Prima la musica, poi le parole

Bryn Terfel

On Monday I decided all of a sudden that I would, after all, go to see Bryn Terfel sing with the UBS Verbier Festival Orchestra the following evening. Because unlike most normal, sane people, I saw the ads for this concert months ago and decided not to go. Until at the last minute, it occured to me how very strange this decision really was. So I got the last ticket in the back row of the stalls — which is, incidentally, an incredibly good seat.

They opened with the Figaro overture, impressively tight and taut and buzzing with energy but oh, I'm sorry, too fast. I mean of course it needs to be played at a bit of a gallop, it ought to be fun — but this time it all just went by too fast to hold on to, done before I managed to catch up. Anyway, that was that and then there was Bryn. And I had to keep reminding myself that I'd never seen him live before, because he just seemed so familiar, so personable — hard to remember that it's someone you know from recordings and films, rather than some nice Welsh man off the street. What a charmer. He sang four arias, and spoke to the audience in between them all, making a seamless transition from high artistry to casual banter and back again. You can't resist him in either capacity, whether he's singing Mozart gorgeously or just talking. At one point, he'd just begun to speak when a woman in the audience sneezed — "bless you" he said, without missing a beat, and won an ovation for it. Leaving aside all his talent, expressive gifts, technical mastery etc etc, he just comes across as the most genuinely nice person you could hope to meet. And you do feel just that at the end, that you've met him. Am I really saying all this about a bass baritone?

But let's get to the singing. I've always liked Bryn but never taken too huge an interest until very recently — his Mozart CD is fast becoming a favourite of mine. On Tuesday night he sang two Mozart concert arias and wonder of wonders, lived up to and indeed exceeded the promise of the studio recordings. 'Cosi dunque tradirsci...Aspri rimorsi atroci" was the first, and wonderful; but the second, "Io ti lascio, o cara, addio" was something else entirely, radiant and heartbreaking. Baritone pianissimi are not something I've ever really though much about, but he was using them to entrancing effect, singing with such sensitivity and care that he imbued this conventional little four line farewell with a dignified poignancy on the level of the Countess Almaviva. After the Mozart came Wagner — a beautifully floating "O du mein holder Abendstern" and magnificent, majestic "Die Frist ist um". This last was really the hit of the night — having sung the first three arias in more or less straight concert style, for this he added a few movements, a simple gesture here and there, and I understood more that I ever really have just how compelling he must be in serious roles — as Wotan, Scarpia and so on. It was a brilliant, powerful way to finish his half of the programme, a half which was so riveting and satisfying that it felt like a whole. Before he left us for good we were given, thankfully, two encores, in which he managed to fill his swooning audience with even more adoring passion. Seats had been sold for this performance in the choir and organ galleries, which are behind the stage, with only a back view of the singer — so when he returned with his first encore, a Welsh song, he hummed the first verse to the main part of the hall, then turned around and sang the rest of it straight to them, conquering them completely I'm sure. After that came "Deh vieni alla finestra", sung as he strolled around the hall with rose in hand, serenading various women as he went before finally choosing one to give the flower to. In the wrong hands it could be cheesy, but not here. There's just not an affected or artificial bone in his body, and he manages to be simultaneously a nice down-to-earth guy and a genuinely gifted artist.

Everybody else in the world knows this already, I know. I did too, I suppose, but it took this experience for me to really appreciate it. He really is wonderful and I'm so glad I went after all.

Marama Hall

Today's Marama Hall concert was my first since July, and rewarded my patience with a programme nicely biased towards the voice, a pleasant change from the usual fair balance between piano and vocal items. (I'm just being mean. Otago's pianists are wonderful and I'd never wish them away.) The one piano item on the programme, Weber's Variations on a Russian Theme, had a couple of points in its favour, too: it was very nicely played (by Cara Chung) and it didn't depict water. Brilliant.

Attending a recital with no idea who's performing or what they'll sing is always a slight risk but it does open the way to some delightful surprises. Like sitting down, opening the programme and discovering I was about to hear my favourite local mezzo sing Brahms' Zigeunerlieder. Claire Barton's name on the programme is enough to keep me happy regardless but I also have a particular affection for these songs — during my Grace Bumbry period I listened obsessively to her recordings of them, and though it's admittedly been a while since I revisited them, they've stayed with me.  Claire sang them gorgeously, with humour, tenderness and excellent German. The other female voice on the programme impressed me rather less. With worryingly strident tone, Fiona Henry (who has sounded far sweeter in the past) delivered three items not so much to the audience as to some point in the distance above our heads, with a sameness of expression which failed to distinguish between Purcell ("Come all ye songsters"), Walton ("Daphne") and Victor Herbert ("Art is calling for me") and didn't suit any of them.

For Michael Gray, I begin a new paragraph. He deserves the honour and others besides. Michael gave us the first four songs from Schumann's Liederkreis. This was supremely sensitive and hauntingly beautiful singing.  The devastating loneliness of "In der Fremde" was as magically captured as the joy of "Die Stille", "Intermezzo" genuinely touching. "Waldesgespräch" really did come across as dialogue, expressively and convincingly delivered — the rush of audible fear on the words "Du bist die Hexe Lorelei" sent shivers down my spine. Sitting here writing this all I want is to hear Michael sing these songs again. Not that's not true — I'd also like to hear him sing the other eight in the cycle. And I'm biased. But that doesn't matter, because if he'd been a new name today the effect would have been the same — enchanting.

Venere bella

Some things just are, and Yvonne Kenny is. Life was life, then there she was and life was different. All that she is to me she was in that first moment, a glitzy operetta entrance which in itself held no hint of all that lay ahead and yet it was all there somehow. I knew almost nothing of her before and hardly knew more at the end of that evening but still my fate was sealed then and there. Though I couldn't have guessed then that things would be as they are now, there was never any chance they could be otherwise:  no crossroads, no wavering, no doubt. Obviously much has changed and developed. But never has it been about being convinced, or reassured, or proved right. I haven't needed it proved to me that the woman who captured me in such a flash had infinitely more in her than that gorgeous Hanna Glawari — that she was not just an Australian audience favourite with a lovely voice but an artist of rare intelligence, sensitivity and depth, and one with a musical Midas touch, leaving every piece of music she sings richer and more meaningful than before and in the process making it sound too breathtakingly beautiful to be believed. And every performance, every minute, every note, have proved just that — A Touch of Venus proves it beyond a doubt — but once again I say, I felt it all, if unconsciously, right from the start. The travelling, the countless recordings, the lengthy reviews and the lengthier outbursts of florid praise, the acts of devotion and divadienst: all that's beside the point. This isn't about merely a favourite voice — they're easy enough to come by — or about mad fanaticism. It's about an amazing human being whose existence brightens my own.

To the recital itself, A Touch of Venus. This is an incredible programme, so full of Yvonne, of what she does so beautifully and what's so beautiful about her — and also eerily full of me. Music I learnt from her and have only ever heard her sing; music I've known for years and have never heard her sing, but now it too belongs to her. I could catalogue at length the universe of resonances and associations and delights at work for me in this programme but perhaps I'll just select a few.

Hahn's "A Chloris". When, many months ago, I accidentally discovered this was on the programme for A Touch of Venus, it was a song I'd never ever heard. After that it suddenly seemed to turn up all over the place — and the beauty of the song itself, coupled with the knowledge I'd eventually hear Yvonne sing it, have meant I've never once made it through dry-eyed. The first bars of the piano part begin and I'm gone. And being there tonight, at long last hearing her sing the song I've imagined in her voice all along,  and exceeding every one of my imaginings, was a moment of utter bliss

Victoria Wood's "Crush". I've long been a fan of Victoria Wood and especially her songs. I'd never heard "Crush" before however. The lyrics are here. Written with Victoria's Northern accent in mind, Yvonne gives it instead a Sydney schoolgirl twang, a stroke of genius. But what makes it particularly striking is that she captures the emotion with such sweetness and such delicate perfection that the song is simultaneously hilarious and truly touching. A comedy song light years from her standard repertoire and yet it's one of the most captivating moments of the evening. And what a treat to hear her for once with a rool Strine accent!

"O sleep, why dost thou leave me". Special for me in the first place as it comes from Semele, my first opera. Even more special because, juxtaposed with words on philandering from a nineteenth-century etiquette manual, she lifts it out of neoclassical mythology and creates a new and earthbound context, more personal and heartbreaking than anything your standard spoilt Semele could muster.

"La delaïssado" and "O waly waly", sung side by side with only the slightest pause between. If any one part of the programme stands on its own as a special creation in its own right, it's this poignant scene. The shift from Occitan to English is barely noticeable and she sings with such exquisite beauty that Hamer Hall and everyone in it — indeed the whole world — fall away and there's only her.

In honesty I could sit and write a paragraph (or several) about every single song I heard her sing tonight, and probably as much again about the texts interwoven with the music. But no, I'll stop here. Enough now to say what I feel every day, what I write here often enough (too often perhaps) but which never stops being true and so bears repeating. In my life I've encountered few people so extraordinary. Her grace, her passion and her generosity inspire and uplift me always. She floors me, and I adore her.

Charlotte Ellett at Marama Hall

I went on Wednesday to my first Marama Hall lunchtime recital of the semester, a recital by visiting Welsh soprano Charlotte Ellett. On the programme — what a dream — three of my very favourite song composers: Strauss, Poulenc and William Walton. And Schubert.

She opened with the Schubert, establishing from the first an easy rapport with the audience. Her attention to the text is meticulous, her diction impeccable and each song brought with it an individualised and credible characterisation. Some slight shortness of breath early on suggested we were not hearing this voice at its absolute best, but she sang beautifully nevertheless. Of the three songs in the bracket, the third, "Du bist die Ruh" was the loveliest, glowing and tender. "Kennst du das Land" was impressive also, the transition from wistful nostalgia to urgent longing and back again stylishly executed.

Three Strauss songs followed, beginning with "Morgen". Personally I wonder at the wisdom of the placing this song at the beginning of a bracket: moving immediately into other songs seems too abrupt a return to normal, everyday life. "Morgen" isn't quite like other songs, or even like a song at all; voice and piano combine to create something far more than the sum of its parts. Its beginning feels merely like our entry into a moment, a world, which was already happening; when the music stops it seems somehow to continue — so the song, I think, is best surrounded by as much silence as possible, left to sit on its own as the unique little miracle that it is. Enough of me: back to Charlotte Ellett. Placement aside, "Morgen" was attractively sung, but at a pace perhaps a touch more slow and tranquil than she could quite sustain. The rather more action filled "Das Rosenband" was much more successful and "Die Nacht" the evocative highlight of the three.

Poulenc is a relatively recent vocal fixation of mine and the truth is, I've heard relatively few of his songs — but the fact remains that every piece of his vocal music I hear, I love. Without fail, so far at least. The two songs here were no exception. The torrent of cabaret French in "Fêtes galantes" was not the most melodious thing but great fun nonetheless, and kudos to Mlle Ellett for articulating it all so well. "C" was utterly gorgeous, maybe the loveliest moment of the entire recital, and a song I'll need to hear again. (Hear my prayer, divine Véronique...)

Finally came William Walton's three settings of texts by Edith Sitwell. Now these hold a particularly special place in my heart. Yvonne Kenny recorded the complete songs of William Walton (and Constant Lambert) for Etcetera in 1992 and that disc is, were I forced to choose, the one recording I would keep in my life over all others. For me, the single most beautiful recording by anyone of any music ever, if such an absolute statement is possible; and although nobody's renditions of these songs could ever come close to rivalling Yvonne's, it's nevertheless a treat (and a rare one) to hear them in live performance. That said, the truth is these songs were the weak link of the recital. Though I've no doubt it's within Charlotte Ellett's power to tame them, she hasn't done so yet: she sang with a music stand and depended quite heavily upon it. I don't think a music stand need necessarily provide too significant a distraction but in this instance it definitely did. These songs, with their twisting, flamboyant melodies and fabulously bizarre texts ("Daphne" is clear enough but I've long since given up trying to understand every word of the other two) need to spring into life with as much apparent spontaneity as possible: their glorious unpredictability is muted when their technical side is so clearly in evidence. The lilting "Daphne" was not too drastically effected by this, but in "Through Gilded Trellises" and "Old Sir Faulk", where things start to get very strange, Ellett seemed insecure with both text and music and the songs, particularly "Old Sir Faulk", suffered as a result. However I don't want to be unremittingly negative: there were plenty of beautiful moments and as I say, though she doesn't own them yet, I see no reason why she shouldn't one day. 

Throughout this recital my recurring thought was, she's good here, but she must be fantastic in opera. Warm, engaging, dramatically aware and with a voice which, though always attractive, blossoms particularly beautifully in passages of excitement and forte ecstasy. Her single encore proved me right: a simply stunning "Quando m'en vo" which for me outdid all which had preceded it. The recital was an enjoyable one — but the next time I hear Charlotte Ellett I'd like it to be in opera, which, so it would seem, is where she truly shines.

Eccomi alfine in London

The trip was beyond exhausting but I've been here five days now. Two evenings at Holland Park for Fedora, which we'll get to in due course, but let's get the other stuff out of the way first. Which is a terrible way to speak of Karita Mattila, isn't it?

Karita was my very first London event on Monday night and, as I've been telling everyone who'll listen, she's a goddess. Of course. She marched out on stage every inch the blonde bombshell and then, as bombshells tend to do, exploded. Fantastic. For the first half of the programme we had Barber's Hermit Songs followed by a series of songs by a collection of Finnish composers. The Barber was gorgeously sung and with impeccable English diction (so impeccable that though I was an idiot and forgot to pick up a programme before the show, I was able to follow them unaided) even if the songs themselves do grow a little ho-hum after a while. Well, as ho-hum as anything can get in the hands of Finland's answer to Marilyn Monroe. Unsurprisingly she's in her element in the Finnish songs, relentlessly melancholy but with such soul and such varying colours that though we might glimpse the abyss, we never fall in. Post-interval it was six of Hugo Wolf's Lieder aus dem Spanisches Liederbuch, including a favourite of mine, In dem Schatten meiner Locken, followed by Granados' La maja y el ruisenor and the transcendent highlight of the show, Turina's Poema en forme de canciones, a glorious and evocative tour de force. Who knew such an ice-blonde Nordic goddess had such authentically Spanish colours in her? She topped it all of with a pair of brilliant encores and a lot of talking: she's hilarious and utterly disarming. First, Dvorak's "Songs my mother taught me" except in the original language of course, sung barefoot and beautifully, and then what I can only call a Finnish novelty song - which she explained so well and performed so fantastically that though she said "it's Finnish humour" everyone from elsewhere in the world was in stitches also. This was Monday night, an incredibly warm evening, so she stopped after that and told us to go home before we fainted: then she left us with a few phrases of "Tonight" from West Side Story: "dream of me" - as if we'd any choice. (P.S. There were microphones there, and I've just noticed in the programme that the recital's to be broadcast on BBC3 on the 2nd of July. Definitely worth your while.)

So far just one other non-Fedora musical excursion: a trip this afternoon to the Handel House Museum. The Tower and Buckingham Palace are all very well but this place was the beginning, middle and end of my must-see-in-London list. It's an odd thing, and difficult to get your head around, finding yourself in the room where he slept, where he dressed and, most eerie of all I suppose, where he composed. To think that all the glory came not directly from heaven, but a man, in a room with a harpsichord. Bizarre. As you walk through the rooms, restored to look as they did when he was in residence, there are various portraits and so on on the walls but really, it's just about being there. As an added bonus, there's an exhibition there currently, Handel & The Castrati. Basically it's an audio tour through the various castrati Handel composed for: a panel for each significant boy, plus a headset to listen to an aria composed for him. Countertenor heaven! David Daniels, Andreas Scholl, Bejun Mehta and Michael Chance all appear on the recorded examples, all sounding dreamy. Marilyn Horne's there too, and Vivica Genaux (singing not Handel but one of those ridiculous arias written for Farinelli by his brother). It's hardly what you'd call an in-depth exhibit but interesting all the same: for those who like the gory details, there's even a (sadly rather small) display of tools of the trade. For all of this, though, the best moment of all for me came when I'd finished the tour and was browsing in the gift shop to the strains of a harpsichordist rehearsing in the almost adjacent rehearsal room - and suddenly a counter-tenor whose name I'll never know breezes through en route to said rehearsal room, sending out by way of greeting the opening phrases of Giulio Cesare's "Va tacito e nascosto" as he passed through the very room in which presumably it was composed, which separates the shop from the rehearsal room. The paintings and the information panels and the fact sheets are fascinating, but that brief moment, more than anything else really, went straight to my Handelian heart.

Mozart et al at Marama Hall

Before Wednesday's lunchtime concert I'd never ever heard of Jan Ladislav Dussek. Having now heard two of his works for piano, well, that doesn't much surprise me. We heard "Vive Henri-Quatre" ("A setting of the old Bourbon Hymn of Royalist France") and then the very odd "The Sufferings of the Queen of France" ("A Musical Composition, expressing the feelings of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, during her imprisonment, trial, etc.") This second piece even came with a narrator, introducing the piece's innumerable sections: "She reflects on her former grandeur", "She is separated from her children" and so on. It's a worry when one spends the duration of the piece wondering why anyone felt the need to compose the thing. Don't read this as a comment on the standard of playing, on which I'm wholly unqualified to speak but which no doubt was excellent. But honestly. It reminded me somewhat of a project we had to do in third form: write a short story and then, using the music department's flashy new electronic keyboards, "compose" a soundtrack to it. 25 musically illiterate thirteen year olds playing with sound effects and being accidentally atonal. Obviously Dussek is at a somewhat higher standard than this but still this was an altogether strange and strangely pointless piece of music to which I've devoted far too many words. Making matters worse (and better), the Dussek was followed immediately by Pascal Harris and Terence Dennis with the Andante from Mozart's Sonata for 2 Pianos in D major, K.448, glowingly beautiful. Oh right, that's what real music sounds like.

Enough piano! There was singing too. More Mozart: a nifty "Vedrò mentr'io sospiro" from Michael Gray. For some reason, though I'm an incorrigible sopranophile, every time I hear Figaro it's this damned aria which runs through my head for days afterwards. No sooner had it begun to fade after Sunday's Met broadcast than along comes Michael to revive it. Not that I mind of course. Following this, some very nice Mahler courtesy of Nicole Evans: "Scheiden und Meiden" and a very cute "Hans und Grete". And then Claire.

Claire! I get rather boring and repetitive about Claire Barton, but it can't be helped. Every time this woman sings I adore her voice more and more, so that she's no longer just my favourite among the voice students, or my favourite Dunedin singer, but truly one of my favourite singers anywhere. Hers is a voice which not only fills the hall but seems somehow to illuminate it too, a voice which I feel as well as hear. The tired old cliché about singing the phone book applies here: Claire wouldn't just make it beautiful, she could probably make it hilarious as well. Her "Ich lade gern mir Gäste ein" was a delight, the duet from Salieri's Falstaff ("La stessa, la stessissima" except in English) as lovely as ever, but most wonderful of all was her Marcellina in "Via resta servita". That duet is one my favourite things, and usually I'm on Susanna's side — but not this time. Glorious sound, spot-on characterisation. Fiona Henry was her partner for both duets, singing prettily but with no real distinction in colour or manner between her Alice Ford and her Susanna. Claire on the other hand moved easily from Russian prince to Merry Wife of Windsor to scheming spinster, three distinct characters brought deftly and beautifully to life. An absolute triumph.

Deborah Wai Kapohe at Marama Hall

After yesterday's news, writing anything about anything else seems something of an anti-climax but I suppose that life, however surreal, must go on — for the next five and half weeks, at least. And besides, I have something to write about: a recital at Marama Hall today by distinguished New Zealand soprano/Otago master's student Deborah Wai Kapohe, accompanied by the unchangingly excellent Terence Dennis. Vocal performances are all too rare among Marama Hall's concert calendar (too rare, I mean, for my own heavily biased tastes) — solo vocal recitals are, not surprising, even rarer. It's one wonderful thing about being a student: pay $2, see a recital easily worth a whole lot more.

The first time I heard Deborah, I was still several months away from complete devotion to opera. I knew next to nothing then (not much has changed!) but I knew that I loved Kathleen Battle. That first recital was an enchanting one, in which Deborah accompanied herself on classical guitar — and some of the repertoire I recognised, on account of Kathy's sublime CD with Christopher Parkening, Pleasures of their Company (if you've never heard it, do so as soon as you can).  I was an instant fan.

Most recently, I heard Deborah in her last Marama Hall appearance which, amazingly enough, I discover was almost a year ago. The time has certainly flown. Then, she sang Spanish and Orientalist songs by Gounod, Berlioz et al. This afternoon was altogether a different flavour: opera scenes and arias. Oh my, I don't think I realise how starved for live opera I am in this city until I actually get to hear some, and not just an aria or two in a programme otherwise populated with pianos and violins, but a whole programme of it.

Having now heaped all that praise, I'm going to be completely honest and say: I didn't enjoy the first aria on this afternoon's programme. Now, as you'll have gathered, I love the voice: it's big, dark, dramatic and gorgeous with a hint of the Mediterranean about it; but it was precisely those qualities which made it unsuited to the delicate tracery of Ilia's "Zeffiretti lusinghieri". Ilia sings of gentle breezes; Deborah was closer to sirocco perhaps. The other Mozart selection was the rather fierier (have I mixed my heat/warmth metaphors enough yet?)  insertion aria "Vado, ma dove?" and I liked that a whole better; but the true highlight was what came next: Medora's Romanza "Non so le tetre immagini" from Verdi's Il Corsaro. This is early Verdi, very bel canto, very much my style and even more so Deborah's —  I was entranced. Publicity for this recital gave the impression that the Verdi selection would be from Falstaff — Nannetta's "Sul fil d'un soffio etesio", presumably, as she's sung Nannetta on stage and the only other characters with proper "arias" are men — but I'm overjoyed it was this instead. I'm not entirely sure I can imagine her capturing the floaty, ethereal atmosphere of the fairy song but as Verdi's Medora she was ideal and ravishing. Puccini followed Verdi, in the form of Mimì's "Si mi chiamano Mimì" and "Donde lieta usci". The former was fine but somehow never seemed quite in place to me; the latter, on the other hand, was simply beautiful — at moments I almost felt I was hearing my Anna Moffo, who owns this aria for me. In true diva style — and I mean that in the best sense — she ended with a big finish, Marguerite's great scene, "Il était un roi de Thulé" through to "Ah, je ris".  Strangely enough, though I've heard the Jewel Song a million-and-one times (and even have a keyring in the shape of perhaps its greatest interpreter) I have only one recording of the first section — and that in Italian, by the glorious Renata Tebaldi. Hearing it in French, and hearing "Ah, je ris" in slightly more context, both made a welcome change. Deborah pulled the scene off masterfully (watch out, Anne-Sophie Duprels!) as a winningly girlish-but-growing Marguerite, a suitably brilliant conclusion to a beautiful recital.

And things just keep getting better: Deborah gives another recital on May 6th and this time, as it's her master's recital, it's free. Unbelievable. Further even than that, she's to sing the title role in Carmen here in August. Obviously she's perfect for the part; after today's recital I'm surer of that than ever. So much so that, despite my earlier grumblings about the choice of opera, and despite the withdrawal of Anna Leese as Micaela, I find I'm really rather looking forward to Carmen after all. About time I showed some gratitude!

In Recital: Keith Lewis

No Deborah Voigt Leonora for me this afternoon: to the Glenroy Auditorium instead, for a recital by tenor Keith Lewis with pianist Terence Dennis. Give up Debbie for a mere tenor? The right decision I think. I understand Debbie's Forza didn't necessarily show her very best side; and this recital made for a fabulous afternoon of music.

The programme was superb, just the kind to make me very happy indeed. The name Purcell on any programme always lifts my spirits, it's music I find irresistible. Adding to my bliss: Two Lute Songs from Britten's Gloriana (the only[!] Britten opera I own on CD), five songs by Hahn - I melt - and five also by Samuel Barber, two of which I knew and three of which I was very happy to meet. Also some Schubert, which rarely gets me swooning but is, after all, Schubert. Helping matters even further, the tenor singing all this gorgeous music happens to be rather fabulous himself.

There's a sort of vaguely Schubertian strangeness to the sound of Purcell on modern piano but it's not necessarily an unpleasant strangeness, and here it was well-suited to Lewis's courtly yet heartfelt delivery. "Not all my torments" was particularly powerful, the endlessly repeated "I love" building to a heartrending climax before subsiding to "tho' I despair". In "What Power art thou" he seemed fractionally less comfortable, but then so was I: the song's relentlessly pulsing phrasing is disconcerting, to say the least.

The five Schubert Lieder which followed found Lewis even more at ease, an intelligent and pleasingly varied selection, rather on the melancholy side but sung with an airy grace which prevented them from becoming bogged down in misery. The voice does sit rather high, and at times Schubert's growlier moments seemed to get a little lost. Oh, but when's it's Schubert, I'll always take a sweet, mellifluous tenor over a gruff one anyway. And of course, because it was Schubert, the gifts of the pianist (one daren't say accompanist and in this case wouldn't wish to) were on equally prominent display, Terence Dennis playing with his characteristic brilliance. Finishing off the first half of the recital were the two Lute Songs from Gloriana. It's a treat just to hear some live Britten, not something I've experienced very often and I do like the man rather a lot. I wonder, though, if these songs wouldn't prefer a slightly lighter touch than they were given here. Lewis's diction, excellent elsewhere, blurred somewhat in these songs and his heavyweight delivery would have drowned out an actual lute. But perhaps I'm utterly mistaken; I might have to revisit my recording - the only sections I'm really familar with, surprise surprise, are those featuring Yvonne Kenny's electrifying Penelope Rich, sung like some sort of Elizabethan verismo heroine.

After interval, delicious Reynaldo Hahn. The last of the five, "Quand je fus pris au pavillon" is a favourite of mine, a song which always always makes me smile: even - or especially - when it turns up on my mp3 player while I'm, say, wandering through Sydney's Chinatown. Though the poem's speaker is male, I've previously only heard it sung by women, which I like: it gives the song a kind of Cherubino style enthusiasm which suits the text. Still it was handled here with charm. Not sure I agree with the programme's translation however. The song opens with the lines "Quand je fus pris au pavillon de ma dame très gente et belle", which in the programme are translated as "When I was taken to my good Lady's pavilion". But that "au" doesn't mean "to" so much as "in", which changes matters a little.

Finishing up the recital, Samuel Barber. I recognised one of the titles, "Sure On This Shining Night", from Barbara Bonney's My Name is Barbra Barbara, but as soon as "The Secrets of Old" started up I realised it too is on that CD and in fact is one of my favourite tracks. The songs suited Lewis to a tee, the music stand in front of him (there for the Hahn songs as well) rendered all but invisible by his expression and his obvious affection for the music. They were a perfect conclusion, "The Praises of God" capping off the recital with a jubilant flourish. Had it ended there, I'd have left full of the joys of living. However, it didn't end there; cruel man, his single encore was Strauss's "Morgen", one of the most upsettingly beautiful pieces of music in existence, all the more so because in my mind it's now forever linked with my diva, and whoever else sings it, I hear Strauss and I hear her, and that's about it. So instead I left tearstained and slightly traumatised, and for me the recital really did end with the Barber. But either way, an excellent finish to an enchanting afternoon's singing by a tenor who deserves a more obviously laudatory adjective than the so-very-New-Zealand "international". I'm very much looking forward to his masterclass tomorrow night.

Mezzo surprise

Right. When I turned up to First Church today for a free recital, when I declined the offer of tea at the door, when I squeezed past the tourists in the aisle, when I sat myself down among a smallish and mostly white-haired churchgoing audience, I was never expecting to hear 'Arianna a Naxos' or Berlioz' 'La Mort de Cléopâtre'. That kind of recital just doesn't happen in this city. It doesn't happen in the evenings in a concert hall. It certainly doesn't happen in a church at lunchtime and free of charge. Except that apparently it does. Amanda Cole, a mezzo soprano from Melbourne here in Dunedin to do her Masters in Performance Voice, sang those two cantatas. On its own, cause enough for celebration. As it happens, she also sang them beautifully. Hers is a darkish velvety sound, not a huge voice but nicely focused, and it found a perfect partner in First Church's excellent acoustic. Her sweetly voice Arianna could at times perhaps have done with a little more dramatic bite, but was touching and attractive all the same. In the Berlioz she was compelling, both vocally and visually. If a few higher passages sat slightly uncomfortably, they were more than compensated for by the richness of the rest; the Méditation 'Grands Pharaons' in particular was shaded to bone-chilling perfection. As she stared in the face of impending death I almost felt that if I turned and looked down the aisle, I'd see it too. The element of (utter) surprise had me ready to enjoy this recital regardless, but Amanda surpassed that factor and was excellent in her own right. I like! I'd gladly have payed proper ticket price for this.

Last things first

In a rather lovely feat of good timing, I managed to come home from Sydney just in time for 'Music and Mayhem', a recital of arias and songs by a collection of lovely Dunedin singers, organised by none other than my favourite Dunedin singer (yes, I'm allowed favourites) Claire Barton. Such a wonderful idea, and very enjoyable, if perhaps the slightest bit too long (but maybe I'm just jetlagged). I think there was a sore throat or two at work tonight, but there were no out-and-out disasters, and there were also several true gems. The shiniest of which was Mlle Barton herself, magnificent as always in a wonderful 'Cruda sorte' and a ravishing 'Bali Ha'i'; not to mention a hilarious Marcellina to Fiona Henry's rather pretty Susanna in 'Via resti servita'. Matt Landreth too was excellent - his singing, particularly in 'Vi ravviso' from La Sonnambula is gaining a silkiness lately which I like very much; and Penelope Muir well nigh stole the show with 'A Word on my Ear' (words here, though it rather needs to be heard as well). A very very nice concert to come back to. And there's the Mozart Requiem tomorrow!