Prima la musica

10 from 2-6

The problem with writing these introductory lines last is that I know what it's in store for you: many, many words about some of my favourite parts of Paris – I love that city and am still coming to terms with having left – and effectively none about opera. With that caveat out of the way, if you care to stick around, the following is my way of celebrating a really wonderful (despite the endless cold weather) two months and maybe even offering a few hints to like-minded potential visitors. It's mostly shopping and food – I think the monuments and museums speak for themselves, don't they? – and it's pretty Marais-centric, because that's where we were based. But a few nearby arrondissements are in there too: the 2^e through to the 6^e, hence my slightly cryptic title. 

Passage du Grand Cerf Maybe it's bit cliché of me, but few things made me happier on this trip than wandering accidentally into one of the city's beautiful covered passages: nineteenth century shopping arcades which are so enchanting that it doesn't really matter if there's nothing in there you especially want to buy. If I'd done my research, I'd have known about the Passage du Grand Cerf in advance, but as it was, I was exploring Rue Tiquetonne – which has some great shops itself, as well as a great name – and spotted a sign for "Rue Marie Stuart", whose name also attracted me. It was, in fact, a fairly inconsequential street, but then I turned around, saw this arcade and was smitted. I especially loved Rickshaw, which brims with Indian curios and antiques, and L'illustre boutique, where I bought some tiny and adorable star shaped magnets made from folded paper. Also worth finding is the, shorter, fairy-lit Passage Molière, and particularly the delicate jewelry at Fanchon en Mars; and if you're in the area, please have dinner at Le Quincampe and report back – it was on our list but we never made it. 

Bar de Jarente This little restaurant sits at one end of the Place du Marché Sainte-Catherine, one of many in the square. At first glance they all look fairly similar, but after working our way few a through, Bar de Jarente was the clear winner and we made it our regular haunt. I pretty much developed a duck confit addiction in Paris, and BDJ was my number one dealer – we were there every week and I rarely ordered anything else, though when I did branch out, the results were no less delicious; Stuart's pick was the sausage and lentils, which never failed to send him into raptures. The place is run by what I assume are father and son, and the service is outstanding: exceptionally friendly to locals and tourists alike, and happily bilingual. When they took a week's holiday – as French businesses tend to do – without telling us, we went into a tailspin, but happily they were back in time for a farewell lunch or two. Or three. 

Sausage and lentil deliciousness

Pain de Sucre So as not to wind up the size of a house, I made the decision early on to buy pastries only on weekends, a scheme I more or less stuck to. Friday counts as the weekend, right? Thought so. I used the sensational Paris Patisseries blog as a starting point, and one of the first places it sent me was this patisserie, partly because blogmaster Adam spoke so highly and so tantalisingly of their caramel macarons. I was not disappointed. Crunchy, chewy, salty and sweet, it didn't just spoil me for other caramel macarons – it spoilt me for all other macarons, full stop. The Caprice – choux pastry with orange blossom filling – is also pretty special. I made quite a few weekend stops here, each time buying a few more macarons until I could hardly keep up with myself. 

L'éclair de génie More pastry. I happened on this place entirely by accident. Opened not too long ago by the former head patissier of Fauchon, they sell designer éclairs – with prices to match. €5 for a smaller-than-usual éclair is not exactly a practical purchase, but as an occasional treat? Utterly worthwhile. I tried the chocolate-coconut, the lemon yuzu and the salted caramel, and each one was amazing. I valiantly resisted their similarly upmarket chocolates but I have to assume they're just as good. There's another upmarket éclair maker in the 2^e, L'atelier de l'éclair, which has its own charms – savoury and family-size éclairs, and marginally lower prices – but for me L'éclair de génie still edges them out. 

Rue du Pont Louis-Philippe Another accidental discovery. I did read my Lonely Planet guide, honestly, and bookmarked it within an inch of its life, but just the same all my best days happened when I forgot to consult it. This street is what Rue Vieille du Temple (another favourite place for endless wandering) becomes after it crosses Rue de Rivoli, and as it heads towards the Seine – one guess which bridge it leads to – the irresistible boutiques come thick and fast, including several exquisite stationery/calligraphy specialists (Mélodies Graphiques is the most olde-worldey and congenial, while Papier Plus has stunning notebooks in every colour you could imagine), a specialist in antique musical instruments, and the delightful Monastica, which sells only products manufactured by nuns and monks – everything from soap and candles to tote bags, keyrings and some remarkably Paul Smith-esque accessories. Oh, and around the corner on Rue Tiron, Aux Petit Versailles du Marais makes fabulous palmiers. (I really did eat a lot of pastries on this trip.) 

Popelini What's that you say? A macaron sized éclair? Well, close enough. Popelini make choux à la crème – cream puffs – which would be too cute to eat if they weren't so damned tasty. I confess I didn't wait for the weekend to visit; I was craving just a mouthful of sugary goodness and lo and behold, there was Popelini, purpose built. I limited myself to two and never quite managed to return, though if I had, there's no telling how many I might have emerged with. Odette, on the Left Bank close to Notre Dame, also specialises in cream puffs, and has a reportedly fabulous first-floor tea room, but I'm afraid the abrupt, unhelpful service I received when taking mine to go put me off somewhat. The cheery Popelini definitely gets my vote. 

Gaspard de la nuit A very savvy bass-baritone sent us here, and thank heavens he did. Around the corner from the super famous and oh-so-opulent Bofinger, this cosy restaurant made two of the best all-round culinary experiences we had in Paris: service (again, voluntarily bilingual – don't trust the stereotype of the anti-tourist Parisian), wine, food – oh the food – and, at the end of it all, calvados: a happy if perilous new discovery for me. Open till midnight every night and just a few minutes' walk from the Opéra Bastille, it's perfect for dinner after an evening performance of a normal opera, or a Wagner matinée. If I could implore you to try just one item from the menu, it would probably be the tarte fine au boudin noir, although it shouldn't surprise you to hear I'm also keen on their duck confit. 

Fleux Not so much a shop as a miniature empire. Fleux has a cluster of four stores on Rue Sainte Croix de la Bretonnerie and while technically I suppose you could call them a homewares retailer, that doesn't begin to convey the kooky, colourful goings-on side. Sure, you can buy a chair or a set of dinner plates there, but you can also buy a limited edition Lego Moleskine notebook, novelty pacifiers, or a beaded Karl Lagerfeld brooch – not one designed by him, but his face in bead form. There are mugs and iPhone cases in Pantone colours, stuffed toy heads for your wall, all manner of kitchen gadgets you never knew you needed but clearly must own immediately and a variety of slightly bizarre "Georges Clounet" merchandise, which pokes fun at its namesake's coffee endorsements by replacing him with a scruffy Frenchman. This is not high concept, high fashion stuff we're talking about, although you could certainly spend a fortune here if you wanted; it is, however, paradise for shopping – window or proper – when you don't know what, if anything, you want.

Un dimanche à Paris Since my dessert exploits owed so much to Adam's blog, I could hardly fail to visit the pâtisserie which had been his local, nor to try the pastry they made in his honour: a multi-layered confection of chocolate, peanut butter and peanuts aptly named "Le péché d'Adam". I was glad, in fact, to have that aim in mind, because this place is a chocolate sensory overload and I might easily have spent the whole day choosing what to try. Un Dimanche also has a tea salon and a restaurant, both of which are right near the top of my Next Time list; I'd love to try more of their creations in situ, with a view of the cobbled alley, the Cours du Commerce Saint-André, on which Un Dimanche, along with a couple of restaurants (one of them supposedly the oldest in Paris) and a purveyor of beautiful leather stationery, is situated, just steps away from the exit of the Odéon metro station – right in the heart of St-Germain-des-Près. 

And the rest...Bensimon, where I bought pink polka dotted shoes...Café Hugo, on the Place des Vosges, the site of our very first Parisian lunch...The Kilo Shop, which sells secondhand clothing by weight...The Marché Bastille where we bought bread, meat and a thousand kinds of cheese on Sundays until Walküre matinées took precedence...the walk from the Panthéon down Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève to Rue des Ecoles...Jardin du Luxembourg, where we watched kids playing with toy sailboats and considering hiring one of our own...Boulangerie Saint-Gilles, which I've seen recommended precisely nowhere but was our constant source of excellent fresh bread and croissants...OCD, which kept us stocked up with English-language DVDs...The Ile St-Louis which is still a flâneuse's dream, even if it was too cold for icecream from Berthillon...The insanely luxurious public toilets in the Carrousel du Louvre, whose hefty admission fee you're inclined to forgive once you see the lighting and (seriously) the gift shop...even the café whose name I've forgotten with a surly "no laptops" sign in the window...the hilariously named bookshop I Love My Blender...and everything I haven't mentioned...and of course the Opéra Bastille itself, to whom I owe infinite thanks for bringing me back – and for so long! – to my giddiest city crush of all. 

Boys and boats

Inside the Pantheon

L'Opéra Bastille

Marie-Nicole Lemieux at the Opéra Bastille Amphitheatre

 

This was a week ago now, but it would be terribly cruel of me to neglect the last low-voiced lady – in this case a contralto – of my very mezzocentric Paris sojourn. Marie-Nicole was also the only singer I saw in recital who eschewed the eighteenth century (in whose music she also excels) entirely and instead gave us a fascinating and delectable programme of late nineteenth century songs, almost all of which were unfamiliar to me.

It was a night of serious singing but began on a hilarious note. The concert was supposed to begin at 8pm. At 8.02, we saw a member of the theatre staff running backstage at high speed and wondered if something had gone wrong. A few minutes later, Christophe Ghristi introduced the concert, offering his apologies for the slightly late start and adding: "Perhaps Marie-Nicole will explain this to you when she comes out."

She did. She had forgotten her shoes. So she did of necessity what Sandie Shaw did by choice, and sang in bare feet. Concert dress in many ways is more convenient for men than women – everybody looks handsome in a tux but frocks are much more complicated – but in this case I'm sure the floor length dress (gorgeous, incidentally) was a welcome advantage. 

When she and we had all stopped giggling, then it was down to business: a generous selection of songs by Alma Mahler, Chausson's Chanson perpetuelle, Elgar's Sea Pictures and music by Guillaume Lekeu. The last of these was an entirely new name to me. Born in Belgium and educated in Paris, he was only twenty-four years old when he died of typhoid fever, leaving behind a variety of vocal, orchestral and chamber works. We first heard his langorous, haunting Molto adagio from Quatuor Psophos, and then three of his songs – "Sur une tombe", "Ronde" and "Nocturne" – all indicative of an intriguing, individual voice. Who knows what he might have achieved had he not died so very young. 

I've heard Marie-Nicole live only once before, in the Verdi Requiem in Zürich two years ago, but I cannot get enough of her on disc: her latest album, of Mozart, Gluck, Haydn and Graun, is not to be missed. Hearing her up close and personal like this, though, in a small amphitheatre with only piano (the outstanding Daniel Blumenthal) and/or string quartet, was a much more immersive experience, and thoroughly gratifying: her voice had even more colour, more depth, more joyous expansiveness.

She's a genuinely generous singer, throwing herself with gusto into these throbbing Late Romantic emotions and handling even melodrama with sincerity. From the muted moments to the explosive, piano-pounding ones, she was magnificently at one with all of this repertoire, and while she had a music stand in front of her for most of the evening, it became increasingly clear that she hardly needed it. 

Lekeu's songs were the revelation of the night, and a fitting way to finish it, but Elgar's Sea Pictures, which preceded them, were, at least for me, the high point. I adore these songs. "Sabbath Morning At Sea" has been imprinted upon my brain since my early days of opera nuttery, thanks to Kate Spence's performance at the Lexus Song Quest finals, and I soon learnt the others from the incomparable Dame Janet. Marie-Nicole's gutsy, gorgeous performances were the first time I've heard these songs live, and while I did miss the orchestra at times, such stirring singing was ample compensation. Her "Sabbath Morning" glowed just as it ought, but to my surprise it was "Where Corals Lie" which brought tears to my eyes. 

She'd had the audience at her shoe-free feet from the beginning, whether in solemn singing mode or joking about the lack of vodka in her bottle of water, and it was no surprise that we determined to extract as many encores from her as possible. First it was Hahn's "L'heure exquise" (sigh), then Duparc's "L'invitation au voyage" and finally a repeat of Lekeu's "Nocturne": "so rarely heard," she said, "that it's worth singing twice". As the strings started up, she suddenly rushed to grab her music – but just seconds later she set it on the piano and, sure enough, sang flawlessly and vividly from memory, setting the seal with characteristic panache on a deeply impressive recital. 

Bernarda Fink at the Musée d'Orsay

Photo: Klemen Breitfuss

My time in Paris has been all about the mezzos, and particularly mezzos with baroque ensembles. First it was Vivica Genaux and Capella Gabetta, then Joyce DiDonato with Il Complesso Barocco, and then last week, Bernarda Fink with the Academy of Ancient Music, for which I did the unthinkable – albeit with permission – and ditched a Walküre. 

They were worth the sacrifice. Unlike Vivica's and Joyce's concerts, this one wasn't linked to an album release, and nor was it anywhere near as singer-centric. Bernarda's contributions accounted for slightly less than half of the already shortish programme but each one was searingly memorable: Merula's agonising and exquisite "Hor ch'e tempo di dormire", Vivaldi's "Sovente il sole" from Andromeda liberata, and then Il pianto di Maria, a cantata by Ferrandini which Wikipedia helpfully informs me spent a long time being misattributed to Handel. As if he didn't write enough of his own.

None of it was cheery, upbeat stuff and Bernarda was mesmerising, her candlelit voice charged with all the pain and transcendent serenity you could want from a lady who spent most of the night embodying the Virgin Mary. It was the heavenly Sara Mingardo who taught me Merula's haunting lullaby; Bernarda's performance was a very different creature: more jagged, less hypnotic, every bit as moving. Not knowing the Vivaldi aria, I expected fireworks, but despite a few flourishes this was a slow burning flame and I wanted it to last forever. By comparison, Ferrandini's cantata almost did last forever: it was a twenty-five minute tour de force. 

It's not as if the burnished beauty of Bernarda's voice, or her compelling artistry, came as a surprise, exactly; I've spent the best part of a decade falling in love with her voice by degrees, until finally I realised she'd been one of my favourites for years. But I'd never seen her live – never seen her looking half broken by the end of each lachrymose piece – and it's added a new dimension to my appreciation of her. It's also left me desperately wishing to see her in opera: if she inhabits concert pieces this intensely, what must she be like in character? The venue also helped. The auditorium of the Musée d'Orsay is not the most beautiful in the world (grey vinyl seats, anyone?) but the acoustic is excellent and it seats just 347 people: it doesn't get much more intimate than that. 

I feel unjust, spilling so much over the singer and not yet mentioning the orchestra, who, after all, played the entire concert, and much of it on their own. I'm prepared to say it's the best baroque playing I've heard on this trip. They've had stiff competition, to be sure, but there was something about the fluidity, fullness of tone, and sheer esprit de corps of the AAM which completely won me over. I'm lamentably hopeless at getting properly excited about the non-singing bits but no such worries here: the orchestra, led by the wonderful Rodolfo Richter (whose playing in the Vivaldi concerti was sensational) was a source of pure delight all night. 

In fact there was only one problem with this whole concert. There just wasn't enough of it. Not even an encore! My heart broke a little. Then again, you could see a show twice as long and emerge half as fulfilled; this was baroque music at its best, virtuosic and full of heart, and while Wagner might not forgive me for abandoning him, I'm pretty sure I made the right choice. 

A Week in Paris...

...might ease the bite of it, but if you're here for opera instead of jazz-inflected moping, then Paris doesn't ease up at all. If you're the sort of dedicated maven (or flat-out addict) who can happily spend twenty-eight evenings in a row in the theatre, fair play to you, but the last seven days – in which I saw four operas and a concert – were plenty for me. I still need at least a couple of nights per week devoted to DVDs and cryptic crosswords. And blogging, if I ever get around to it. 

A week ago today, it was Joyce DiDonato's Drama Queens, the concert she's been taking about Europe and the U.S. in conjunction with her latest album. She even wears the frock from the cover – Vivienne Westwood, who else? – and the boys in the band (that's Il Complesso Barocco by the way) sweetly wear red socks to match. No red stockings for the women, though, which as an owner of red stockings myself, and a fan of the Wife of Bath, I was slightly disappointed by. But who needs flamboyant hosiery when there's flamboyant baroque brilliance to be had instead? Misery, rage, jealousy, desperation and even a flash or two of fast and florid joy. Not to mention fast and florid Joyce, who had the capacity crowd at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées utterly in the palm of her hand, from the muted agony of her opening number – Cesti's "Intorno all'idol mio" in all its long, acheing lines – to the rapid fire "Brilla nell'alma", so nice we heard it twice: once in the program proper and then just its da capo, with new ornaments, as one of five encores. She was practically taking requests by the end – "lent ou rapide?" – and I began to wonder if the Parisians, and their trademark rhythmic applause, would ever let her go. 

The next outing was to the Opéra Garnier for a nifty double bill: Zemlinsky's Der Zwerg and Ravel's L'enfant et les sortilèges. All I knew of the latter was one aria, of the former, just its heartbreaking plot. Both were revelations, but especially Der Zwerg: Zemlinsky is just the sort of music I know I love, yet never think to listen to at home, so it was both a luxury and a welcome reminder to hear this dark one-acter, with its kaleidoscope score, in person – and in such an opulent setting. I've visited the Garnier several times but never for a performance and it was completely worth it, fiendishly uncomfortable seats and all.

Actually, discomfort is probably not inappropriate for Der Zwerg, which is not what you'd call a comfortable opera. The production by Richard Jones and Antony McDonald enhanced its heartbreak – and just plain heart – with a deft, sensitive staging. The Dwarf was doubled: Charles Workman in white tie and tails, all silent film handsomeness, controlled a three foot tall puppet. So at every moment we saw him both as the heartless Infanta and her giggling friends saw him – deformed and deluded – and as the dignified, dashing aristocrat he imagined himself to be. In an already excellent production, this was a stroke of genius, and Workman – singing one of the most taxing tenor roles I've ever heard – infused as much touching humanity in the puppet as in his own performance. Special mention also to Nicola Beller Carbone, who captured the Infanta's callous vacuity perfectly while also singing up a storm, and to Béatrice Uria-Monzon, a magnificent Ghita.

As you can imagine, the fantastical silliness of L'enfant was a nice relief for the second half. I was enchanted by the dreamlike production, full of bright colours and surreal images looming suddenly out of the pitch black. I was enchanted, too, by the score, so charming and inventive; the nymphs and shepherds baroque pastiche assigned to the wallpaper particularly appealed to me. There wasn't a name in the cast I recognised, but all were impressive. Among my particular favourites were Amel Brahim-Djelloul, a wonderful silvery prima donna of a Princess, and François Piolet who, among other roles, was hilarious as the Petit Vieillard: in this case a frightening female arithmetic teacher in green leather and spike heels. Gaëlle Méchaly was also a very cute Enfant: imagine Brigitte Fassbaender's Oktavian as a hyperactive eight year old. 

I can't claim to have been as bowled over by the next night's opera, Donizetti's La favorite at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. Then again, I didn't expect to be. I was there to hear Alice Coote as Léonor, not as a diehard Donizetti groupie. Hear her I did, and I thought she was pretty marvellous. No, rare bel canto isn't exactly core repertoire for her, and there's no doubt music which shows her off even better, but that's one seriously beautiful – and remarkably powerful – voice she's got, and one always worth seeking out. Ludovic Tézier, although announced as "souffrant" and craving our indulgence, was still a sonorous Alphonse – I doubt I'd have picked him as sick without the announcement – and Marc Laho an admirable Fernand. But the opera, let's face it, is fairly stuffed with clichés, and I fear the production (and inexplicably industrial sets) did little to mitigate this; in fact, dare I say it, it added a few of its own: I don't think anyone delivered a significant line without a bit of purposeful striding and a Dramatic Gesture. Again, though, I was there for Alice, and her final scene – madness, pleading and eventually death – was so blisteringly sung and acted, nothing else really mattered.

A night off, and then something completely different: so different, in fact, that you'd scarcely believe only thirty years separates the two. Yes, as the photo way up there may have hinted, the final dress rehearsal of Die Walküre at the Bastille, the first time I'd seen any of this production. I'd forgotten there were naked people, so that was an interesting surprise, and I was taken aback again by how big the audiences for dress rehearsals here are: this one could almost have passed for a patchily-sold performance. The noise they made at the end of each act could have passed for a sold-out performance: whistles, cheering, that rhythmic applause again – it's one of my favourite things about the French, that applause – and even some stomping of feet. Little wonder. It was a pretty sensational show, with nothing much rehearsal-y about it, and if it's anything to go by – which of course it is – then the season itself is going to be a big one. Watch this space. 

That brings me up to date, just in time before it all begins again on Sunday. So if you'll excuse me, there's a box set of The Mentalist calling my name. 

Véronique Gens at Versailles

This is the spooky hallway you walk down between the foyer, where the food, wine and coat-check are, to the Royal Opera of Versailles itself. The lighting is only slightly less eerie than the terrible quality of this phone photo conveys, and the statues are spotlit to cast perfect shadows on the white walls behind them. Add that to the sheer Cinderella sensation of approaching a giant, illuminated palace by night, and even without a horsedrawn carriage, it's a performance just getting to the performance.

The performance in question? Véronique Gens singing Mozart concert arias with Christophe Rousset and Les Talens Lyriques, who also played two of Mozart's symphonies. Having gamed the Versailles online ticketing system just a little bit – French venues really don't want to let you choose your own seat – I ended up with this view:

Not exactly the posh seats, but not bad either, with almost no neck craning required. By the way, if you should stumble across any YouTube clips of this concert which appears to have been filmed from this angle, rest assured they're not mine; but there was a lady beside me who seemed to determined to spend as much of the concert as possible dangling her phone over the balcony and taking panoramic videos of the theatre. Where's a stern usher when you need one? 

There's little to be said about Véronique Gens in Mozart that isn't crashingly self evident. Her silvery, regal voice might as well have been custom built for this repertoire. Except that she also seems to have been just as carefully designed for Berlioz, Poulenc, Handel and a dozen other diverse composers. Still, her Mozart is sensationally idiomatic and she was in fabulous form for this concert, better even than when I heard her last year at Wigmore Hall.

Her opening aria, "O temerario Arbace...Per quel paterno amplesso", set things up beautifully, and if they'd all been like that I'd have been delighted. But it just kept getting better. Aria after aria – "Ah, lo previdi...", "Vado, ma dove?', "Chi sà, chi sà, qual sia" – tumbled out in silken, fluid voice, shepherded with masterful phrasing and an almost casual agility – as if all that coloratura happened unaided. Concert arias are such luxury when sung by a voice you love: seven or eight minutes, or even more, of non-stop vocal fabulousness. They're built as much to show off singers as to further any sort of plot, sometimes more so, and while I know this is the sort of supposed frivolity which puts some people off, say, the outer reaches of bel canto, there was nothing empty or even particularly showy about this concert. Véronique is almost all business, and the stand-alone nature of these arias doesn't make her delivery any less captivating.

And yet, as much as I loved all those concert arias, it was the odd one out that really made my night: Fiordiligi's "Per pietà". It was the last item in the concert, and while it might well have been listed in the program – which once again I didn't buy – it wasn't listed on the Versailles booking site, which meant it came as a complete and almost overwhelming surprise. The other arias had been sung, not surprisingly, like concert pieces, but now Véronique was Fiordiligi; we might as well have stumbled through some Mozartian wormhole into a production of Così. (Versailles, after all, is no stranger to wormholes.) If only this had been the beginning, not the end. I wanted her to keep singing for hours – even though the concert had already run late enough to make me miss at least one train, and just minutes earlier I'd been willing the Jupiter symphony to hurry up before I missed another. 

She did keep singing for a little while, with Cherubino's "Voi che sapete" her first, adorable encore and then a repeat of "Chi sà". Then it was over, and I was powerwalking my way across the cobblestones of the courtyard towards a train which was due to leave in about eleven minutes. Reader, I made it. But I can't say I wouldn't have camped out there overnight if she'd offered a repeat of "Per pietà" for my troubles. 

Vivica Genaux at the Salle Gaveau

I refuse to go back into the dark, deep archives and dig out the first words I ever wrote about Vivica Genaux, because it was quite a few years ago and I was weirdly – and wrongheadedly – opinionated about baroque music and baroque voices, and I have a sneaking feeling that whatever I wrote would make me cringe. (You're welcome to go looking, if you much, but I'd ask you not to report back.) Anyway, whatever I thought then, she's been a firm favourite of mine for a long time now and praise be to Lonely Planet for pointing me to the existence of the Salle Gaveau, which I might otherwise have missed, and which two nights ago was the final stop on Vivica's concert tour with Cappelle Gabetta.

The tour is linked to a new album which, like every vocal release these days, is a tribute to a diva of days gone by – in this case, Faustina Bordoni, one of Handel's star singers and the wife of fellow composer Johann Adolf Hasse. Arias from both populated the concert, along with a healthy serving of Vivaldi and a little bit of Broschi. If you know your baroque and particularly if you know your Vivica Genaux, you know what that means. She sang this: 

 

For as long as I've known who Vivica was, I've associated her closely with this aria, courtesy first of her Farinelli tribute album and then of the recording captured above, Vivaldi's pasticcio Bajazet. So to hear her sing it in person was pretty special, and all the more so because I hadn't actually bought a programme and thus had no idea it was coming. Like when I heard Barbara Bonney sing Solveig's Song in recital, and Alison Krauss sing "Now That I've Found You" live in concert, it was a wonderful full circle moment: a favourite singer singing one of the songs whch made me love her in the first place. 

My failure on the programme buying front means I'm relying on my memory as far as the rest of the repertoire is concerned, which puts me on slightly shaky ground given the relative obscurity of some of the arias. Among the highlights whose titles I can recall, though, were Handel's "Lusinghe più care", Vivaldi's "Come in vano il mare irato" with all of its fiendish runs, leaps and bounds, "Sposa son disprezzata" (Giacomelli via Vivaldi's Bajazet) and some very beautiful Hasse: "Piange quel fonte" was especially striking, as was "Ah! Che mancar mi sento", the first of two encores. The second, chosen "because a friend of mine who's here said she's kill me if I didn't sing it" was Vivaldi's mile-a-minute "Agitata da due venti". You know, because the concert proper clearly hadn't been jawdroppingly virtuosic enough.

I had a less than spectacular seat but was still able to see Vivica for most of the concert, and the sound in this little jewel of a recital hall (built, like the Wigmore Hall and the Salle Pleyel, to showcase pianos) was excellent. Several people on Twitter had actually suggested I might not want to see her, having themselves found her unusual manner of vocal production (you'll see it in the video above) disconcerting. I can't say it bothered me, though, and I was quite fascinated to watch the way she physically geared up for all that rapid fire singing: relaxing her facial muscles, grooving along a little to the orchestral interjections, and even, ahead of the coloratura monster that is "Quel guerriero", throwing a quick stretch. None of it struck me as remotely distracting: she was incredibly engaging and even, at one point, endearingly self deprecating, and the results speak – or rather sing – for themselves.

Her voice is one of those you can spot within a bar or two and one you could surely never mistake for anybody else's. It's silky smooth, a bit duskier than some of her counterparts; it's decadent, even, but never heavy, and impossibly nimble. Her lower register is fabulously smoky, her top as shiny as you'd like, and every note vibrates with expressive energy. Like many instantly recognisable singers, she may not be everybody's ideal, but she certainly had the all-but-full Salle Gaveau in the palm of her hand. Vociferous applause and scattered standing ovations erupted at every opportuniy, and it took several bows, with bouquet in her arms, before we unwillingly accepted that a third encore was not going to happen. Maybe next time. 

You should visit her official site, by the way. It's the first opera singer site I've seen which, along with all the standard stuff, includes a "Cooking With..." section.

Rheingold

Brünnhilde?

I like to do things in chronological order – this may explain why my "Read Dickens" project is still stalled at The Pickwick Papers – so it's been very fortunate that my live encounters with the Ring to date have more or less co-operated: Das Rheingold in San Francisco, then Rheingold and Die Walküre at the MET, and now Rheingold again in Paris, ahead of next month's season of Walküre. So far I've never been obliged – or indeed even offered the chance – to skip ahead to Siegfried or Götterdämmerung; I won't meet them until Seattle, which looks likely to be the only full cycle I'll see any time soon.

Back to Das Rheingold. What I saw on Saturday was a dress rehearsal, though with a larger audience than I've ever seen at a dress rehearsal before: only the telltale empty section in the centre stalls gave it away as such, and performances were as polished as you'd expect at a ticketed performance. There were a few surprisingly visible stage crew, but for all I know, this was intentional; Günter Krämer's production is kind of crazy, after all. It even has a leaflet drop, staged by the seriously disgruntled, flag-waving builders of Valhalla. ("What you are, you are only by contracts: limitedand well defined is your power" printed in four languages on red paper. I snaffled one on the way out.) 

Any moment now there will be reviews to tell you how strong the cast is – the show opens tonight – so I probably don't need to add much. My personal highlights were Wolfgang Ablinger-Sperrhacke as a very vivid Mime, Kim Begley's Loge, a shabby clown straight from vaudeville, and loveliest of all, Sophie Koch's gorgeous, silky-toned Fricka. She couldn't be further from my last Fricka – Stephanie Blythe in powerhouse mode – but she was just as compelling, and remarkably sympathetic. How I'll feel about her once she starts messing with Siegmund's happiness remains to be seen, of course, but I certainly can't wait to hear her do it. 

I learnt something encouraging at this dress rehearsal, too. Unlike wimpy little me, Parisians are evidently not even remotely shy about shushing those who talk, whisper or cough. The chorus of "chut" as the prelude rumbled into action was slightly frightening but highly effective: I'm glad I wasn't on the receiving end of it, and can't help hoping they'll keep it up for Walküre. 

Khovanshchina

Handel operas have taught me not to worry too much if the plot of an opera is impenetrable on paper. It's usually much clearer when it comes to life. I've not yet had the chance to apply this theory to Meyerbeer's Il Crociato in Egitto, still one of the more confusing operas of my acquaintance – although that's partly because all the characters have names beginning with 'A'– but it was a heartening thought on Friday when I headed into the Opéra Bastille for my first ever Khovanschchina. Attempting to study up on the plot ahead of time would be futile, Twitter had assured me, and even my date – a former Prince Andrei himself – was fuzzy on what it was all about.

Fair enough. I've seen it now, and while I have a vague grasp on the contours of it – Tsar vs Streltsy vs Old Believers – I wouldn't want to be quizzed on the details. In fact I realised fairly early on that life would be much simpler if I just enjoyed Khovanshchina as a series of related historical tableaux rather than one ripping yarn, so that's what I did. Of course, the French-only surtitles did intensify the mental gymnastics of the thing but for the most part I got the gist, if not of the factual intricacies, then at least of the emotions at play: and that's what opera's really about, isn't it? Even the dense historical ones.

Not a huge surprise, then, that my favourite aspect of Khovanshchina was Marfa. Old Believer/fortune-teller/Prince's ex and all round interesting person (oh, and martyr) sung and acted wonderfully by Larissa Diadkova, one of few names in the cast that were familiar to me. Next time, Mussorgsky, consider just writing an opera about her: she's definitely fascinating enough to carry one. Of the names I didn't know, I was especially taken by bass Orlin Anastassov (Dosifei) and baritone Sergey Muzaev (Chakloviti), both of whom sang so fantastically well that even I forgot to mourn the relative dearth of sopranos. Vladimir Galouzine was unflagging, too, as Prince Andrei, even if his wig did make him look like 17th century Russia's answer to Bill Bailey. Gleb Nikolsky, meanwhile, looked every inch the part as Prince Ivan Khovanskhi: bearded, swaggering and apparently about nine feet tall. 

Mussorgsky's score was as swirly and stormy and full of eerie choruses as I expect my Russian opera to be – thanks for your help there, Shostakovich, and yours too, Maestro Jurowski (the elder) – and matched pretty well by Andrei Serban's production, with its menacing slabs of concrete and bleak backdrops brightened only by the soldiers' red coats and a splash here and there of rococo excess. The staging of the final martyrdom-by-fire was especially effective, as the ascetic Old Believers peeled off black robes to reveal white ones underneath, then slowly departed, so that the discarded robes (now being gradually engulfed by smoke and ash) suddenly, and disturbingly, resembled charred remains. 

Precisly what happened in the four hours (including intermissions in an inexplicably freezing foyer) leading up to this funeral pyre, I'm not sure I could say. I know Prince Andrei kept stubbornly proclaiming his love for Emma despite her obvious lack of interest. I know Marfa treated him much better than he'd treated her. I know Khovanskhi was assassinated after partaking of some dancing slaves. And I know that nobody – unseen Tsar included – was very happy about any of the above. Hey, it's Russian opera: the misery (and the music) is what makes it so good.