I love opera, bluegrass, burger joints and fictional detectives. Mostly, but not always, in that order. Formerly of Dunedin, formerly of Sydney, now travelling the world with the tenor in my life (Stuart Skelton) and blogging as I go.
I'm a little late with this, but then again, if I'd tried to write it earlier, it probably would have descended into illiterate squealing within seconds. Even now I'm in danger. The fact is this: last Friday night, The Tenor In My Life sang Siegmund in Die Walküre at the Met. He only had one shot at it – we're already in London for the next gig and Siegfried hasn't even happened yet – and I think it's safe to say he made the most of it. By which I mean, it was sensational. Within my own highly biased frame of reference, it was one of the most exciting performances I've seen him give.
That won't mean much to you, perhaps, but maybe this little factoid will: he managed to unite the doyennes of the Parterre commentariat. They can be (and frequently are) brutal and bitchy, and I was steeling myself forsomebody to find fault, but remarkably, nobody did. Instead there were comments like "the great revelation of the evening", "the next great heldentenor", "the best overall performance" and so on. And yeah, I know, they're blog comments, and if they didn't make me happy, I'd be the first to play down their credibility. Too bad. I intend to have it both ways.
Besides, there's a level at which I will take what I can get. Because the tragedy of this otherwise triumphant evening is that it was, technically at least, a revival, and as a result there was a grand total of one press reviewer in the audience – and he appears to be saving his thoughts until all three cycles. Sigh. Reviewers aren't everything, of course; again, when they say mean things about singers I love, I'm all too ready to dismiss or doubt them. But it would have been nice on such an important evening to have some sort of external record of this triumph. (There was also, alas, no radio broadcast, and the Met doesn't seem to have published any photos yet. I feel my inner conspiracy theorist stirring...)
Not to worry. I have my own memories, and those of the friends and colleagues who were in the audience. It was an amazing night, a thrill from start to finish, and the buzz both in the auditorium and backstage was palpable. I was insanely and tearfully proud and just plain bowled over. As a dear friend said on Twitter: that boy can sing. Yes, he can, and oh my, did he ever.
The whole cast was on fabulous form, from Deborah Voigt's oh-so-sympathetic Brünnhilde (I want her Pre-Raphaelite hair) to Stephanie Blythe's majestic Fricka (how does any human person sing like that?) to Hans-Peter König's sonorous Hunding. Then of course there wasBryn Terfel's Wotan, who broke my heart several times over. And there was the glorious Eva-Maria Westbroek (increasingly one of my very favourite sopranos) as a radiant and adorable Sieglinde. I had seen her in a few late rehearsals, and she was wonderful then, but I was quite taken aback with the emotional intensity that she'd saved up for the performance – not to mention the constant cascades of gorgeous, gorgeous voice. With such a sweet pair of Wälsung twins, who could possibly get on board with Fricka's arguments, logical as they may be? I sure couldn't.
The five hours of opera flew by and so have the subsequent days. I can't believe it's been almost a week. I'm still buzzing a bit (we both are) and prone to fits of glee. So I'll stop writing now, and point you in the direction of a lovely blog post by the excellent Lucy of Opera Obsession. As for me, the rest is squeals. Yay! Wälse! And so on.
I've been waiting a while for my chance to see Anna Caterina Antonacci, but the city of New York has had to wait even longer than that. For me it's only been six years, the time since I fell under the spell of her CD "Era la notte". Anna Caterina, however, has been in the business for decades and yet the recital she gave at Alice Tully Hall on Sunday was her New York début. Amazing.
And she was amazing. A better substitute for chocolate on Easter Sunday I can hardly imagine. She's famous for her shapeshifting voice: mezzo here, soprano there; inky black at one end and white gold at the other, with a scintillating spectrum in between. I've read about her versatility and distinctive sound (not to mention her captivating presence) countless times, but these things aren't quite real until experienced in person. Now I'm a true believer.
Fauré's Cinq mélodies "de Venise" were a delectable gateway to this celebration of the belle époque, but it was when Antonacci reached the open sea – quite literally, with Fauré's L'horizon chimérique – that she went from merely wonderful to downright thrilling. I was hooked – a little more decisively with every song – and when she switched to Italian for Hahn's Venetian songs, well, I was more or less in the palm of her hand. To think I nearly missed this concert – a technical glitch on the Lincoln Center website convinced me she had deservedly sold out, and it was only by chance that I checked again just a couple of days before the recital.
The second half was at least as opulent and a sight more operatic: songs by Cilea, Tosti, Mascagni, Respighi and Refice. It occured to me how rarely I've heard Italian repertoire (especially recital repertoire) sung by actual Italians: the colour and subtleties she twisted out of these songs were such as I suspect only a native speaker could manage. I loved the Cilea and Tosti especially. None of it repertoire I knew at all, but the distinctly Italianate lyricism of both the music and Antonacci's singing made it seem immediately familiar. She buried herself in each song to the hilt – pensive or expansive, wretched or comic, sweet or seductive – and managed to bring her operatic delivery right to the precipice of excess but never topple over.
I thought the near-capacity crowd might never let her go. She gave us three encores: Gimenez's "La tarantula", another Tosti song (so Olivia Giovetti's excellent review informs me) and Fauré's "Au bord de l'eau", which brought us full circle. To hear her scale back her forces so delicately, on the heels of all that high octane Mediterranean drama, was something very special. New York, your patience and mine have been rewarded. Now let's hope both of us see her again soon.
The last time I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – she was singing Lucia – we found ourselves sharing a box with Hei-Kyung Hong. She offered to share her cough drops with us. This morning when I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – this time as Violetta – Hei-Kyung Hong was there again. Only this time she was singing in Natalie's place. My favourite French pixie was, alas, indisposed; if only she'd asked Hong for a cough drop.
Ah, well, these things happen, and this was only the final dress rehearsal anyway (albeit a very full one) so I hope that, despite all the cynical speculation happening on Parterre, I might still have a chance to see Natalie's Violetta. (I've just checked the calendar and it turns out this chance hinges entirely on her singing opening night. Fingers crossed, then.) I liked the production and I'd like to see Natalie in it: I'm interested to see her in the role whatever the circumstances, but I suspect this very stripped back and crinoline-free take would be an especially good showcase for her.
Hei-Kyung Hong, however, is about as luxurious a cover as possible. I doubt anyone arriving halfway through would have guessed that she was anything other than the singer engaged from the beginning; after all, she's done a fair number of Met Violettas in her own right, not to mention a stack of other roles. (It's a big stack: the Met database lists 355 performances since her début in 1982.) She was lovely, especially in Act II, where she did some of the prettiest soft singing I've ever heard, and earns serious bonus points for singing such a huge role at such an early hour.
Weirdly enough this is only the second production of Traviata I've ever seen live. The opera is so entrenched in my brain – it was an early favourite and I was for a while obsessed with Anna Moffo's "Teneste la promessa" – that I feel like that can't possibly be true. But it is. I've seen Opera Australia's perennial Moshinsky production a number of times, with two sopranos and only one tenor, Aldo Di Toro, who always seems to persuade me that the opera might actually be about Alfredo.
Lo and behold, Matthew Polenzani had the same effect on me. I've only seen him once before, and that was a Schubert recital. Alfredo was such a complete change of pace that I wasn't sure what to expect, but Polenzani won me over quite conclusively: the longer he sang, the more I wanted him to keep singing, and his still-waters-run-deep characterisation was really quite wonderful. The big showdown at Flora's – as he threw money at Violetta and then himself to the floor – was especially moving, and a shocking transformation from the stiff and awkward suitor we'd met at the start.
In no way, shape, manner or form could Dmitri Hvrostovsky's Germont pass for the father of Polenzani's Alfredo; sophisticated older brother perhaps, or perhaps a suave mafioso. But in terms of credibility, that's a much easier obstacle to overcome than a cane and a feigned hunch, and Hvorostovsky has such bucketloads of authority – not to mention the kind of charisma that ought to be taxed – that it's no trouble at all to believe in the sway he holds over both Alfredo and Violetta. He sang masterfully throughout but "Di Provenza" was particularly exceptional and drew the biggest cheers of the performance. Quite honestly, even if Natalie disappears, I'd be tempted to go back just to hear that aria again.
Peter Gelb, in his announcement about Natalie, also dropped in a mild warning about Willy Decker's production which I'm sure is not everybody's cup of tea. It mostly worked for me, though: it's refreshingly uncluttered, both in aesthetic and psychology. I like the Ikea sets. And I'm always intrigued by directors who place characters onstage who usually wouldn't be there – not only does Decker include the principals in scenes they'd normally miss, he also has Violetta shadowed everywhere by a solemn and silent old man, who might be Fate, or Death, or Donald Sutherland, and eventually becomes Doctor Grenvil, making the character's grim prognosis that much more chilling. Actually this was a good day for the bit players: Maria Zifchak's Annina had such resounding beauty of tone that I kind of wished she had an aria.
It was the men who won this show for me: Polenzani, Hvrostovsky and let's not forget Fabio Luisi. You'd think a Ring Cycle would be work enough but no, there he is, conducting La traviata as well and doing it ravishingly too. Zippy tempi here and there – "Ah fors'e lui" in particular – but so finely textured and sensitive. I didn't realise until the music began just how much I was in the mood for a really good Traviata – I mostly blame Ruth Elleson for this and I think she knows why – and this fine group of artists ended up providing just what I needed.
One final highlight? Today was Open Day at the Met, and among the unusually large dress rehearsal audience were a lot of school kids, who reacted in delightfully unexpected ways. When Giorgio Germont slapped his son, they gasped as one...and when Alfredo ran in to embrace the dying Violetta, they burst into applause and cheers. Poor things must have been devastated when she died after all.
I'm fairly sure the Met saw me coming and quickly hid all the repertoire I'd most like to see. They've hidden it in plain sight (it's right there in the calendar after April 13th) but nevertheless I feel a little conspired against. When I leave, they bring out the Janacek and the Britten; while I'm here, there's Manon. There's also Die Walküre, of course, which is super-hyper-number-one priority and beside which nothing else really matters anyway – thus spake your objective narrator – but I still need my Met fix. We're living almost literally across the road from stage door and her siren song taunts me if I don't visit.
Add my withdrawal symptoms to the extreme adorability of Diana Damrau and you start to see why I was so determined to see L'elisir d'amore. If I had been spoilt for choice, and if the Adina had been less lovely, I might have given up hope when I saw how full the houses were – particularly when I realised I'd been hopeless once again and had only two chances left to see the show anyway – but this time I persisted. Or rather, my Friend At The Met (one guess who that is) persisted on my behalf and managed to snag for me what may well have been the very last space in the house: a Grand Tier standing room place.
This was the first time I'd done standing room for anything, and I think I'd need to build up my stamina before standing for anything much longer than L'elisir, but all in all it wasn't too uncomfortable – particularly in the second half, by which time half the occupants of my section had disappeared, along with their chronic need to talk. I couldn't see all of the set, but I could see enough of it; I could hear everything, and that's what mattered.
Diana Damrau was the darling of my heart from start to finish and my favourite voice of the afternoon. The silver and sweetness and exceptional dynamic control of her singing come across wonderfully on disc (which is how I get most of my Diana) but in person she reaches another dazzling level, and I loved her house filling notes just as much as her floatiest fairy floss pianissimi. She also plays "charmingly flustered" better than anyone. I would happily have heard her sing everything twice but as it was, the only person who had that chance was Nemorino.
Yes, Juan Diego Florez encored "Una furtiva lagrima". I don't know whether he'd done it already during the run – he didn't look particularly surprised or hesistant about it – but in any case, when the tumultuous applause had finally died down, somebody high above shouted "encore" and JDF duly obliged, even throwing a few new ornaments in the second time around. It wasn't a great moment for suspension of disbelief: he broke character to take bows before and after and then, when an awkward bit of staging meant the applause kept breaking out again, actually spoke to the audience – "Miss Damrau is waiting" – so that the show could continue. It was, however, a great moment for old fashioned operatic fun.
In fact, even as he sang the aria the first time, I felt like I'd entered a bit of a time warp, in the best sense. Juan Diego down there in his breeches, singing his beautifully shaped and oh-so-ardent rendition of one of the most familiar arias in the repertoire, set against the colourful flats of John Copley's pastel rainbow production, was like some sort of wonderful throwback. This, along with the all-encompassing Diananess, was one of the highlights of the afternoon for me; JDF's encore was just a bonus. As were his dance moves while "tra-la-la"-ing.
Forgive me if I say less about Alessandro Corbelli's gleeful Dulcamara or Mariusz Kwiecien's macho Belcore, who could have passed for Escamillo's slightly goofier brother. Both were admirable, and enthusiastically received. Corbelli was funnier and funnier as the show went on – his duets with Diana's Adina went down particularly well. Poor Belcore doesn't really get much time to preen, once "Come Paride" is out of the way, but Kwiecien certainly does an excellent line in macho bluster. I was also curious to hear Layla Claire, a Met Young Artist whose name kept coming up as one of the best things about The Enchanted Island. Like all good Giannettas ought, she made me wish Donizetti had given her a bit of a subplot. And it was great to hear the Met Orchestra again. Can't wait till they're let loose on Walküre.
It took me ten days to arrange this first fix but I think they'll be closer together now. At least one Traviata, two if I can swing it; the same for Rheingold; two Walküren including the dress; and I've just remembered there's Anna Caterina Antonacci at Alice Tully Hall to think about. Plus Porgy and Bess on Broadway, which sort of counts. The only Met production I'll miss is the Manon. I was curious to hear Anna Netrebko in person, but tickets are not to be had; at least, not for any sensible price. And Manon is far from my favourite opera, so I'm not inclined to fight. If only I'd been here for her Anna Bolena. But such is life: and in the midst of all the other diva goodness on offer here, it really would be churlish to complain.
You would think that all this travel I'm doing would make it easier to pursue my favourite singers (and in fact it mostly has) but Karina Gauvin has remained elusive. She's everywhere I'm not, her website taunting me with concerts of Handel arias or French songs destined always to remain beyond my reach. She's even singing in Australia this year. I've been beginning to despair. If only I knew every opera singer's travel plans through to 2015, the way I know my own; perhaps she's awaiting me in Paris or Seattle or London.
Then it turned all was not lost anyway; I found her in New York, singing in the St John Passion at Carnegie Hall with Les Violons du Roy. A mixed blessing. I mean, Bach is wonderful, clearly, and Karina singing Bach? Sensational. But Johann Sebastian, in his infinite wisdom, was writing to glorify God and not so much to please me: so we have a piece of music which is irrefutably glorious and transcendent and a thousand other devotional adjective ... but which doesn't give Karina Gauvin nearly enough to sing. Two arias? You're killing me, J.S.
Or is he? In fact she sang those two arias so gorgeously that they didn't feel like short shrift after all. She lived up to the adoring expectations which CDs and YouTube videos have helped me to build up and even confounded them (delightfully) in a couple of spots. Ten minutes of close-range Karina (I was in the front row) is infinitely preferable to no Karina at all, and while my addiction is still crying out for a more substantial fix, this was a fairly generous teaser; and in an emergency situation, I could survive on her "Zerfliesse, mein Herze" for weeks.
And while I would be completely prepared to sit in silence for an hour between two arias from Karina, that is of course not what we were doing. I had all manner of wonderful playing and singing to keep me company. Our tireless Evangelist was none other than Ian Bostridge, the first male singer I ever really "got", back in the days when my heart belonged mostly to Cecilia Bartoli and Barbara Bonney and tenors tended to pass me by. (Baritones were more perplexing still, one grey and unfathomable mass. How times change.) Neal Davies was Jesus, and singing alongside Karina in the other unnamed solo parts were countertenor Damien Guillon, bass-baritone Hanno Müller-Brachmann and, another highlight for me, tenor Nicholas Phan: a name long known to me via his blog and Twitter presence, and now via his excellent singing as well. Bernard Labadie conducted Les Violons du Roy and La Chapelle de Québec.
Diva worship, you see, is a force for good and for edification of the soul. The shameful truth is that without Karina's involvement, I would probably have shied away from a Sunday afternoon St John Passion. (The St Matthew Passion is likelier to tempt me on its own account, though I couldn't tell you precisely why.) But she pulled me in and it was time well spent. I've had a very satisfactory fix of Bach – now back to the hunt for More Karina.
Almost exactly a year since my last visit, I'm bound for New York again. Last time it was for a début, this time for a star turn: the tenor in my life will sing Siegmund in the opening Ring cycle at the Met. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't get sick of saying that. Siegmund! At the Met! Weirdly enough, although it's one of his signature roles, I've never yet heard him sing it live; in fact, I've never heard anyone sing it live. Well, not exactly. I heard Jonas Kaufmann twice from the Green Room last year, but I don't think that counts. As far as I'm concerned,the April 13th performance is my first live Die Walküre and Stuart is my first live Siegmund – and because, in this instance, I'm entitled to be just as spectacularly biased as I like, I can already tell you he'll be my favourite Siegmund too. So there.
Anyway, that accounts for one evening, and maybe a morning too if they let me into the general, but this is New York and there is plenty else to see. Not as much as last time, because we're only there half as long, but I repeat: It's New York. There's always something. Here's what's on my Must See List so far. Now I ask you, O Faithful Readers, to point out all the essential events I have unforgiveably missed.
St John Passion at Carnegie Hall I could pretend that this all about the transcendent beauty of Bach – and no doubt in part it will be – but the truth is, this is the only chance I'll have in the foreseeable future to see the oh-so-gorgeous Karina Gauvin in performance, and that is why I'm going. And why I'm sitting in the front row. In an ideal world, she'd be doing a solo recital, or a Handel opera, or something similarly vehicular. But in the absence of all that, this concert will do nicely.
Porgy and Bess Audra McDonald. Need I say more? I know that this is the meddled-with production which prompted a long and scathing letter from Stephen "God" Sondheim but I don't care. Audra is Audra is Audra. And it would be nice to see a production of Porgy and Bess, too.
Diva festival at the Met I'm really showing my soprano bias, aren't I? As if you're surprised. I don't really like Manon very much but am very keen finally to see and hear Anna Netrebko in action; L'elisir d'amore is a cute opera made unmissable by the delightful Miss Damrau; and while I have no idea whether Natalie Dessay really should sing Violetta, I can say without a doubt that I'm going to need to hear her do it. So those are my top three. Might be nice to hear Tom Hampson sing Macbeth, too, and my completist side is quietly hoping I'll make it to Rheingold as well.
Anna Caterina Antonacci in recital at Alice Tully Hall Another singer I've wanted to hear live for many years.
Seminar Not opera, not even musical. I'm not necessarily so good with the legitimate theatre, and this review doesn't inspire massive confidence, but I'd brave far greater danger for the chance of seeing Alan Rickman. Especially Alan Rickman "shredding egos". I always believed in you, Professor Snape!
So, New Yorkers and cultural ninjas: I'm in town from March 21st until April 13th. What unmissables am I missing? I'll never see everything, of course; but I'd hate to find out a day too late that I deprived myself of something exceptional.
This should by rights have been my New Year's Eve post, a round up of all that was grand and glorious for me in 2011, just as it drew to a close. Then several things got in the way: my incompetence, which caused me inadvertently to delete said post; Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve; our own New Year's Eve celebrations; sleep; and last, but not least, a drive to Miami and a flight to Spain, with absurd behaviour from American Airlines obstructing our progress wherever possible.
We made it, however, and are now starting to settle into Oviedo. Rehearsals for Peter Grimes are in their second day and although 2012 is nearly half a week old, I'd still like to celebrate a few of last year's highlights. After all, there's no opera here until Grimes opens, in three weeks or so, so I have to find other blogging fodder, and what better than a list? I love lists.
Thus I give you, in no particular order, my Top Eleven of 2011.
London
Our travel for the year began here, and while it was not my first visit, it was my longest, and reinforced once again my eternal love for this city. I mean, the duck confit sandwiches at Borough Market would actually be reason enough on their own for devotion, but then you start piling on the museums, the parks, the shopping, the Indian food, the sheer sense of history, the theatre and oh my gosh the music. I don't know how people who live there permanently cope with it all: we were only there for eight weeks, and the volume and quality of live classical music on offer was already overwhelming. I saw plenty, but missed even more; and such was the concentration of brilliance that I was twice obliged to forsake my own tenor's Parsifal in favour of other, less repeatable delights. The weather was pretty rotten but if I could have stayed forever, I'd still have done so in a heartbeat.
The Met
Mecca. I finally made it there, and for the most part it lived up to my expectations. Which is to say, it was huge, quite glamorous, and offered an impressive variety of repertoire and an even more impressive line-up of star soloists. Suddenly my CD collection came to life: there were Joyce DiDonato, Diana Damrau, Juan Diego Florez, Renée Fleming, Joe Calleja, Bryn Terfel, Deborah Voigt, Karita Mattila, Peter Mattei, Natalie Dessay and and and ... the list goes on.
And because I was there in the company of another of those star soloists – whose own Met début was even more exciting than any of the star spotting – I was able to experience the backstage half of the company too. I was in the Green Room on opening night of Walküre when ill health forced the divine Eva Maria Westbroek out halfway through and Margaret Jane Wray was summoned to take over (which she did magnificently). We went and said hi to Joyce before she strutted her stuff as the Komponist in Ariadne auf Naxos. I was even hugged by Bryn Terfel. And I'm sure this all sounds like so much insufferable namedropping, but believe me, it's said with nothing but awe and disbelief. Maybe as time goes by, I'll become jaded, but right now I'm still wide-eyed as anything.
Michelle DeYoung
I've lost count of how many times I've raved about Michelle this year, but it's quite a few. She's so worth it. I was fortunate enough to hear Michelle three times this year, in three different countries: as Judith in Bluebeard's Castle with the New York Philharmonic, then in Das Lied von der Erde in Hong Kong and again in Sydney in Mahler 2. Believe it or not, I'm actually not stalking her; but given half a chance, I probably would. She's truly amazing: a wonderful artist, with a voice which is both heaven and earth, all at once, and also one of the coolest people I know. Michelle, you rule.
Orchestras with proper pits
Sydneysiders will understand. While I will always feel a sort of filial affection (coupled with seething frustration) for the Sydney Opera House's Opera Theatre, with its dodgy acoustic and hellish concrete pit, it has been quite a revelation to spend this year in opera houses which don't stow their orchestras under the stage, and whose auditoria are actually, you know, designed for opera. Even the Santa Fe Opera, which is effectively outside, pulls off a fuller, more convincing sound, and the Met, or in Zürich or at either of London's opera houses, well, let's just say you don't know what you're missing until it smacks you round the head. In a good way.
Cheryl's Tosca
Let me get this out of the way first: I am stupendously grateful to whichever operatic deity ensured that Cheryl didn't cancel on me. She has been known to do so, and while I, whose devotion is unconditional, always forgive her for it, it might have been a bitterer pill to swallow this time. When I lived in Sydney, I just booked for every show so that I was covered either way. But I had to fly to Brisbane from Taiwan, and I could only stay long enough for two shows, so the potential for a shattered heart was far greater. Actually she did shatter my heart, but by showing up, not by cancelling. Her Tosca was all I could have hoped for – and I'd been hoping for a while, ever since she was announced for – and then bowed out of – Opera Australia's Tosca two years earlier. As spoilt rotten with opera as I am these days, it still stings a little that I've left the town where I could see my favouritest soprano on a remarkably regular basis – pursuing her is harder now, but my dash across the globe for her Tosca proved that it's still ridiculously worthwhile.
Wagner
From the moment I was brave enough to dip my toes in Wagnerian waters, I've loved the stuff, but for many years never felt I had the fortitude to spend more than the occasional afternoon in its company. Wagner, I felt, was the antithesis of background music – it required all of my energies and attentions – and thus, because I am inherently lazy, I ended up listening to very little. Then along came a Heldentenor and I had no choice but to be immersed. Well, it's been grand. I know Parsifal almost as well now as I know Don Giovanni or Vec Makropulos – a circumstance I hardly saw coming – and can make Lohengrin jokes with the best of them. I know Walküre better than I did a year ago and by the end of 2013 I think I'll probably have it (or at least the first two acts...) down pat.
I love it still, and I still find it perfect and transcendent and all of that stuff which Wagner so patently is. Never too long, too ponderous, too slow or too loud. I've seen more Parsifals this year than your average bear – fifteen I think, in two productions – and it only gets better. I've learnt to love Wagner in rehearsal chunks and in full performance, and I look forward to the day – and it will come – when Tristan arrives.
God
Meaning, of course, Sir John Tomlinson. His Gurnemanz at the ENO was awe-inspiring – imposing and sonorous yet quivering with human emotion, a privilege to behold every single time. And yes, I was also lucky enough to experience Matti Salminen's Gurnemanz, and yes, he's also God, pretty much, though in a rather scarier, Old Testament-y way. Sir John's was the one that got to my heart, however. He was also the first person this year to turn me into a babbling fangrrl when I met him.
Ned Canty
The whole Santa Fe experience was fantastic from start to finish – the food was excellent, the views mindboggling, the opera company treated us beautifully and the show we were there for, Daniel Slater's production of Wozzeck under the inspired leadership of David Robertson, was a massive success. The town itself, and its surrounds, were a revelation in themselves. But operatically speaking, the biggest revelation was the directorial genius of Ned Canty, whose production of Menotti's rarely performed The Last Savage provided one of the smartest, funniest and most captivating nights I've ever had in the theatre. The opera itself was fine, musically, and surprisingly hilarious, but I have no doubt that it was Canty's superb production – and the pitch-perfect performances he drew from a very talented cast – which really caused this rarity to scintillate. I really, really hope to have another chance to see his work, and soon.
Eva Maria Westbroek
I fell for her first in Turnage's Anna Nicole, which did her glorious talents scant justice but still couldn't hide her radiant presence or the liquid gold of her voice. I fell for her again on DVD, in a weirdo production of Fanciulla del West, where I wished she could sing forever, in every role. I missed her, would you believe, in Walküre; even being Siegmund's cover (or his consort) wasn't enough to get tickets for that sold out show. I did meet her, by happy chance, and reverted to babbling fangrrl mode once again. I've been devouring YouTube clips ever since. And this year on April 13 – o wondrous day! – I shall submit to a surfeit of delights, when the Met starts Ring-cycling again and my tenor sings Siegmund to Eva Maria's Sieglinde. I should start training my hands now for the ovations.
Surreal encounters
There have been a few, but the winner has to be the day we arrived in Zürich – and my apologies if I've told you this story before – and found that the key to our apartment didn't work. In the ensuing attempts to unlock the door, we were assisted by two of our neighbours: who turned out to be José van Dam and Peter Seiffert. José made many valiant attempts to wrestle the door open, but in the end it was to no avail, so his wife kindly drove off to collect a new key for us while Peter provided red wine and chocolates. The image of us all, clustered together on the landing and conducting trilingual conversation – while my inner voice squealed that's Lucia Popp's widower! – is not one I'm ever likely to forget. And if I were in need of an emblem of how completely different my life became in 2011, well, there it is.
The tenor in my life
Forgive me now if I get soppy and a bit more autobiographical than usual. It's only for a moment. It has to be said, however, that the facilitator of practically all of the above – the glamorous, the gorgeous, the transcendent, the surreal and the newly pervasive first person plural pronoun – has of course been Stuart, the tenor I ran off with just as 2010 was ending. 2011 has meant a completely new life for me. When I announced all the changes, almost exactly a year ago, I titled the post "Happy New Everything". Well, it's a little less new these days, I suppose, but believe me, just as happy. Happier, in fact. I'm living a life I could never have predicted, an opera fanatic's dream in many ways; but the best thing about it, when it comes down to it, is just having an awesome person to share it all with. He's got a nasty habit of murdering swans, of course, but hey – nobody's perfect.
Right, that's the soppy bit – and the list as a whole – over and done with. Here's your reward for making it this far.
It's Joyce! Because I can't quite believe I didn't give her a separate listing here.
I knew those opera house postcards would take over my life. Trawling for more images, I ran into the Century Opera House, aka the Century Theatre, aka the New Theatre. And the internet being what it is, one link led to another led to a Wikipedia article led to Flickr led to various online archives and so on and so on, until the number of tabs open in my browser window became almost obscene.
Construction on the New Theatre started in 1906 It was the project of one Heinrich Conried, a director of the Metropolitan Opera House, who liked the idea of a New York equivalent of the Comédie Française. The theatre opened in late 1909, at Central Park West and 62nd Street. Its Wikipedia article has a wonderful selection of photos published in The New York Architect that year.
The exterior:
The auditorium:
The main foyer:
And particularly noteworthy, from an operatic point of view, this poster:
And sure enough, the Met's performance database lists a whole series of performances at the New Theatre. Its inaugural production was Massenet's Werther, evidently produced under pressure, judging by this note, which was included in the program:
Owing to unforeseen delay in having the lighting apparatus, other stage mechanism and needed facilities completed, and the consequent impossibility to secure for this first presentation adequate stage rehearsals, the opera Werther cannot be presented this evening in full accordance with the standards of this company. The Metropolitan Opera Company and The New Theatre management, however, believe they are meeting the wishes of their patrons in not postponing the performance, but respectfully request the indulgence of the audience for unavoidable shortcomings.
You don't see those sorts of notes these days, do you? Perhaps part of the problem was that the conductor, director and most of the cast were all making their débuts. Only the Charlotte was an established Met star: Miss Geraldine Farrar. A wealth of performances followed: The Barber of Seville, The Bartered Bride (with Emmy Destinn), Manon (with Frances Alda, just two months before she married the Met's director, Giulio Gatti-Cassazza) and a number of shortish works which were paired with ballets. Pavlova danced Act I of Coppélia there, on various double bills, including a Sonnambula with Elvira de Hidalgo, who would go on to teach Maria Callas, and a Cavalleria Rusticana with Olive Fremstad as Santuzza. 1909 also saw the theatre host the world première of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3, played by the composer himself.
But the relationship with the Met was shortlived — there's nothing in the database beyond 1910. The theatre's poor acoustics and less-than-brilliant location, a mile away from the theatre district, did it no favours, and by 1911 the building was being leased to various other managers — Ziegfeld among them — who changed its name. It was the Century Theatre, then the Century Opera House, then the Century Theatre again. Musical performances continued: the Internet Broadway Database lists a variety of musicals and operettas right up until the late 20's. And they evidently persisted with meaty opera too: I did find this 1913 program for Cavalleria Rusticana and Hansel & Gretel.
The theatre gods, however, were not on the Century's side. It failed, and in 1930 the building was demolished. In its place rose a building which shares its name, and which is still a distinctive part of the Manhattan skyline, the Century Apartments:
She's still the best thing about the Met's Ariadne and I still wish she were in the whole opera. Her ovation at the end of the Prologue beat everyone else's, and as transcendent as the music in the Opera is, nothing Ariadne or Bacchus could throw at me could make me as teary as Joyce in full flight. Joyce in Strauss: there's just nothing wrong with that. I want to hear her sing Oktavian. I want to hear her sing every Strauss role ever — well, all the pretty ones — rewritten for mezzo. A mezzo Arabella? She could totally make that work. And now I am trying with every fibre of my being not to think of the Cendrillon she's about to sing in London, or the touring Ariodante, because I can't follow her everywhere. Besides, I have been insanely fortunate to be in New York at the right time for both her Isolier and her Komponist. That should suffice. But hey, the more Joyce, the better. I eagerly await my next fix, wherever and whenever that might be.
Oh and I met her tonight for the first time. This definitely enhances the thrill of it all.
I went to see Anything Goes on Saturday afternoon, my first Broadway show ever. I'm a sucker for a good old-fashioned musical. I'm also thoroughly unqualified to make any particular comment on the standard of what I saw, but it was fairly spectacular and a whole lotta fun. I don't know that I would want to hear Sutton Foster sing everything, but frankly, anyone who can sing like that, charm like that, get laughs like that and then tap dance for ten minutes and immediately start singing again wins my eternal admiration. Of course, Joel Grey still pretty much stole the show out from under her, but justifiably so, and in the nicest possible way. He was hilarious just by standing there. Somehow every time I go to a play or a musical, there's always somebody whose acting fills me with homicidal levels of irritation, but not this time — no weak link, no slapworthy ingenue. Adam Godley was a scream as Lord Evelyn Oakleigh. And those dance numbers. My GOD. The spirit of Busby Berkeley lives on. It was a great show. More than ample compensation for our failure to get tickets for Book of Mormon.
Connolly, that is. Her recital at Alice Tully Hall was sensational. This was not entirely a surprise. Sarah Connolly is pretty much wonderful by definition, but I've only seen her in concert and in opera so far, not in recital, and I didn't know until Wednesday night just how brilliantly she functions in that format.
Talk about good karma. I was supposed to see Sarah Connolly in recital when I was in London, a double act with Felicity Lott, but she withdrew due to illness and Felicity flew sublimely solo. So here I am, two months later, new country, and here's Sarah again — and the Schumann on the New York program bears a striking resemblance to the Schumann which was on her London program. For me, the chief selling point of the London recital was the chance to hear either Felicity or Sarah sing Frauenliebe und -leben. Now I've heard them both sing it, and whole recital besides from each of them. Spoilt little me.
And thank god I had the chance to hear Sarah's take on it because it's possible I may not live to see it bettered. Much as I've always loved that song cycle, I've never exactly felt riveted by it — until Sarah. This was almost the Lieder equivalent of one of those Baroque abandoned-woman cantatas, but subtler, more painful, more utterly compelling. She drew me in completely, then knocked me about a bit. Her voice has a similar effect: meltingly gorgeous, but entirely capable of delivering a slap in the face when it's called for. I loved every minute of it. I don't think I've ever heard a song cycle receive many cheers. A couple of people even stood.
That was clearly the centrepiece of the recital, but it was all fantastic. All Schumann in the first half: a desperately pretty "Widmung", the "Hochländisches Wiegenlied", which I didn't know but fell for immediately, and a cycle for which I think she should maybe be granted a monopoly, the seriously lovely Maria Stuart Lieder. All English songs in the second half: Howells, Gurney, Bennett, and the biggest chunk was Britten's A Charm of Lullabies. Everything she's good at in German songs, she's good at in English songs, to put it boringly. The Howells and Gurney were the best surprises for me, mostly for the chance they afforded that voice to just glow and glow. The Britten lullabies were excellent of course, both the ones that sound like lullabies (sigh) and the couple that don't.
Diction so good you don't notice how good it is, a voice so warm you'd fall asleep if it weren't keeping you so enrapturedly awake, an engaging, intimate stage presence from which every gesture and word just seems to arise spontaneously — all that ideal recital stuff, Sarah Connolly has in spades. I hope she and I continue our habit of visiting the same cities at the same time, because I could definitely get used to this.
P.S. Zachary Woolfe says it properly, and better, in the New York Times. I agree with his every word.
Capriccio properly tonight, as opposed to a dress rehearsal, which doesn't quite count. (Also, I had had more than three hours of sleep this time, which I can tell you is a really good idea with an opera as static as this one.) To be honest, I don't think there's a huge amount I can add to the little I said after that rehearsal. Sarah Connolly is still my favourite among the cast; I also think Joseph Kaiser is very very good indeed. I think the inherent prettiness of Renée's voice comes across better in person than it has on CD in recent years.
At some level, I can't quite believe anybody thought this was a subject ripe for operatic treatment — it's the most self-referential thing ever, it's all talk, and it's hard for that final scene to come across organically with so little previous suggestion of Madeleine actually having, you know, an inner life or something. Yet it's Strauss who made it an opera, so it's ridiculously gorgeous and completely worth hearing.I think my reaction to it is also my answer to the question it poses: the music in this opera is far more important to me than the words. I would never watch a spoken play of Capriccio (whereas with Rosenkavalier or Intermezzo or Elektra, I would, so I'm certainly inconsistent) but I was happy for a long time to listen to its music before I even really knew what the plot was. And there are moments, at least, where I'd swear Strauss is with me: like when he sets Clairon's last polite platitude, as she thanks her hostess, to far more transcendent music than it could possibly deserve.
I don't think Capriccio is ever going to occupy the same place in my heart as Rosenkav or Arabella or even Salome. It's an opera which will always attract me because of its music, and because of its possibilities as a singer vehicle. I mean, I'm flying halfway across the world in July to hear it, because my favourite soprano in the world is singing her first Madeleine. But it's Cheryl I'm travelling for — it always is; the fact that it's Capriccio she's singing is more or less incidental.
The other highlights of tonight were my two starstruck moments backstage after the show. First, meeting Sarah Connolly, who was the first internationally famous singer I ever heard live and whom I've loved ever since. And second, seeing Christine Baranski among the group waiting for Renée to emerge. Christine Baranski!
And speaking of Sarah Connolly, I booked last night for her Alice Tully recital. Have you?
Today was a two opera Saturday. Le comte Ory in the afternoon, Wozzeck in the evening. I think you would struggle to find two operas with less common ground. There are no nuns or jokes in Wozzeck, no blood or expressionism in Le comte Ory. It's like having lunch with Doris Day and dinner with Alanis Morissette. (Which is not to say that Alanis Morissette is as good as Berg. Although I do think Doris Day is at least as good as Rossini.)
The best thing about Le comte Ory continues to be the people singing in it. Frankly I think even the weakest opera ever could be halfway redeemed by the presence of Joyce DiDonato OR Diana Damrau. Having them both, plus Juan Diego Florez, is a masterstroke. Meanwhile the opera itself is too insubstantial even for me, and I love fairy floss. Among its faults: not enough music for Joyce. Honestly, Rossini. You're supposed to be the one who spoils his mezzos. She was wonderful anyway, of course; she can't not be, and Diana was not only in drop dead gorgeous voice but completely hilarious. It's all about the two of them for me, crazy talents of (new father - congrats!) Juan Diego notwithstanding. The staging has been tweaked a bit since I saw the dress rehearsal, mostly to its advantage, though I suspect a funnier production than this one is possible — and I'm still not really sure why it's staged as a show-within-a-show. (Or, more precisely, a dress-rehearsal-within-a-show.) But hey, there's probably only so much you can do with an opera like this. I want to see Il viaggio a Reims now though: a sort of morbid curiosity to find out if it's any funnier.
Meanwhile, both Lucy at Opera Obsession and Brian at Out West Arts were also there this afternoon (along with a Met in HD audience of trillions) and I agree with great chunks of their respective blog posts, which are far more extensive and thoughtful than what I've just written, and which you should definitely read.
A few hours at home watching Star Wars (not my choice) and then back to the theatre for Wozzeck #2. A smaller audience, alas, but the show's as strong as ever. (I also blogged at Limelight about the whole début experience.) A man behind me — despite being well and truly old enough to know better — evidently considered it appropriate behaviour to ask his wife, at full volume, questions like "Is this Act Two?" (it wasn't) and "Is this the bit where he kills her?" (it was). But I managed to ignore him enough to enjoy the show. I'm still making up my mind as to whether I'll see all four, but as it's short, I suppose I might as well.
Next on the agenda: Capriccio, on Monday. This is also the date on which the 2011 #operaplot competition begins, and takes over my brain, my life and my Twitter feed.
One day, two concerts, three singers and we were still home before dark. Result!
At 2pm I saw Dorothea Röschmann and David Daniels sing Handel duets at Carnegie Hall with Juilliard415. At least, the website called it "Handel Duets" but there only three such duets on the program. The bulk of it was arias and orchestral numbers — fine with me, I'd been hoping to hear Dorothea on her own anyway. Which I did, and she was lovely, and I liked David Daniels more in person than I've tended to on record, which was a nice surprise. I wouldn't have minded a bit more variety in the repertoire — it was mostly slow, lovelorn stuff, despite the fact that both of them became immediately more exciting when they headed into vengeance territory. Three encores, too: one each and then one together, "Pur ti miro" which is of course not Handel, but Monteverdi.
Then a leisurely walk to Alice Tully to hear Matthew Polenzani and Julius Drake in Schubert's Die Schöne Müllerin. Definitely more exciting than the Handel, although it's still a maudlin Schubert song cycle, so not actually exciting as such. But I enjoyed Matthew's very sincere, engaging performance. His sort of tenor is not really my voice of choice for this kind of repertoire (gimme a baritone) but once my ears became accustomed, I warmed to him and was glad I'd risked vocal overdose and booked for both concerts. I wasn't the only one, either; I spotted several audience members at both Carnegie Hall and Alice Tully, including the delightful gentlemen (by which I mean the absolute opposite) with whom I shared my box at the Handel. Thankfully they were nowhere near me for the Schubert. And I don't think I can blame them for the faulty hearing aid which plagued Matthew's recital, although I'd sure like to try. (Yes, they were that bad.)
But the real highlight of my day? Walking past Jackie Mason in the street. Thank you, New York.
This morning was my dress circle début. Final dress rehearsal of Capriccio. There are probably worse ways to escape from the freezing cold. I missed the star spotting opportunities of the stalls and grand tier, but on the other hand, I had a perfect seat to watch the chandeliers float up to the ceiling. (Hey, I'm a Met-baby, this is still exciting for me.) Also, it was Strauss, and Strauss from anywhere is still, well, Strauss.
I don't want to make too much specific comment now, since it was a dress rehearsal, but I will say that my admiration for Sarah Connolly continues unabated — gorgeous Clairon in a gorgeous frock — and it was really nice to actually hear Renée in person. Also, while I'm not the scenery-applauding type (at least, not literally), this is one pretty production. But then, John Cox was also responsible for Opera Australia's sublime Arabella, so I was aware of his abilities in that respect.
After the show I spent a blissful half hour wandering through the gift shop. (I love gift shops. It's a bit of a fixation.) Picked up a Beverly Sills CD I didn't know existed, and the Nunzilla pictured below. Strauss, Beverly and angry wind-up nun, all in one afternoon? That's what I'd call success.
Bought at the Met Shop today. It’s a “Comte Ory Nunzilla”. How or if she differs from the common or garden Nunzilla has yet to be made clear. I haven’t named her yet: your suggestions are welcome.
Much fun had at the final dress rehearsal of Le comte Ory. (Kudos to the hardy souls who braved the cold and wet in the hopes of buying somebody's spare ticket. I probably should have felt guiltier about swanning past them.) I'm planning to see it again later in the run, when it's really hit its stride, and will write more about it then. For now, a few squeals will suffice.
#1. I love Joyce DiDonato, she sounded as gorgeous in person as on CD and YouTube, and she makes a remarkably appealing boy.
#2. Diana Damrau is seriously funny. And reminds me of Poppy from Frasier, if that means anything to anyone.
#3. Joyce and Diana should be required by law to sing together all the time. (See video below for proof I'm right.)
#4. Stéphane Degout! I like.
#5. I love Joyce DiDonato. Did I mention that?
#6. Natalie Dessay and Renata Scotto were both in the audience. Definitely squealworthy.
I said it would be all kinds of wonderful. I was wrong, because it was better than that. Tonight's performance of Bluebeard's Castle by the New York Philharmonic has to rank now among the most stunning operatic experiences of my life so far. Not to mention the greatest sonic thrills: when that band plays that music that loud, and you're only about ten rows away from them, it's what I can only describe as a sort of exquisite agony. Almost painful, yet so intensely wonderful that it's the opposite of painful.
Oh, but the un-loud stuff was intense and wonderful too. I knew I liked this opera, but I've only had a few encounters with it — all of them on record — and didn't realise until tonight how much I liked it. It's an extraordinary score, so heavily orchestrated and yet finely wrought, equally capable of ear-assaulting volume and of eerie quiet. And when I say eerie, I mean eerie: Bartok here matches anything Bernard Herrmann did in terms of fear-by-music.
And then there's The Fifth Door, which is like nothing else. Wow. The chord struck, our Judith (tunefully) screamed and all the house lights came up. It was a moment you felt as much as heard. Even when you know it's coming, the Fifth Door manages to knock you out; my companion, on the other hand, had never heard the opera before and didn't know it was coming — I was jealous. As introductions to Bluebeard go, Salonen and the NY Phil is probably not a bad one. By which I mean, they nailed it.
It helped that I was already besotted with the orchestra before it began. They had me at hello, which in this case was Ligeti's Concert romanesc, an incredibly enjoyable showpiece. I knew in ten seconds that this was the finest orchestra I've yet heard live, and at that point I'd probably have listened to them play anything; if the Haydn symphony which followed had been the end of the concert, I'd still have been happy. Instead I got to hear a brilliant opera played phenomenally well, and sung magnificently. Gabor Bretz was a remarkably charismatic Bluebeard, with the added idiomatic bonuses of (1) singing in his native tongue and (2) a rather beautiful voice, especially up top. And Michelle DeYoung...
...Michelle DeYoung deserves her own paragraph. She was incandescent. I watched and listened, spellbound, as her Judith moved from naïve curiosity to morbid obsession, and did so without the aid of costumes, sets or props: it was in her eyes and in her voice. That voice. I've read and heard about Michelle for I-don't-know-how-many years, never heard her until tonight, but she was worth the wait and lived up to the hype. She's a mezzo in a million, ideal for Judith in all her moods; limitless, luscious and earthy. I'll be there, of course, when she sings Das Lied von der Erde in Chicago next year. Cannot. Wait.
Speaking of that inability, it turns out I also can't wait for the next time I happen to coincide with a performance of this opera, so we've booked to see this one again on Tuesday, our last chance. Frankly, being anywhere else on that night just doesn't make sense.
