutral way that it is very definitely the emotional core of the play — a father's excruciatingly untenable situation — which takes centre stage.

Love, fear, rage, jealousy: strong feelings abound in Idomeneo from its very beginning, and as events progress they only intensify further. Driving this intensity is the opera's suprisingly powerful music. Mozart had of course written opera seria before this one, but the difference is immense between the relatively unswerving conventionality of, say, Mitridate and the inspired fire which shows itself in Idomeneo. The story may be not be as fascinating or characterful as those of the Da Ponte trilogy, but it does offer the opportunity for dark and dramatic music in a way those later comedies, Don Giovanni included, can't necessarily do — and it's an opportunity Mozart seizes with both hands. There is a thrill to be had in Mozart without jokes or comical misunderstandings: last night's only laugh was the result of a somewhat poorly considered surtitle; otherwise there's light and love to be found in Idomeneo but little in the way of levity.

None of this heavy-going gorgeousness comes together, of course, without the singers who can execute it, and Pinchgut has assembled an excellent and able cast. Mark Tucker is riveting in the title role, his earthy and commanding yet flexible tenor ideally suited to the role; his detailed acting is likewise compelling, striking just the right balance between kingly gravitas and unimaginable pain. As his son, Fiona Campbell looks convincingly manly, and indeed at times even sounds it: one could almost mistake her for a countertenor. But I found her a disappointingly mousy Idamante, both vocally and dramatically: her voice too insubstantial — though cleanly focused — and bearing too awkwardly hesitant to do the role justice. The fact that Idamante appears to have been inadvertently costumed as a member of Greenpeace also doesn't help. Martene Grimson's Ilia, on the other hand, is forceful and regal enough for the both of them. Though some (me, for instance) might wish for a richer and more rounded sound, she nevertheless sings with beauty of line and thrilling commitment. In her hands, Ilia is no mere sweet and pretty princess but a fiery and determined leader, the only person on stage who's truly in control.  Her "Se il padre perdei" is a revelation — no longer an expression of hard to believe forgiveness and generosity, but rather a command: you've robbed me of home and family — that makes me your responsibility, so do your duty. Such a statement is of course a particularly heavy burden to lay on the shoulders of a father already so utterly tormented by his paternal duties. Completing the quartet of principals is Penelope Mills' electrifying (if you'll pardon the pun) Elettra. Inappropriately resplendent in royal blue among a sea of earth-toned Cretans, Elettra is clearly the outsider — the frenetic power which drives her arias is fear and alienation rather than fury. Mills' singing combines slice and scariness with exquisite phrasing and irresistibly silky tone, and she makes an unusually sympathetic Elettra. Though her jealous rants might in theory seem superfluous to the story, Penelope's performance made certain that when Elettra was singing, it was she and nobody else at the centre of the drama. When she exited after her Act III aria I wished I could follow — her story seemed, at that point, rather more fascinating than the lieto fine about to roll itself out in Crete.

The opera's smaller roles are also admirably filled. Paul McMahon is a pleasant if not hugely memorable Arbace and Didier Frédéric a suitably booming Voice; but particular mention must be made of Brett Weymark's outstanding appearance as the High Priest, whichsucceeds in making a three-dimensional character from what could easily be a faceless cameo, and is so fantastically sung one wishes a larger role could have been found for him. With far more work to do than in other Mozart operas, the chorus here (Cantillation) responds marvellously, singing with precision and power. The Orchestra of the Antipodes is just as magnificent; from them and from his singers, Antony Walker draws a muscular, blazing and beautiful performance. Pinchgut Opera offered a money back guarantee to "opera virgins" unmoved by this Idomeneo; I daresay they could make the same promise to experienced operagoers and hardened fanatics and still have no takers. Absolutely a success.

P.S. This is my 500th post. Well done me!

Operatunity Oz / Rigoletto

Now, Operatunity Oz is something I ought to write more about than I'm actually going to: what it really deserved was to be blogged as it happened, but it's too late for that now. But the winner, bass David Parkin, was pretty easy to pick right from the beginning. My personal favourite among the six finalists, tenor (and surely one of the nicest people in the world) Roy Best, was a runner up; soprano Emily Burke was the other. I think the competition went exactly the way it ought to. Despite my incredibly conspicuous bias towards female voices (or perhaps because of it) none of the three sopranos to make the final impressed me hugely: none of them had that thing, whatever it is, that makes a girl like me smile and swoon and spend a million dollars on tickets. Roy did though, at least a little bit. David Parkin was always at an advantage on account of having such a rare voice - in an early audition, when conductor and panelist Richard Gill had him boom out a few lines of Magic Flute dialogue, it was clear he had serious promise. The voice, the look, the physical presence and the acting ability. There was also a wildcard among the six, John Roehrig, a plumber with an infectious love of singing but basically no musical training who, as appealing as he was, was ultimately more than anything else an advertisement for the necessity of a musical education. What the panel managed to do with him in the short time they had was incredible. Particularly amazing was the way in which the one and only Yvonne transformed his "E lucevan le stelle" — a testament perhaps more even to her own mindblowing to talent than to Roehrig's potential, but then I would say that. 

That's it in an entirely inadequate nutshell. But it's enough to lead up to the main thing I want to write about, which is Rigoletto. Being the Mozart-Handel-Strauss girl I am, I'm very good at neglecting the Italian repertoire. The Met broadcast with Anna Netrebko was the first time I'd heard Rigoletto from start to finish, and my trip to Rigoletto on October 24th was my first time seeing it live. And I mightn't have gone under normal circumstances — but this particular performance was the one which marked the culmination/prize of Operatunity. David Parkin, as the winner, sang Sparafucile; Roy and Emily, as runners-up, sang the Duke and Gilda respectively in Act Three. In the stalls, dozens of family members, a shouting and supportive audience and five beaming proud panelists  — Richard Gill, Yvonne of course, vocal coach par excellence Anna Connolly, the fabulously sharptongued director Elke Neidhardt, and soprano Antoinette Halloran (who, if she has the voice to match, must be Australia's answer to Anna Moffo.)

Because of the special nature of this Rigoletto I have to deal with in two halves. So. The Operatunity half first. David was absolutely a success. My cheap-as-they-come seat meant I couldn't see him during most of his first appearance but I could certainly hear him and there was no doubt he proved himself entirely worthy of his prize. You can't judge a singer in this situation by the usual standards, of course; you can't expect a world-class Sparafucile from someone who's never sung opera on stage in his life. But for what it was, it was pretty damn good. Roy's turn in Act Three was something I was particularly anticipating and he was wonderful, negotiating "La donna e mobile" with far more swagger than, just a few weeks earlier, anyone would ever have expected of him. Emily Burke's nerves were evident but in the end she basically pulled it off, and my sympathies were with her — Gilda's final act must be hard enough for any soprano, but to be obliged to do it without the psychological preparation of the rest of the opera must make it even more difficult.

And now to the rest of the cast. This far removed from the performance there's only so much I can remember. I know that Warwick Fyfe in the title role took some time to convince me but did eventually do so, especially once he started getting properly vengeful. Somehow I'd missed the fact that Dunedin's Own Jud Arthur was even in the cast — it wasn't until I'd spent a minute or so thinking, isn't this Monterone brilliant that I realised it was him, sounding just fantastic and looking quite terrifying. Singing Maddalena was the always wonderful Roxane Hislop, whose dark and (this is probably a strange word to choose but never mind) curvacious mezzo I absolutely love — and lord knows I've had plenty of chances to appreciate it, since she appeared in both Il signor Bruschino and Falstaff. But as the Duke, Rosario La Spina disappointed me even more than he did at the OA anniversary gala — the voice is undeniably attractive, but the further it's pushed (and he certainly does push it) the more he sounds to me like a Neapolitan street singer or a crossover star out of his element. I believe he was once a Ten Tenor. This doesn't surprise me at all. By the end of Act One I couldn't wait till the final act, when we'd get Roy instead and with him, a bit more grit and, to my tastes, a much more attractive timbre.

But what I'm working up to, in typically longwinded fashion, is, of course, a soprano. Natalie Jones. Number one candidate for my local diva. I saw Natalie as Musetta here last year, and she was excellent. All the same I was unprepared for the vocal splendour of her Gilda, strong and secure but still girlishly silvered, with a rainbow of colours at her disposal and a very respectable trill to boot. These days I feel like I've exhausted my standard soprano vocabulary somewhat — I'll need a good deal more Natalie before I can choose some words individually suited to her. Thankfully, with a little patient, this shan't be too difficult a task. Next year she's Morgana, Blonde, and Casilda in (sigh) The Gondoliers. Given that in the first two she's singing opposite Emma Matthews, I'm all for encouraging a Bordoni/Cuzzoni-style feud between the two. I know whose side I'd be cheering for in the ensuing catfight but, alas, I fear Opera Australia is unlikely to programme Bononcini any time soon. Never mind — there's a new Natalie in my musical life and she's brilliant.

Jenufa

Sydney Opera House, 21 October 2006.

In all my excitement over my first live Janacek opera  I didn't buy a programme or check the website and discover that it was going to be sung in English. In fact, finally visiting the website now I discover no mention of said translation and, what's more, this sentence "Janáček loved his native Czech language, and his music is infused with the rhythms of speech." Curiouser and curiouser.

Anyhow I suppose it's hardly the disaster of the century, and knowing certainly wouldn't have stopped me going, but it was a bit of a disappointment — there's something about an English translation, especially in an through-composed opera like this and especially in an opera so unfamiliar to me, which creates a distance which wouldn't otherwise be there. It just isn't the ideal way to meet an opera for the first time. I heard Falstaff  in English a number of times before hearing it in Italian and there's no doubt that the language absolutely shapes the musical experience. Though, of course, I still haven't heard La voix humaine in French. But I did learn it in French so in my mind it's a bilingual creature. Not unlike certain Mozart arias which I used to play on piano from a book with German texts only — to this day, if "Dove sono" is in my head, the opening recit runs something like "E Susanna non vien? Sono ansiosa. Wüsst' ich nur wie die Conte accolse la proposta. Kühn scheint es immer was ich heut' wagen will" and so on. But I've been spectacularly sidetracked.

Revenons à notre Jenufa. Cheryl Barker did some interesting things in the title role. Obviously she's a singer who thrives on drama rather than the chance to display vocal splendour — the more hideous Jenufa's life became, the more focused her performance became. Vocally she was fine though this was the last performance of the run and I think the strain was starting to show through in everyone's singing — it's a demanding piece. But in a sense the slightly threadbare quality to all the singing was appropriate, an aural match to the relentless misery and Eastern European starkness of it all. But naturally the show belonged to Elizabeth Whitehouse's powerhouse of a Kostelnicka, the source of most the show's genuinely beautiful sounds, and a superb vocal actress even if her stage presence was not always entirely persuasive. Heather Begg's Burya on the other hand sounded ready to keel over any moment but presumably this was intentional, like the ancient emperor or whoever he is in Turandot. As Laca, Peter Wedd threw his heart and soul and then some into it, singing with an incredible intensity which maybe made his voice sound rather more remarkable than it actually is — I mean this as praise, incidentally. Jamie Allen sang well also, though somewhat unmemorably, and made for an effete and rather repellent Steva of whom Jenufa was well rid and who resembled nothing so much as a blonde David Walliams. (Think Sebastian. And apologies if you've no idea what I'm talking about.) The production moves things up to I suppose the 1950s but that really makes very little difference to anything except allowing Karolka to look exceptionally blonde and soignée in the final act. Otherwise it's all pretty straightforward, and successfully harrowing. Again, not perhaps my ideal first Janacek-in-the-theatre experience: I yearned for a little more vocal lushness and I'd still rather hear it in Czech. But a satisfying one all the same.

Gala

Yes, I am here, alive and well and beginning to cope with my new, sunny and highly populated home. But no longer, for the time being at least, at leisure to labour for hours over a single post, so I shall have to settle for speed blogging.

The gala on Wednesday night was fantastic. For me, a little like attending three events at once though — an evening where Yvonne Kenny sang, an evening where I got to see Joan Sutherland in person and only after both of those things, a gala. From my side view seat I couldn't always hear all the singing perfectly, but when it mattered, I could — the singers really worth hearing by definition had the voices which carried backwards as well as forwards.

Yvonne sang "Vilja" from The Merry Widow, as I suspected she might, but in the translation she sang in San Francisco in 2002, not the (execrable) one which Opera Australia used in 2004. (I have a mild obsession with Merry Widow translations. Ignore me.) Also we had the final ensemble from Falstaff, including that magnificent high C of hers which I so adore. She was heartstoppingly beautiful, of course. She always is. Funny that. And seeing her so soon after my arrival is the best welcome to my new home I could have asked for.

Other vocal highlights (though still necessarily well and truly in her shadow) — Henry Choo's contribution to the Act I ensemble from Die Zauberflöte, Elizabeth Connell's transcendant Liebestod, Lisa Gasteen's "Dich teure Halle" and the gorgeous Fiona Janes, who really ought to have been given a solo number instead of just the L'italiana in Algieri ensemble she formed part of. Glenn Winslade disappointed, however, in "Fuor del mar" with haphazard coloratura and audible strain, and Rosario La Spina, who I assumed would be fantastic, was, well, not particularly — but perhaps that was just from where I was sitting. His "La donna è mobile" seemed underpowered and discoloured, but earned him rapturous applause, so what do I know?

And Joanie. The second she, with the rest of the offical party (though no Bonynge) entered the theatre I was in tears. What a privilege to be in her presence. At the end of the listed items came the birthday surprises, streamers and sparkles and bright lights — and, in pitch black, a few minutes of the woman herself, spectacular in Sonnambula. Absolutely glorious. Vive la reine.

Carmen

When the University of Otago announced it would stage Carmen this year, I admit I grumbled. A million operas in the world, a good dozen or so of them Top of the Pops enough to bring in a big audience, even in Dunedin, and they'd gone and chosen the one I felt least like seeing. I am, after all, one of only two people I know who would, if pushed, name Djamileh their favourite Bizet opera. Carmen has never really gripped me, musically or dramatically, and its excess of overexposed hit tunes doesn't help. But between then and now I've recovered somewhat. The opera has improved in my opinion (though I still like Djamileh better), I've come to enjoy the hits again, and the prospect of seeing in on stage has grown ever more appealing. Besides which, complaining about the choice of opera in a city which sees so little is just plain ill-mannered.

So by opening night last Thursday I was, if not exactly trembling with anticipation, definitely feeling positive at the thought of what lay ahead. My complaints were more or less forgotten — and after, say, two or three bars of overture, they'd evaporated completely. What was I thinking? Who could complain about this? There's far too much to be blissfully happy about.

Believe it or not, when I went on Thursday, my ticket for that performance was the only one I had. Two or three bars of overture and it was already obvious that one was not going to be enough. You know what a vocal fanatic (and then some) I am but I didn't need a single soprano to know this was going to be a brilliant evening and one I'd want to repeat — and that's testament to the appeal of the music itself, but even more so to the way it was being played, to the exceedingly talented conductor Tecwyn Evans and the excellent playing he drew from the Southern Sinfonia. So I was hooked in even before the curtain rose — and then it did rise and everything just got even better. Just Neil Irish's set made me smile, a pretty straightforward town square but immediately atmospheric. The soldiers' chorus, Moralès, solid singing in both cases.

And then, one of those flashes of magic which remind me why I'm so in love with this art form. Micaëla, in the shape of Rebecca Ryan. Adorable even before she sang and exquisite from the moment she did. She's a revelation to me, a name which, unbelievably, I'd never heard before this Carmen and a voice which made me an instant fan. Sometimes, it's true, the thrill of a performance can make me love anyone's opening phrases, only to find myself rather less enchanted as the night progresses. Not so Rebecca — every bar she sang just delighted me further. Her "Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante" was radiant,  transcending both a wayward horn solo and the seagull-sized clumps of fake snow descending from above — not to mention time itself.  Wonderful how fate works out: Rebecca was originally cast as Frasquita, with Anna Leese to sing Micaëla. But Anna was released from her contract so as to début at Covent Garden (where I believe she's to sing Micaëla next year) and Rebecca was promoted — an inspired move, as Micaëla, and not Frasquita, is clearly where she should be in this opera. Even as Micaëla she doesn't really have enough to sing. I'd happily have given her the whole opera.

I'm afraid I can't afford such besotted or wholehearted praise to Deborah Wai Kapohe in the title role. I wish I could, for mostly personal reasons: though I've had an unpredictable relationship with her voice of late, it was nevertheless among the first operatic voices I experience and fell for in person, and I was convinced Carmen would prove a perfect fit for her. I was both right and wrong. Unquestionably she looks and acts the part divinely, all swaying hips and dangerous beauty. She's a seductress whose bark is worse than her bite. For all her provocative defiance in the face of men too overcome by her to pose a threat, once they take the bait her power wanes. Don José's jealous violence quickly tears down her fearless façade, and by the time she's Escamillo's soignée companion she's barely recognisable. This is a powerful performance but, alas, it's one without the vocals to match. And yet it's not quite as straightforward as all that. I can't exactly call it a poorly sung Carmen. Rather I'm going to make what will probably seem a bizarre criticism: her Carmen is too authentic. What I mean is this. For all the local flavour Bizet incorporated into his score, Carmen remains, when all is said and done, French opera. Now of course Carmen should sound convincingly Gypsy but, speaking for myself, I think she should also sound like an opera singer. Deborah makes all manner of attractive enough sounds but only some actually sound like opera. Elsewhere, the lower the tessitura goes, the greater her tendency simply to belt it out. I've heard Deborah in her other musical persona, as a folk singer-songwriter, and I struggle to hear any significant difference between her style in that genre and her approach to much of Carmen's music. Gypsy touches in the singing are all well and good but this isn't a case of varied vocal colour, it's actually a separate voice, and the break between that and her higher (and lovely!) "opera" voice is quite noticeable. Theatrically I suppose it's all still very effective, and she's almost always very listenable, but it's nevertheless a jarring musical experience for me, a PorgyandBessified Carmen when what I wanted was the real thing.

Towering over Carmen both physically and vocally is Dwayne Jones' superlative Don José. Apparently this is the new unwritten rule of opera in Dunedin: import a young, bald Australian singer with an insanely good voice. For Opera Otago's Falstaff it was Derek Welton and Carmen has Dwayne to fit the bill. No allowances for acoustics necessary here, he just soars regardless. His is the most free, open and gorgeous sound, hugely powerful but without ever blasting or shouting. Please don't think me unjust if I don't devote as much space to him as the sopranos, you know how I am. But this is an incredible talent, the kind of tenor sound that girls who like that kind of thing go quite mad for. And despite the gorgeous voice, he's quite unsettlingly good at bringing out Don José's scary, violent side too — his assault and murder of Carmen, staged starkly and graphically, is heavy going stuff, his initimidating physical presence matched by his singing.

Whereas the other man in the piece is just irresistible. José Carbo's Escamillo, with his infectious smile and suave, easy manner, is so engaging and so effortlessly charming that, despite all the adulation he so happily soaks up, he never seems arrogant — just justifiably self-confident. Nobody could help but like him; the fascination he exercises for both the men and the women is easy to understand. He sings with equal style and grace. I think he's just absolutely wonderful. And just how often have you seen me go into starry-eyed italics over a baritone? Exactly.

Though it's quite possible I have done just that in the past over Roger Wilson, who sings Le Dancaïre here. I've been a fan of Roger's for I don't know how long, but at least since December 2003 when his mellifluous voice and ability to actually pronounce French like French made him the highlight of a concert of the complete choral works of Berlioz. Both those distinguishing features are at work for him here, alongside his gift for comedy. He's aided and abetted by a hilarious Brendon Mercer as Le Remendado — honestly the two of them ought to go into business as a double act. Richard Green also makes his mark as the outrageously lecherous Zuniga. Green underwhelmed me somewhat as the Commendatore last year but here he's much more interesting.

Completing the cast are Carmen's two fellow female smugglers. Mercédès is the excellent Sarah McOnie. She doesn't exactly get much to sing, but what we did get to hear sounded very good indeed — I hope one day to have a chance to hear her in something rather more substantial. Likewise Frasquita. Perhaps I'm cursed always to long for more, more, more from the Frasquita of the piece. If Rebecca Ryan had sung it, that would certainly have been the case; and Elisa Wilson, another Australian import, is also a tantalising presence.

Annilese Miskimmon's production sets the action in the Spanish Civil War, creating an interesting juxtaposition of familiar elements with the unexpected — Carmen in grey with pillbox hat and sunglasses, the smugglers as members of the resistance. It's a smart, stylish update, one which creates a new and interesting context but without being so intrusive as to obscure or detract from the piece. Dunedin, incidentally, makes the small world even smaller — when I was in London for Fedora by the opera company of my heart, Opera Holland Park, they were also doing a Così directed by Annilese Miskimmon.

Tonight was the second performance I've seen. I'll also be there on Wednesday for the final one, when the only complain I'll have left is that it is the final one. Plain old gratitude only goes so far. It's not that which makes me so happy about this Carmen, but rather a love of opera — any opera — performed beautifully. And I'll very interested to see what the University chooses for its next production.

The Merry Widow at Opera Holland Park

I spent my last night in London at Opera Holland Park for The Merry Widow. Going was a spur of the moment decision, and I was lucky to get a ticket. In more ways than one, it was a perfect finish to my stay – an evening at the venue which was the centre of, and reason for, the whole trip, seeing the opera which started it all: it was, after all, The Merry Widow which brought me to Yvonne in the first place.

That last point's not an insignificant one. For as long as I've had any sense of this operetta, Yvonne has been my only Hanna Glawari. Not just in a spiritual sense, but literally. All the music — not just Hanna's – immediately says Yvonne to me, before it says anything else. There's a whole tangled web of emotional associations at work, more so even than I realised: until the overture began and I more or less burst into tears. So I really wasn't sure how I was going to cope with a new Hanna, how to deal with the comparison. Well, problem solved. Rebecca Caine's Hanna was about as far from Yvonne's in every respect as it could possibly have been. Two brilliant, beautiful Hannas, but worlds apart. Just as their respective musical backgrounds would suggest, Yvonne's Hanna is operatic in every sense, Rebecca's Hanna in every sense a creature of musical theatre. She didn't suffer by comparison, simply because there was no sensible comparison to be made.

The production is brilliant, a high camp roaring-Twenties update which works splendidly. The Act II folk dance which preceded Vilja has been, in a stroke of genius, transformed into something by Busby Berkeley, full of bathing beauties and anyone-for-tennis choreography. Operetta is supposed to be funny but that doesn't mean it necessarily is — but in this instance it's hilarious, one of the funniest shows (of any kind) I've seen in a long time. That's thanks not only to excellent direction but to a cast of talented actors whose delivery of the dialogue is spot-on. Rebecca Caine captured the essence of Hanna and of the era charmingly, partnered by the not quite so convincing but nevertheless likeable Danilo of Philip Salmon. But even better, in my view, was Charlotte Page's Valencienne, whose comic timing and outrageous French accent were both impeccable. Oliver White, too, made a nicely over-the-top and flouncing Njegus. As for vocal thrills, well, there weren't so many. Chacun à son goût, of course – for me, as a purely aural experience, I prefer my operetta a little more operatic. In fact for me the vocal highlight of this show came in Valencienne's Act III turn as a grisette, where Charlotte Page threw off all vestiges of operetta singing and turned sultry cabaret singer, just about stealing the show in the process. Otherwise the singing here was fine, mostly, but not overwhelmingly excellent and certainly in no case the most interesting thing about anybody's performance. But it mattered not a jot. This was some of the best fun I've had at a theatre for who knows how long, a tight, witty and hugely enjoyable Merry Widow. I wish I could have stayed to see it again and again. In fact I'd go so far as to say it's the kind of Merry Widow production which Yvonne, both of whose were a little on the heavy-handed side, deserved. Now how's that for high praise?