Prima la musica

Griiiiimes

Yes, I am attempting to plug this video in every online outlet I can think of.

(It's the Mad Scene, in case you need further inducement to watch.)

 

One week, two cities, four shows

It's been quite a week...

May 7: Die Walküre at the Met 

Huge success. For everyone, my tenor included. Fabio Luisi had, happily enough, heard my telepathic wish for a slightly slower "Winterstürme", which was a lovely bonus in a generally excellent show. (I mean, it was beautiful the first time round too, but I'm always happy for extra basking time in that aria.) Bryn brought the house down, and rightly so. I was so pleased to have this second chance to see and hear this show – not to mention a second chance to worry needlessly about the Brünnhilde double in the final scene – and to say another quick hello to New York. So quick, in fact, that with the show running until after 11pm, and a cab to the airport arriving at 6.15am – not to mention the small matter of dinner in between – we didn't actually sleep until we were airborne. Not to worry. It was worth all the exhaustion. 

May 10: Véronique Gens at Wigmore Hall

In the last few years it's been quite an extraordinary experience to finally see live performances by the singers who dominated my CD collection for years. I've ticked quite a few of them off the list – more than I could have hoped for in fact – but Véronique had eluded me until last Friday. I could hardly have wished for a more ideal first encounter than this, a recital of French songs. Débussy, Hahn, Chausson and Fauré...are you drooling yet? I was, and with good reason. She was as divine as I imagined she would be – and then she made life even better by singing one of my favourite songs in the world, French or otherwise, as her encore: Poulenc's "Les chemins de l'amour". And while I was still wiping away my tears from that, she followed up with Fauré's "Les roses d'Ispahan", another song to which I have a bit of a sentimental attachment. Thanks for reading my mind so completely, Véronique. 

May 12: La bohème at the ROH

I had no plans to see this while in London because Royal Opera tickets are expensive, the show was pretty much sold out anyway, and besides (pardon the heresy) it's one of my least favourite operas. My plans changed thanks to the unexpected generosity of the lovely Madeline Pierard – New Zealand's Own! – who, as the ROH announced earlier in the day, was going on as Musetta in place of an indisposed Nuccia Focile. So, with permission from you-know-who to ditch that night's performance of Dutchman at the ENO, I took myself to Covent Garden for what turned out to be the best live Bohème of my operagoing career to date. Joe Calleja was a genuinely loveable Rodolfo, to whom I award a special citation for his incredibly upsetting (and totally believable) reaction to Mimì's death; Carmen Giannattasio's oh-so-Italianate Mimì had my attention from note one; and Madeleine was first hilarious and then heartbreaking as Musetta. By the time she reached her prayer in Act IV, I was wished she had a sequel to herself. Rodolfo's bohemian buddies were all very charmingly played too. And as ever, despite earlier hard-heartedness, I succumbed in the end to Puccini's exceptional powers of manipulation and spent the last twenty minutes sniffling along with the rest of the audience.

May 13: Madam Butterfly at the ENO

My favourite Puccini opera. Very nearly my favourite opera. I love it madly. And yes, if I'm honest, I'd probably prefer to hear it in Italian, but it doesn't really matter: that score is what it is, and it makes mincemeat of me no matter what the language. Imprinting and diva worship being what they are, my heart will always belong in the final reckoning to Cheryl Barker and to Moffatt Oxenbould's exquisite Opera Australia production; but I was still enchanted by both Mary Plazas's tiny, porcelain Cio-Cio San and by Anthony Minghella's mesmerising production. And it was just wonderful to see and to hear Pamela Helen Stephen as Suzuki. I last heard her in Australia, when her late and much-missed husband Richard Hickox was chief conductor of Opera Australia. She was lovely then, and she's even lovelier now: a completely captivating Suzuki, which is no mean feat given how little Puccini gives her to work with. The ENO orchestra, who had been playing the living daylights out of Dutchman, were once again sensational, this time under Oleg Caetani. We were close, and it was loud, and I was in heaven. Oh, Cio-Cio San. 

Surprise!

If you follow me on Twitter you may know we had a bit of excitement here a few days ago. We went to see the new Avengers movie (Joss Whedon Forever!) and came out to find a string of missed calls, messages and tweets to the effect that Jonas Kaufmann had cancelled his second performance of Die Walküre at the Met and that Stuart would therefore be going on as Siegmund on May 7th. He was always flying over to New York from London to cover that performance ("One man, two tenors" as Anna Picard put it) but I had planned to stay put here rather than make that lightning visit with him. Confirmation that he'd be singing changed all that; we got home from the movie and within an hour I was booked – thank you, air miles – on the same flights both ways. So tonight, there's a Dutchman; tomorrow, a plane and on Monday, a Walküre. It's madness...and all I have to do is sit in the audience.

Obviously we wish Jonas a speedy recovering from what's ailing him. This change of plans, however, has brought an extra piece of fortuitousness: unlike the performance on April 13th, this one will be broadcast on Sirius XM. Even better, that broadcast will be streamed live via the Met website, so you don't even need Sirius to listen. So yes, you can consider this post a little bit of a shameless plug. Listen! There's Bryn! And Eva! And everyone! And my tenor's pretty good at Siegmund! And since it's a full house, maybe one or two of you who are reading this post might even be there on Monday night. I know I will be. And I'll be bringing the pig.

The big night

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 was Bryn 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. 

 

Various

– Oedipus Rex at the New Zealand International Arts Festival went very, very well. It's two years (I think) since I last heard it – at the Sydney Festival, again paired with the Symphony of Psalms and again conducted by Joana Carneiro – and I admit I'd forgotten just how cool the music is. Particularly Jocaste's. It's been earworming me ever since. Not a bad thing. Oedipus himself obviously has some pretty neat stuff to sing and it turns out the tenor in my life sings it quite well. (For quite well, read: wow.) Was also nice to see Daniel Sumegi again, of course, to meet Virgilio Marino and Margaret Medlyn for the first time and to finally meet Dunedin's Own Martin Snell. Martin was the first famous opera singer whose name I ever knew – even before I knew Kiri's, I think. He was our Dunedin Boy Who Made Good. Who knew, when I was five, that twenty-three years later, I'd be drinking pear cider with him? (NB: Mac's Pear Cider is really good.)

– After an abortive attempt in Dunedin, I managed to see The Adventures of Tintin on the plane from Auckland to San Francisco. As an enthusiastic but not slavish fan of the books, it was faithful enough (certainly to the spirit, if not always to the letter) to keep me happy, and in fact was worth watching just for the opening credits and for the first scene (no spoilers here). But I was especially curious to hear Renée Fleming as the singing voice of the Milanese Nightingale, the magnificent Bianca Castafiore, whose image (in keyring form) I carry with me always. I assume they just lifted her recording of "Ah! je ris..." from the aria disc in which it was included years ago, but it was somewhat disconcerting to hear the aria so nonsensically arranged in the interests of the plot. Castafiore's voice itself plays a key role in the scene, and needs to be doing certain things at certain times, so the aria lurches accordingly back and forth and then UP to a note pulled in from somewhere and somebody completely different. Maybe even computer generated. But at least they used the right aria. When her entrance was accompanied by the introduction to "Una voce poco fa" I was worried.

– Happy to say I'm London-bound again, much sooner than expected. Sadly not for the best possible reasons. Julian Gavin has unfortunately had to withdraw from the ENO's new production of The Flying Dutchman due to ill health. As a result, and thanks to the ENO and the MET kindly agreeing to share him, Stuart will now sing the role of Erik. It will be lovely to have another long stay in one of my favourite cities on earth, but obviously I wish the circumstances were happier. Here's to a speedy recovery for the wonderful Julian.

– But right now I'm in Chicago, where the CSO is about to do Das Lied von der Erde with You-Know-Who and the AWESOME Michelle DeYoung. I know. How lucky am I to keep running into her like this? There's still nobody – and clearly there never will be anybody – I'd rather hear in Das Lied. Adding to the excitement: it's the Chicago Symphony! The concerts were even supposed to be conducted by Pierre Boulez – just to throw a bit of legendariness into the mix – but alas, he's had to cancel on the advice of his ophthalmologist. I would have loved to have seen him in action. Jonathan Nott, however, is a more than admirable substitute. Plus there's Michelle! And Stuart! And the CSO! I think this will work out well.

– Véronique Gens's new(ish) CD is fantastic. But it deserves a blog post, not a bullet point. Watch this space. (Or, more accurately, I guess, the theoretical future space above this space. Or something.) 

Peter Grimes in Oviedo

It seems to be becoming traditional for me to begin every blog post with 1. an exclamation about how long it's been since my last and 2. some creative excuses for my absence – to the point where I should probably stop exclaiming and just accept that I'm no longer the once-a-week blogger I used to be. Les neiges d'antan and all that. I can't even offer many excuses this time. I mean, sure, this last week has involved (wait, let me count) six flights, eight cities and two hemispheres – not to mention an excruciating thirty-six hours in dial up hell – but it was preceded by several weeks of lounging about in Spain and forgetting what green vegetables look like, when what I should have been doing was writing something – anything – about my favourite opera.

The fight with Butterfly would be hard-won, but yes, I'm 99.7% sure that Peter Grimes is in fact my favourite opera. Should I make it to see the Welsh National Opera's Butterfly in 2013, featuring Cheryl Barker in the title role, the ranking might swap around for a little while, but in the end, Britten always triumphs. Grimes is just too headpoundingly extraordinary to be beaten. 

How convenient, then, that I have ended up travelling the world with the man who some would say (have said, in fact) is pretty much the Grimes of his generation. I know I think he is, and what's more, I've thought so since before I had such cause for bias. I lavished some of my best hyperbole ever on Stuart's Grimes for Opera Australia in 2009 – as did most of Sydney's operagoing population – and that was before I'd even met the man, much less run off with him. Not that it really matters. There was never a shortage, then or now, of people far more credible than I've ever been to declare his supremacy in the role, either in that mesmerising Opera Australia production or in the similarly triumphant ENO production which preceded it.

That ENO show is the one that's just been in Oviedo, along with half the original cast, half the cast from the Vlaamse Opera, where it's been in between, and, well, yours truly. I wrote about the sitzprobe earlier, the only rehearsal I went to until the final dress, in order to preserve the shocks and horrors of a production which more than one Londoner has told me is among the most exceptional they've seen. It was the right choice; in fact, just the jawdropping conclusion to Act II, when (SPOILER ALERT) a panicked and sobbing Grimes actually drags the bloodied corpse of his apprentice back on to the stage, was in and of itself worth all of my willpower.

Inside the Teatro Campoamor.

Alden's production is in many ways the polar opposite of Neil Armfield's: alienating rather than humanising, cruel instead of compassionate, and just plain weird where Armfield's was agonisingly naturalistic. If I'm honest, I think the Armfield has imprinted me, ducklike. It wasn't my first Grimes, but it might as well have been: it was the first Grimes which got to me, and one of the most moving experiences (theatrical or otherwise) of my life. That's hard to beat. Impossible, in fact.

But it doesn't preclude me from seeing the brilliance of other stagings, and Alden's unquestionably has brilliance in abundance. I don't pretend to understand all its intricacies, nor do I trust myself to describe it adequately. Reviews like this one will give you the basic idea; beyond that is a web of infinite detail and deep, dark ambiguities. I noticed new things every time I saw it, and emerged with new questions. I marvelled at how closely every little bit of stage business was tied to both libretto and score. I recoiled from, then was drawn back to, every grotesque villager in turn, from the oily Ned Keene to the drug-addled Mrs Sedley to creepy, creepy (yet oh so pitiable) Nieces.

And as ever, I hoped that this would be the time that Grimes followed Balstrode's advice, married Ellen immediately and moved away from the Borough. He never does. I still keep hoping he will. I'm sure it was a combination of factors – the production as a whole, the way Stuart plays (and sings...oh how he sings) the role, the way the rest of the cast interacts with him, and the advent of my own personal connection – but I felt more sympathetic than ever to Grimes this time around. In Sydney, he was a character doomed from the outset by his own obvious inability to cope with everyday life – he was forever on the edge of rage, of anger, of despair.

In Oviedo I saw a more adult Grimes, a man still (at least to begin with) connected to reality, and who might just have been able to make it work until everything went so horribly wrong. In Alden's Borough, Peter Grimes isn't the strange one, or the villain, or the madman. Everybody else is messed up, and he's their victim. Not blameless, but undoubtedly wronged. Grimes ripped my heart out in Sydney, and in Oviedo, he ripped it out again – in a slightly different way but with no less force. And while the Opera Australia production is still the best production of any opera I've ever seen anywhere, I have to say: closing night in Oviedo was the best Grimes I've yet seen Stuart sing. For all I know it outdid the London performances too. 

I haven't mentioned the rest of the cast, and I need to, because they did a wonderful job. My particular favourite may just have been Leigh Melrose as Ned Keene – such a mess of lechery and vices, and yet so hilariously played that, forgive me, I kind of liked him. (It did help that he sang it so perfectly.) Judith Howarth was all gorgeous tone and legato as Ellen, Peter Sidholm terribly dashing in his naval uniform, and Michael Colvin's bright tenorial stylings were ideal Bob Boles. Carole Wilson's fiercely blustery Mrs Sedley, and Rebecca de Pont Davies's German Expressionist Auntie was two masterpieces of mezzo menace.

Darren Jeffery's Hobson was as intimidating in stature as in voice, Matthew Best sonorous and superior as Swallow, while Phillip Sheffield made it bravely through some appallingly timed throat trouble to be the world's most obsequious Rector. And I can't forget the terrible twins – Gillian Dazeley-Ramm and Tineke Van Ingelgem as the spooky schoolgirl Nieces, their role rather larger in Alden's hands than usual, and requiring not only lovely singing (which they also provided) but also a lot of complex choreography, in whch they also excelled. I just hope I never meet them in a dark alley. Or in my nightmares.

Giant thumbs up also to the OSPA (Oviedo's opera orchestra) and conductor Corrado Rovaris, for a fantastic realisation of the Best Score Ever, to the chorus – Peter Grimes is enough of a challenge for a full-time, Anglophone chorus, let alone a part time group of Spanish speakers, and they did a very impressive job, to the supernumeraries and dancers, and last but not least, to the administation of the Opera de Oviedo, who looked after us so beautifully.

In fact, thumbs up to the city of Oviedo as a whole. Our five weeks there flew by. The wine, the food, the rugby, the public art (statues everywhere), the fur coats (I've never seen so many in one place), the architecture both very old and very new...I could go on. It was all such a joy. I hope we'll make it back soon. 

 

Artist's impression: a sketch by Francesco, the assistant choreographer.

 

Sitzing in Spain

Friday night was the sitzprobe of Peter Grimes here in Oviedo. And when I say night, I mean it. Spanish rehearsal schedules, just like Spanish shops, factor in the siesta as a matter of course, and thus we found ourselves at a sitzprobe which began at 8pm and ran until midnight. At least bars and restaurants were still open when we emerged. 

Rehearsals for this show have been running since the start of the month, but this was my first glimpse of them. It's possible I could have weaselled my way into one or two earlier on, and I might have done, had this production not been so thoroughly talked up by everyone connected with it: both those involved, and those who saw it when it made such a huge splash in London back in 2009. I decided I should be good and stay away, so as not to spoil any of its surprises.

But at the sitz, I figured I'd be safe, and so I was: apart from the chorus practicing some of their creepy choreography, there were no hints dropped, no great coups de théatre revealed. Just a bunch of fantastic singers sitting (or standing) around and singing some of the best music ever written, while I attempted to maintain my dignity in the stalls. No opera makes more of a mess of me than Peter Grimes. Particularly in the theatre. Most operas have one or two bits at most that might make me cry; Grimes seems to be constructed of nothing but those bits, so I had come to this rehearsal armed with tissues and prepared to make a small, tearstained spectacle of myself.

As it was, however, only the wordless chorus in Act III made me lose it completely, which it always does, in any context. Otherwise, I welled up every fifteen seconds or so, but otherwise I coped. Not having sets, costumes or any stage business probably helped, as did the stop-and-start nature of a rehearsal like this. For once, instead of having my life temporarily and gloriously ruined by my Favourite Opera Ever, I was able to observe the practical, technical side of the rehearsal, which is still a source of fascination for me.

Watching maestro Corrado Rovaris at work (trilingually) was wonderful – the orchestra is already sounding excellent – and it was also impressive to see the famous David Alden, whose production this is, air-conducting in the stalls. He knows every note of this score. And best of all, I was able to hear my favourite opera sung live for the first time since Opera Australia's production in 2009. Still the most extraordinary operatic experience of my life, and still remarkably fresh in my memory: I found, as this cast sang, that I could still mentally overlay what I heard (and saw) in Sydney more than two years ago. I still remember how Susan Gritton sang "Hush Peter", how Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke cowered as the Apprentice, Kanen Breen's supercilious Rector, and I don't suppose I shall ever heard anyone as Balstrode without my mind's ear immediately switching to Peter Coleman-Wright. 

That's not to play down the excellence of this cast, of course. With the exception, obviously, of Grimes himself, I've never heard any of these singers live before. They're a brilliant lot, perfectly cast. Judith Howarth's Embroidery Aria was heartbreaking enough in rehearsal, so will no doubt destroy me live; the nieces are fabulous, and the various men of the village – Ned, Hobson, Swallow and so on – make a motley crew in the best possible way. I can't wait to see them all come to life on opening night. I have no doubt this show will be worth every bit of the hype. 

But in the meantime, I'm off to the rugby again today with half the cast. Most of the boys, and a niece, I think. Nice to know that the villagers and Grimes can put aside their persecution issues for the sake of sport, isn't it?

Sneaky Sitzprobe Shot

Das Lied von Berlin

My latest Limelight blog post is now online. Just so's you know. 

Also online: the Digital Concert Hall video of the Berlin Phil Das Lied.

Berlin

Berlin is cold but Christmassy and I'm delighted to say that The Tenor in My Life made a spectacular Berlin Philharmonic début last night. Just amazing. I've heard him sing Das Lied von der Erde a billion times (well, almost) and it's always fantastic but I'm prepared to say that last night's was the best yet. The urge among the audience to applaud after the fifth song (his last, but of course not the end of the piece) was palpable. And oh my word can that band play. I have to say, sitting there and listening to the Berlin Philharmonic play Mahler was definitely one of those extraordinary how-did-I-get-here moments. 

Not to mention the bonus of hearing Anne Sofie von Otter sing the alto half of Das Lied – first time I'd heard her live – and Gerald Finley being fabulous in the final scene of Cunning Little Vixen, which started the concert. Das Lied and Janacek gloriousness in the same night, and played by one of the best orchestras in the universe – with Sir Simon Rattle on the podium, what's more. It really doesn't get much better than that, does it?

Two more concerts, tomorrow and Saturday. The last is particularly exciting as it's to be broadcast globally via the Berlin Phil's Digital Concert Hall. So even if you're not in Berlin – if you're in, say, Australia (hint hint) and want to support a homegrown heldentenor (hint hint) – you can still watch it, either live or after the fact, as they archive everything. Ain't technology swell? 

Lohengrin

Curses, almost a week since Lohengrin opened — with the next show only two days away — and I still haven't written a word about it.

Well, here's one word: magic. 

And here are some more. Opening night was brilliant. I'd been to a few rehearsals, but I'd only ever seen chunks of individual acts. Never the whole show, never with the full setand never with everyone in costume. Such is life in a Wiederaufnahme. I'd never even seen the swan — but that, as it turned out, was a piece of excellent luck. Its arrival was breathtaking, its revelation of the young prince at the end even more so (I cried...) and I was so glad not to have had either surprise spoilt ahead of time.

The set in all its glory is showing its age here and there but this I forgive, given that it's a year and a day older than me. I don't look like I did in 1983 either. It's still very grand and, I have to say, it really is a joy to see an old-fashioned show, with knights in armour and swords and ladies in brocade and all that stuff. After nine months of Wozzecks and non-literal Parsifals, excellent though they've all been, it's nice to spend a little time with a Lohengrin that's jumped straight out of a storybook. 

I wish I could point you to a review somewhere for a (comparatively) unbiased take on the singing, but alas, no critic seems to have seen fit to cover this show yet. What I can say is that Marjorie Owens and Tichina Vaughn both made auspicious débuts as Elsa and Ortrud respectively; that Georg Zeppenfeld is one heck of a King Henry; that Hans-Joachin Ketelsen's Telramund is also mighty; and that The Tenor in my Life surprised even me with his Lohengrin.

So, yes, incredibly partial comments to follow, but: I hang around him every day, and I still have no idea he how sings so gloriously, so powerfully or for so long. And for all the miraculousness of his Parsifals this year (not to mention everything else), I think last Sunday's Lohengrin is basically the coolest, jawdroppingest and most virtuosic bit of singing I've seen him do since Peter Grimes in Sydney two years ago. Biased I may be, but I ain't deaf, and I don't expect ever to hear Lohengrin sung much better than that.

And I must be on to something, because the response which greeted both the cast as a whole and my own Grail Knight suggested everyone else was as impressed as I was. There was massive applause at the end of every act and for every cast member. There was cheering, and foot-stomping, and the first bow of Lohengrin himself sparked a standing ovation which eventually spread throughout the stalls and into much of the upper levels. Erik Nielsen, the excellent conductor who took over at short notice for an indisposed Adam Fischer, also received his share of wild acclaim. 

It was one of those electrically charged evenings, both in silene while the show was in swing and in the clamour when it stopped. All the more impressive when you think that we're talking about a revival which opened on a Sunday afternoon: not exactly a Gala Night. Yet it frequently felt like one. Like I say. Magic.

Can't help but post this. I suspect I saw the person filming it.

Parsifal - Zurich Opera House - October 2nd 2011 - Final curtain call (zoom) (by FanaticosdaOpera)

Fidelio

Sunday night's Fidelio — the second of two performances with the National Taiwan Symphony Orchestra under Lan Shui — was in Yuchi Township, site of Sun Moon Lake and accordingly of the Sun Moon Lake Festival, of which this concert was a part. There had also been a performance the previous evening at what I assume to be the orchestra's regular venue in Taichung.

It was an adventure. The lake is gorgeous, although sadly among the cast only Rocco was lucky enough to have a room with a view. And you can't see it from the car park either. Did I mention that? The Fidelio was performed in a car park. A very large car park, mind you, and presumably the biggest open space in town, which is why it's used for open air concerts like this. Nevertheless, it was slightly disconcerting having to pick our way through all the tour buses to find the dressing tents (yep, tents) but we made it in the end.

And despite occasional attempts by car alarms to Ligetify Beethoven's score, it turned out to be a pretty cool evening. It had been pouring with rain throughout the afternoon soundcheck, but by the time 7.30 rolled around, it was starting to dry. Nevertheless, I wasn't too keen on the plastic seats, so I found a spot in the wings instead, and watched from there. Being a concert performance, there was very little dialogue included, but happily the gaps were bridged by not one but two costumed narrators — a gentleman (who had directed the semi-staging) dressed as Beethoven and a lady in spangled quasi-Victorian garb. I'm not sure who she was — perhaps the ferne Geliebte? — but the pair of them definitely added to the evening's entertainment value. 

Our cast, for the record: Janice Watson as Leonore, Carsten Wittmoser as Rocco, Simon Neal as Pizarro, Klara Ek as Marzelline, Diang Wang as Jaquino, Simon Lim as Don Fernando and of course The Tenor In My Life, Stuart Skelton as Florestan. Much fun had by all, I think — it wasn't the most straightforward week, but was definitely an adventure, and often quite hilarious. And the singing wasn't too shabby either.

Sleepless in Taichung

For reasons best known to Herr Doktor Jetlag, I have not slept for nearly thirty hours, but nevertheless I am, of my own free will, going to watch a six hour Fidelio rehearsal tonight, here in Taichung with the National Taiwan Symphony Orchestra. The first concert is tomorrow (in a venue I've not yet seen) and then on Saturday, there's an outdoor concert at the very scenic Sun Moon Lake — it's part of the Sun Moon Lake Festival — to what we've been told will be an audience of ten thousand. Ten thousand. 

Anyway, that's all to come; rehearsal first, which will be the first I've attended and, more significantly, the first time I've heard The Tenor In My Life sing even a note of Florestan. I understand he's rather good at though; shall report back on same. My well-established soprano partisanship has always made me a fool for Marzelline, though; there's something about that Act I aria of hers that just gets me. Every time. I know that the quartet which follows should be the opera's first Big Transcendent Moment, but thanks to Marzelline, I'm always teary before it's even begun.

I've already posted Lucia Popp's glorious rendition of said aria here at least once, so instead, here's one I've just watched for the first time and which I think is also seriously gorgeous. Obligatory lump in throat already rising. Here we go. Elizabeth Gale.

 

And speaking of things I should have blogged earlier, here are a couple of snippets from rehearsals for the Hong Kong Philharmonic Das Lied von der Erde earlier this month. 

Duelling baritones

No, don't get excited, no gun-toting Hvorostovsky here. Today is the first day of Dunedin's 2011 Senior Vocal Competitions, which will culminate in the ODT Aria Competition on Sunday evening. As my previous photo post may or may not have made clear, I'm back in my home town for a couple of weeks. Mostly to visit family and enjoy a cold, rainy holiday (Dunedin is not renowned for its charming weather) but since I've come with a rather talented tenor in tow, we've arranged for Dunedin to exploit him a little. So he gave a super bargain recital at the University's music department yesterday afternoon (admission $5!) and now he's judging the competitions from today through till Sunday.

I always used to go and watch as much of the competitions as I could when I lived here, so this has partly been a cunning plan on my part to gain free admission. There's just something about singing competitions I love — the chance to hear LOTS of repertoire, the hope of discovering new and rising talent and, I'm afraid, the spectator sport element of it as well. You choose your favourites and cheer for them, predict results and (don't tell Stuart) curse the judge when his views disagree with yours. Not that I intend to corrupt Herr Adjudikator, of course. 

Anyway, it all begins this morning with the 17th and 18th century aria (under 21) category. The weather is, of course, grey and disgusting, and my poor tenor, accustomed to Floridian humidity, looks less than impressed with the view from our window. However, I have assured him that winter is even worse (this is spring!) and I'm sure he's hardy enough (or has enough scarves) to cope. I'll have my love of the game to keep me warm.

Alright, fine, here's some Hvorostovsky to keep you happy.

Wozzeck in Santa Fe

Yesterday evening at seven o'clock, just as we were preparing to leave for the theatre, the heavens opened up. Now, there have been some showers here lately — much welcome drought relief — but they've rarely been torrential and when they are, they're usually shortlived. Last week, for instance, it was bucketing down as we drove out to Bobcat Bite, but the rain was drying up even before our burgers arrived. But last night's was the heaviest and most diagonal we've seen. It brought the full stormy complement with it — thunder, lightning and wind — and showed no signs of letting up. Even the short trip from front door to car was suddenly looking like an ordeal, and I wasn't much relishing the prospect of the time I had to kill between depositing my tenor backstage and the start of the opera, two hours later.

Needs must, however. We made it from house to box office to backstage to Opera Club with minimal saturation. And once I was in the shelter of said club, with a Diet Coke and a squillion dollar view, the weather was no longer a problem. In fact it was downright picturesque. What other opera company could offer you a pre-show electrical storm? And what better opera to see in such conditions than a dark and stormy piece like Wozzeck? As the sun set, we had lightning in every direction, crackling across a pink and cloudy sky; and while it settled somewhat in time for the show, there were still intermittent flashes for the whole first half — including a magnificent bolt in time for Marie's first entrance, framed perfectly by the open back wall of the stage. It was as if they'd planned it.

Not that Daniel Slater's production needs much help in the atmosphere department. I've said on Twitter, and will say again here, this is one of the best productions of anything I've seen this year. The line between imagination and reality — sanity and madness — is blurred so gradually at first that you hardly realise it, and then when you do, the whole thing twists in an instant. Quite literally, in terms of the set, but figuratively as well. With a quick change of lightning and choreography, a perfectly innocent scene become grotesque, and you're pulled irresistibly into Wozzeck's crumbling psyche. In particular, I love how Slater has expanded the role of the Fool, who now — with pallid death mask and gently choreographed movements — becomes the embodiment of Wozzeck's darker thoughts, spurring him on to the murder of Marie and to his own demise.

David Robertson's conducting has been similarly revelatory. Of course it was thrilling to hear James Levine's Wozzeck in New York, but David brings out other facets of the score — its lyricism, its beauty — and in combination, I think my two contrasting experiences of the piece, especially so close together, make for a fairly special first encounter with this opera. One could hardly do better than to start with Levine; and upon that ear-opening foundation, David's reading has worked considerable new magic. 

I don't suppose anybody would turn their nose up at the cast here, either. Richard Paul Fink outstanding in his role début as Wozzeck — a tour de force any way you look at it, especially as this production has him onstage almost constantly — and Nicola Beller Carbone beautifully bringing out both Marie's hardness and her fragility. Eric Owens is somehow both jovial and malevolent as the deranged Doctor, Robert Brubaker superb as a tightly-wound Captain, and my own tenor a disturbingly convincing Drum Major. (Those high notes, which one reviewer in New York compared to hand grenades, sound even better in Santa Fe's far less barn-like acoustic.) Jason Slayden's fresh-faced Andres is a striking contrast to Wozzeck's broken spirit, Patricia Risley's Margret is delightfully arch, and Randall Bills as the Fool takes Slater's unusual concept and makes poetry of it.

The above are all my highly impartial views, of course, but take a look at the blog posts already up from the far less beholden Out West Arts and Opera Tattler, and you'll see I'm not alone in them. I'm curious to see the print reviews as well. Over the last few weeks, I've heard more than one Santa Fe veteran describe this production (it was last staged here in 2001) as one of the company's finest. It's my first Santa Fe show, so I've nothing to compare it to; but having already seen it three times this week (two rehearsal plus opening night) I'm more than prepared to believe them. I don't think it will be an easy one to beat.

 

A short report from the Swiss TV show Glanz und Gloria about opening night of Parsifal in Zürich. 

Opening Night

And ninety-eight years later, Parsifal in Zürich is still a Very Good Idea. Opening night was a huge success. I loved it more than even the very best of the performances in London — which is saying something. Well done to all concerned. I'm looking forward to the next four. 

30 Day Opera Challenge: Day 6

Facebook challenge: Favourite French composer

At last, a clear-cut one. Poulenc. No question. (With Rameau as runner-up. And thus did I bypass the entire nineteenth century.)

An Acquired Taste: Best tenor

Perhaps the most biased answer ever, but no less true for that. Yes, as far as I'm concerned, the best tenor is my tenor. (Though I think he'd tell you it was James King.)

(Third Peter Grimes clip in six days, I know. But it's the best opera ever, or close to it.)

Seattle, here we come. Eventually.

Right, well, Seattle Opera has now announced the details of its 2013 Ring Cycle, which means I can now point out to you that The Tenor In My Life will once again be their Siegmund. I've been excited about this for a while now: I've only seen YouTube snippets of the Seattle production but it looks gorgeous, and I know Ring-devotees in Australia who rave about it as one of the best. Plus, you know, TTIML is pretty good at this Wagner lark.

So, here, by way of a shameless plug is the video trailer for Seattle's 2009 Walküre. The first minute is my favourite bit, can't think why...

...and while I'm at it, I'll also point out that Seattle Opera's website has stacks of information, photos and even audio clips attached to many of the returning cast members' names (recorded during the 2009 cycle). And of course I'll particularly draw your attention to this bio, which includes an "Ein Schwert verhiess mir der Vater" that you simply gotta hear. Yeah, I know, I'm so unbiased. But seriously, that "Wälse" goes on forever. 

Double duty

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. 

P.S. Brian has now also blogged about Wozzeck.

Ovation

The big début went brilliantly well. I was terribly proud. Actually it was a pretty amazing show all round: Alan Held and Waltraud Meier both on top form, and a huge reception for James Levine at the start and end, everyone clearly very happy to see him back in the house and at the top of his game. But personal bias wins out every time: I clapped loudest for the Drum Major. 

Big night tonight. The Tenor In My Life makes his Met début tonight, as the Drum Major in Wozzeck. Forgive me if I jump up and down excitedly. So proud.