Prima la musica, poi le parole

Rodelinda

There's something very strange going on here.

I appear to have found Renée Fleming, and in the last place I ever expected to. Handel.

All the signs suggested I wouldn't enjoy her Rodelinda and I believed them, but the moment arrived, she launched into "Ho perduta il caro sposa" and I did enjoy it. A lot. Why? And why now? Perhaps I've spent so long assuming I couldn't deal with her and not actually listening to her that I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps it was a reaction to her ever shoddier treatment chez Parterre. Or perhaps I've just mellowed.

Lord knows I've had a turbulent relationship with The Beautiful Voice.  And it's not that I'm no longer hearing all the things which used to be problematic for me, all the tics and mannerisms that bother people so much. They're there. They're just not a problem any more. From somewhere in that tangled mess o'Renée emerged, for the first time really, that spark which says, just shut up and enjoy. So I did. More than I ever have before. And, more significantly I think, with greater ease than ever. Because this isn't the first time I've liked Renée. But in the past it was something of a grand mission, where I tried to teach myself to love her. It worked for a time but didn't stick. I've gone back and forth and back and forth. And because it's been so tempestuous I'm hesitant even now to declare anything just yet. Still, it's different this time somehow: effortless, spontaneous, involuntary. Sitting down to her various recital discs determined to understand why her adorers loved her so dearly, I never quite got there; approaching Rodelinda with skepticism and a little dread, she took me quite beautifully by surprise.

Will it last. Non lo so. But since the broadcast (admittedly only a day and half) there's a new feeling, a sort of a craving for her voice. I don't remember this in the past. Craving is perhaps a little strong. Just, instead of feeling a duty to listen to her, or worse, a desire not to listen to her, I think of Renée and think — yes please. Back when I was making such a deliberate concentrated effort to figure her out, a wonderful woman sent me a "care package" full of Renée CDs. Right now I'm more grateful than ever to have them. I'm sitting here listening to the one simply titled Renée Fleming and for the first time I'm actually excited about it. No need to convince myself, it's just there. I don't want to push this too hard for fear it will all fall apart. I'm wary still of the Handel CD. But perhaps it's all in the mind: forget my trepidation and I'll be free to enjoy it all as much as I like. After all there was a time when I sat at the computer and typed paragraphs of praise for that very CD.

But now's not the time to be hasty. Are you enjoying watching me vacillate in real time? We just had "Je veux vivre" and oh I like this woman so much. And in "Io sono l'umile ancella", the tenderness in her voice as she reached the words "la mia voce" was just beautiful. Even at the height of my previous, slightly forced pro-Renée phase, when I was declaring myself a fan and spending all my money on the right CDs and DVDs, I was never so spontaneously thrilled by her as I am now. I really do hope this endures — and that I haven't just jinxed it by saying so. Oh, however it turns out, I'll just do my best to enjoy the moment. At this point I'd far rather be someone who likes Renée Fleming than someone who doesn't. It's a much nicer feeling.

And now, where was I? Rodelinda. There are other people in it apparently. Actually I did notice this. Andreas Scholl! The only singer I've heard on a Met broadcast whom I can claim to have met. (Except for Grace Bumbry but that happened out of order.) I never actually wrote anything here about his recital which I saw in Sydney but it was spellbindingly beautiful. Likewise as Bertarido he was gorgeous as can be. I had the same feeling here as listening to his CD of arias for Senesino: that he's excellent everywhere but at his best in the slow and floaty arias than the coloratura filled warrior-like ones, a lover rather than a fighter. Nothing wrong with that. Stephanie Blythe was fiery and fantastic. Kobie van Rensburg was commanding and quite appealing really but seemed at times a little undone by all the coloratura; John Relyea's Garibaldo a touch too blustery for my tastes. Christophe Dumaux sounded like a girl. Now obviously there's nothing wrong with sounding like a girl but in this case he didn't sound like a particularly engaging one. Whereas Andreas was much prettier and still sounded like a man. As for Renée's Rodelinda, she was expressive and exciting and beautiful. I never expected I'd be writing that but it seems I have. And all the stuff I did expect, all the difficulties I've had with her Handel, all the issues I was anticipating: all of it was there. So I can't explain my unexpected reaction. But who needs explanations anyway? I have some Renée Fleming to go and listen to. (Bel Canto, if you're interested. Fabulous stuff, and I love the ornamentation for "Ah, non giunge".)

Lohengrin

The thing is that I almost feel like Wagner is beyond the scope of this blog, because the experience is so different from all my other opera listening, and because I doubt the ability of words — my words especially — to articulate it. Which is not to say I don't find equally ecstatic experiences in other music — but they're differently ecstatic. The darkened room and the headphones and the high volume probably help of course. But then, during last year's broadcast season, I listened to quite a few that way and nothing else transported me the way the Wagner did. And I don't just mean transports of delight; I mean a near physical sense of having been transported elsewhere for the duration. In other broadcasts I may sometimes have felt I'd been taken to the world of the theatre, of the performance. Here though it's the world of the opera — wherever that is — that I've ended up in, and no amount of Met quizzes, roundtables or interjections from Margaret "brought to you today by the letter R" Juntwait can really interfere with that trip. What is it in this music? Discuss ad nauseum all of Richard Wagner's nasty ideas and repellent personality but the truth, as I see it, is that as awful as he may have been (and certainly he was awful) he nevertheless had to be precisely the person he was in order to write precisely the music he did. It's not even about the beauty of the music compensating for whatever defects elsewhere — the music is independent of all the muck, of all the warts-and-all of biography: a transcendent, glorious and necessary creation.

Somewhere along the line I did manage to notice that René  Pape is everything everyone says he is, that Luana DeVol is the best kind of frightening, that Karita Mattila is pretty much the best kind of everything. This aren't incidental details: even in the throes of Wagner, fantastic singing matters greatly to me. But even if the singing had been in every way unremarkable, I daresay I'd still be here saying all that I've said. That's just the way it is: casts change, but as along as the music is treated with a decent degree of respect, Wagner remains Wagner.

Can I be called a devotee? I'm not sure. Reading what I've just written I certainly sound like one. But I don't act like one at all. One Tannhäuser, one Walküre and this Lohengrin — that's all the Wagner in my life so far. All of them Met broadcasts: I've never bought a single recording and I've never seen one staged, either on film or in person. Proper Wagnerians devote their lives, or a sizeable portion thereof, to the music, to absorbing it and knowing it. I don't do any of that; I can't even claim to have made the effort. But then there's joy, too, in approaching each opera more or less uninitiated. The way the music sweeps me up is not a surprise but it is, at least, a pleasantly rare delight. And because I don't spend my life, or anything close to it, submerged in the stuff, I can react to it like this, think about it the way that I do. I love Mozart just as deeply — much more in fact — but Mozart is an essential part of my life, almost a given. Wagner is an occasional, mind-altering trip away from life. My devotion mightn't be full-time or life-encompassing, but in the moment of listening it is complete. I think that probably counts for something.

I just wish these operas didn't fly by so damned quickly. Don Pasquale the week before last dragged; Figaro was marvellous but seemed to go on all day. Lohengrin seemed to exist apart from time. I remember feeling the same way at the end of Die Walküre: that if they offered me another four-and-a-half hours immediately afterwards, I'd take them up on it without hesitation.

PS: I seem to have timed this to coincide with Wagner's birthday. How nice.

Le nozze di Figaro

I have had my heart broken a hundred times over by Countess Almaviva, fallen head over heels for Susanna, been bewitched by Cherubino, charmed by Figaro and occasionally even a little bit swayed by the Count. But right now the most beautiful moment of all for me in Le nozze di Figaro, the moment which makes me love Mozart the best, is not one of the arias on everyone's Mozart Arias recital disc, not one of the famed ensembles, not even the impossibly gorgeous way he blends two soprano voices in "Sull'aria". Instead it's an aria which is barely an aria, which gets cut off before it's properly finished, which moves the plot along somewhat but carries no great emotional weight: Barbarina's "L'ho perduta". I adore it. A teenaged girl stressing because she's lost a pin and doesn't want her cousin to yell at her. It doesn't require an aria at all, really — let alone one so full of moonlight and so exquisite I wish it would never end. Except that part of its beauty is that it does disappear again so quickly, gone almost before you've grasped how gorgeous it is. In an opera which is already a miracle, Mozart can do this, throw in something extra which you mighn't have expected but now wouldn't be without — how could there be a world without this aria, or a world without Figaro?

All this has been brought on by this afternoon's Met broadcast. I drifted in and out somewhat, but then with Figaro, I can. Like Virginia Woolf's Orlando, I've been through it so many times I can enter at any point, know where I am and be endlessly happy to be there. There are maybe only half a dozen operas which, without libretto in hand, I can follow line for line, but Figaro for the most part is one of them. Strangely enough I owe that in part to the Opera in English venture. Having listed to Acts II to IV (guess why) of their Figaro numerous times, the gaps in my Italian are filled by the Chandos translations — and even if they're inexact, or inelegant, or stupid, they work as a kind of aural surtitle and I always know what's going on. As much as one ever can in Figaro: there are still subtleties of letters and pavilions that I'm sure I haven't yet wrapped my mind around.

A nice performance if not the most incredible: of course this opera has more competition among my collection than any other except perhaps Die Fledermaus. Soile Isokoski's Contessa impressed me a whole lot more once I cranked up the volume; Andrea Rost was a little too clipped and chirpy a Susanna for me but sweet enough. Peter Mattei as the Count I thought was fantastic. John Relyea's Figaro left less of an impression of me than I expected but that's likely my fault rather than his. Alice Coote was a wonderful Cherubino, especially once I realised that she wasn't Joyce DiDonato and could stop wondering why, though I'm still obsessed with Joyce and Patrizia Ciofi's Amor e gelosia, she didn't sound familiar. (Speaking of Joyce DiDonato, may I just say: if the Met wants a Handel opera as a star vehicle it should forget this Renée Fleming Rodelinda thing and build something fabulous around the far worthier Joyce instead. Preferably with Patrizia Ciofi as love interest. Told you I was obsessed.)

Next week, of course, is Lohengrin which I'm very much looking forward to. Met broadcasts are the only time I listen to Wagner apparently: this, after Tannhäuser and Die Walküre last year, will be my third. But despite the lack of experience I love it wholeheartedly, if love is the right word. People go on about the length of Wagner operas and "all that shouting". The former I've not yet felt, the latter I've not yet heard. Lohengrin ought to be magnificent.

Don Pasquale

Not much to say. I basically enjoyed Anna Netrebko's Gilda on the broadcast of Rigoletto. Having read all manner of criticism of her Norina I decided I'd go in with a good attitude rather than bad, determined to like her despite it all. But no. Too dark and heavy, too over the top. I'm still undecided over the voice generally. For the most part, though — and this includes today's Don Pasquale — I do like the sound she makes. Just, I didn't like it in light, frothy Donizetti. I used not to like it at all, and I'm glad that's changed but why oh why this leaden Norina? Beautiful Juan Diego Florez, straight from heaven: you deserve a far lovelier bride. Every moment Ernesto was making any sort of sound, all was well. If only he had more sound to make in this opera. You know me: it's not often I wish away an opera's only soprano but this afternoon I could have done without. I can't hear Beverly Sills' "Quel guardo" without grinning like an idiot; this afternoon I was very nearly scowling. Il Barbiere is a boy-heavy opera and that can frustrate me slightly; no such problems here, with such a mellifluous male line-up, even apart from the sublime JDF. Interesting preparation, this: I've not heard Don Pasquale before (shameful given that I own a studio recording with the incomparable Lucia in the title role) but it's a-comin' to Dunedin in August, a touring NZ Opera production. Conal Coad sings the title role and directs, an infinitely promising prospect given his fantastic Leporello last year; Norina is sung by the cutely rhyming Lorina Gore. At least I can stop rolling my eyes at the prospect of Donizetti comedy (though I'd still far rather something much meatier) — I know now there's plenty to interest me musically in this opera, as long as I don't go crazy listening to it a million times beforehand. Nasty little plot though. Ma che importa?

Samson et Dalila

For some time I've had a strange sort of mental block about this opera. I blame the over-exposure of "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix". I grew so tired of hearing the aria that I started to associate that indifference with the opera as a whole, though I'd never heard a note of it. Even when Grace Bumbry more or less cured me of my aversion to the aria, I didn't feel any more like hearing Samson et Dalila. This is all very silly, I know. At some level I know better than to behave like this but it can't be helped. And in any case I've redeemed myself somewhat, with a nice helping of Sunday afternoon revelations, courtesy of the Met broadcasts.

Yes, of course, it was broadcast last year too. I didn't give it a chance then, got as far as the beginning of the first chorus and decided to go and do something else: the only time in that whole season that I ever gave up on an opera. This time, however, I fought the urge to shut myself up in a room with Rosmonda d'Inghilterra (though I still need to do that again soon) and listened to Samson et Dalila. Thank god I did. Fabulous. Infinitely more exciting, more delectably colourful than, in the depths of my unfounded Saint-Saens complex, I ever imagined. Terribly good fun. This is what listening to Met broadcasts in my youth is supposed to be like. Délicieux. But an even more glorious revelation is Olga Borodina. Just as I was getting used to all the rather stony and solid tenor declamation - zing - there's Olga, and I swear I can hear that gorgeous fuchsia dress. I've heard Olga Borodina only once before, and very briefly: on a DVD sampler as Dalila, singing "Mon coeur". It didn't leave a lasting impression, though undeniably beautiful. This time around, hearing it in the context of the whole opera, in context of all the fire and seduction and general bad behaviour which comes before and after, the effect is wholly different. She was magnificent, terrifying. An imperious, no-nonsense kind of seductress. Obviously nobody could resist. I'm completely on her side, she's far more interesting than that stick-in-the-mud Samson. So all the more upsetting that Concert FM's recording started skipping just a few bars into "Printemps qui commence", quickly getting so unlistenable that they went straight to the first intermission feature. The rest of the broadcast was trouble free, thankfully enough...but to some extent I'm still hung up on what I did hear of "Printemps qui commence". Snatching her away when I was so enraptured I was quite willing to put up with any amount of skipping: not a nice thing to do to a girl. Acts Two and Three went some way towards compensating, however. A very long way, in fact. Especially as Clifton Forbis' Samson loosened up just the tiniest bit, still desperately virtuous but the voice a little softer around the edges: the perfect foil to Olga's blazing Dalila. And my previous ignorance of the opera gave me one very pleasant advantage: I had absolutely no idea that high B "Lâche!" was coming. Can you imagine? Incredible. And her low notes just as thrilling, and indeed everything in between as well, the whole voice blended seamlessly top to bottom, gorgeously rich and really just too marvellous for words. The power of diva: so captivated was I that I sat cross-legged for all of Act Two, only realising when Peter Allen broke in on my reverie that I was, in fact, painfully uncomfortable. Times like this I wish I had the technology to record these broadcasts. She's still ringing in my ears, but it's only Monday and inevitably she'll fade. There's the DVD, I know, and the recording with José Cura et al, and I'll let them wrap their tendrils about me in due course - but neither is quite the same thing. Never mind. At least I've had my Olga experience. Shan't soon forget it. Magic.

La traviata

Angela Gheorghiu. I'm basically not a fan. At times I've strongly disliked her, once or twice I've liked her very much indeed (but it's been shortlived in the extreme), mostly I've just remained indifferent. Going into Sunday's broadcast of La traviata I really wasn't sure whether it would be a happy experience or a disappointing one; nor was I particularly concerned either way. When I don't enjoy her, it's hardly the end of the world, and when I do it never unlocks any wider appreciation of her as a singer.

All the praise, weeks earlier, from the NYC based opera blogosphere had suggested I might; but on the other hand, all that praise came from people who probably liked her far better than I did in the first place, so it was no guarantee. As it happens, her Violetta worked for me. Smallish voice, yes. Not a problem. Particularly when it possess such expressive powers as here, and, where, with Alfredo and Germont père both suavely sonorous, her vulnerability and ill health were all the more inescapable. She had, too, an uncanny ability to convey vocally not just Violetta's pain and sadness - and joy - but the fear, both vague and all too clear, which intensifies all of those emotions: fear of falling for Alfredo, fear of leaving him, fear of death. She was not a Violetta I felt particularly close to but there's no question that she was a Violetta in whom I believed. Mostly. I'd have believed her even more if she hadn't treated "Ah fors'é lui" like a race. All the same, a memorable performance, though it has to be said: it's Violetta who appealed to me, Violetta's voice in which I took pleasure - not Angela's, if that makes any sense. This doesn't change anything, I feel no more moved than ever to make space for Angela Gheorghiu, either on my shelves or in my heart. For the duration of the broadcast, however, she had my attention and admiration.

All the same, if there was a voice in this Traviata which, in and of itself, took my fancy, it wasn't Violetta but Jonas Kaufmann, her richly voiced and meltingly sung Alfredo. I'm not a great admirer of Alfredo, mostly but on this occasion he was rather difficult to resist, for once a plausible love-interest. Throw Anthony Michaels-Moore into the mix and you have a rather delicious trio; I never expected to count  "Di Provenza il mar" among the highlights of the performance but his was a silken legato delight. I've always had a fascination with Violetta and a consequent tendency to dismiss and/or dislike both Alfredo and his daddy; as a soprano fanatic, too, I've tended to think mostly of Violetta. But here both men were so excellent, their characters so well-drawn and their singing so elegant and so delectable, I was happy for once to see all three sides of the story. Not just poor Violetta - poor everyone.

L'Elisir d'Amore

A problem with listening to Met broadcasts from this end of the world is that very often - in fact more of the time - the broadcast opera constitutes the very first time I've heard a singer. And if not the first, perhaps only the second or the third. The fact is that down here, down under, the only way to become properly acquainted with a singer is via his or her recordings: and lord knows there are legions of fabulous singers whose Deutsche Grammophon contracts are still to come. Which means that often, listening to the broadcast, I'm making judgements not just on the performance, but on the performers themselves. A far from ideal situation.

Which is why it's wonderful now and again to hear somebody I do know. During L'Elisir d'Amore this afternoon I didn't need to decide how I felt about Ruth Ann Swenson: that decision was made long ago. All I had to think about was how much I liked her Adina. And I liked her a lot. Ruth Ann has never been a knee-weakening passion for me, but all the same I've had a calm and abiding affection for her for years. Of course, live radio Ruth Ann is quite a different animal from studio Ruth Ann, and I confess I mightn't have recognised her if I'd just stumbled across this on radio. Still there's a certain familiar pearliness which reminded me I was listening to - so to speak - an old friend. I'm never destined to rave about Ruth Ann as I might (and have) about some others, but I also doubt I'll ever say a word against her. I thought she made a delightful Adina. Her coloratura is still gorgeous, her singing comes with a smile, and I loved her high notes. If this had been my introduction to Ruth Ann, she'd have left an excellent first impression.

Speaking of excellent first impressions: Ramon Vargas' mellifluous Nemorino definitely made one on me. Rich, resonant tone and legato tasty enough to eat. Of the two Mexican RV tenors, I like this one the best.

Among the rest of the cast, Andrew Shore as Dulcamara stood out for me. His is in fact another voice I know, though not so well as Ruth Ann's: he takes the title role in the Chandos Opera in English recording of Falstaff, the only Falstaff I own. There, as here, he strikes a pleasing balance between out-and-out comedy and solid, appealing vocalism. Peter Coleman-Wright is a name I recognise, though I can't figure out why. However he's from Geelong, so perhaps I've seen him on cast lists during my (many) hours spent chez Opera Australia. In any case his Belcore was a bit stiff for me, not as suavely sung as the character's self-adoration would seem to require. Alyson Cambridge seemed fine to me as Giannetta: it's too slight and thankless a role for me to feel able to say any more than that.

As for the opera itself, well, what's to be said? It's hardly an opera to be getting deeply passionate and excited about. I know I wasn't exactly filled with breathless anticipation at the prospect of hearing it. But it was a beautiful sunny day, I had the stereo speakers outside and copious lemonade, and it was a charming way to spend an afternoon. Light and breezy, maybe not always hugely interesting, but pretty all the same, and it does have its moments. I wouldn't want to be over-exposed to it - but once in a while is really rather nice.

Wozzeck

What they said, pretty much.

I've looked forward to this Wozzeck. It's something I've wanted to hear for a long time, but I haven't had the chance until this afternoon. And every time I've heard how difficult it supposedly is, I've wanted to hear it more. "Thorny masterpiece" and so on. Well now I have heard it and - where's the difficulty? From the very first bars out of the orchestra I knew it was for me. Falling for it was easy. It's fantastic. And the performances excellent, too, Katarina Dalayman electrifying, but to be truthful, the singing could have been third-rate and it wouldn't have mattered too too much. It was the opera itself I was swept up by. Particularly - and it's a rare response for me, vocal obsessive that I am - by the orchestra, endlessly fascinating, twisting and turning, unpredictable and terrifying and brilliant. James Levine obviously put on the planet to provide us with this. Beautiful. I'm still buzzing. Once was not enough. Recording recommendations happily welcomed, while I try not to remember that My Diva lists Wozzeck Fragments among her concert repertoire.

An American Tragedy

Yes, well, hearing this on radio only and so many weeks later - having read the effusions of all my New York blogsiblings - does make feel like rather the poor cousin. And now we know what a risk poor cousins are, though I would never consider hitting Patricia Racette (or any other soprano) with an oar.

One hearing isn't enough to give one a proper idea of any opera, let alone one so shiny and new, so I can't say very much about that side of things. I did think it was wonderful, however. I know there were moments, too, which even on the first hearing struck me as special and blog-worthy, but my memory is not fabulous and I can't quite recall what they were. I want and need to hear it again (and again) and if a recording is released I'll snap it up.

To the singers. Almost more mezzo-soprano glory than a girl can take. This is hands-down the most I've ever enjoyed Susan Graham. Her Mozart & Gluck CD left me strangely cold and I didn't spend enough time with her Hahn disc (which came from the library) to fall in love with in the way apparently every other person in the world has. I had no strong feelings one way or the other, really, about hearing her as Sondra Finchley but I certainly have strong feelings now - she was glorious. Hers was a performance which grew and grew on me, from pleasant-enough surprise in her first lines to rapture by the time of her final letter to Clyde. Lord, and she's only the beginning. An American Tragedy is also, to all intents and purposes, the first time I've heard Dolora Zajick. I wonder how anybody who sees and hears her in the flesh makes it out alive. Then of course there is Jennifer Larmore. Who, I know, is saddled with a rather one-dimensionally unsympathetic role and not very much to sing but she's pretty damned impressive all the same. I have particular loyalty to Jennifer, who represents one of the thousand beginnings of my devotion to opera. I adore her in Rossini, Handel and Mozart and she gets away with "Art Is Calling For Me" in a tasteful and genuinely funny way nobody else (excepting ACB of course) can pull off. But my recordings are all a few years old, or more, so I'm happy to have heard her as she sounds now - and even happier that she's sounding so good.

However for all this mezzo-worship, my heart belonged throughout the opera, without a shadow of a doubt, to Patricia Racette. I don't just mean to her character, with whom one cannot help but sympathise, but to her singing. I've been a fan since I heard the Emmeline clip buried on her official website - more Tobias Picker - and since then have heard her sing almost nothing else. Musetta and Nedda. It's hard work, at this end of the world, to maintain an attachment to a soprano without a pile of recordings to her name, but I've tried my best and in An American Tragedy my efforts were rewarded tenfold. That said, she took me by surprise a little: I expected a slightly sweeter, more lyrical sound. But, oh, the knife-edge of her Roberta cut me to the quick. Vibrant, thrilling, heart-breaking too - but so delicious.

Nathan Gunn. Goodness me, but what a role to take on. He ought to be congratulated merely for surviving intact, but of course he did rather more than just survive. I don't swoon over baritones as I do sopranos - that's just how I am - but I was very impressed. The voice is lovely enough but what struck me was the way in which he inhabited the role: he was Clyde, as far as I was concerned, and if at times I wasn't paying too much attention to how Nathan Gunn sounded, it was probably because I was listening instead to what Clyde Griffiths was saying. I think that's a good sign.

In fact the same goes for the entire cast. I haven't the energy to come up with words about every single one of them, but there was certainly no weak link, nobody I wished had less (or nothing) to sing. Not even the boy soprano, though I certainly could have taken more singing from Dolora. A marvellous opera just on its own, I should think, but all the more so for such a talented and committed set of singers.

More than anything I think what I loved about it was its total American-ness. Does that sound odd coming from this hemisphere? I loved how recognisably and inescapably American the text, the setting and the story itself all are.  But most of all I loved hearing American singers sing with American accents - not to mention fabulous diction. Generally, given the sort of music I mostly listen to, hearing an American accent is not a good thing: because it means someone is singing German or French or Italian with an American accent, and as charming as English with a European accent can be, the reverse just isn't true. But just as nobody sings French like the French (and Felicity Lott), nobody sings American like Americans: and particularly Americans such as these.

Rigoletto

I'll tell the truth. When it came to 3 o'clock Sunday afternoon it was a struggle to make myself sit down and listen to Rigoletto. I really didn't think I was in the mood. However I recovered from that nice and quickly and enjoyed myself. I'd forgotten a little how lovely it is to have the Met broadcasts, delayed though they may be. Besides which, they're good for me, they educate me - or at least, they introduce me to the sort of standard repertory that I really ought to have heard already. This was my first ever Rigoletto and it made a good impression. I mean, I am and remain a Handel/Mozart/Strauss girl at heart, and there's really no Italian can do anything to change that. But I'm open to loving everybody, at least a little, and in fact there a lot in Verdi for me to love. I've already gone on about La traviata. I've been steadily falling for Falstaff this year. And though I'm too lazy and too miserly to go out and do something about myself, I'd certainly enjoy the chance to hear Otello and Macbeth again. Rigoletto didn't excite me to great passions, exactly, but all the same was quite wonderful.

I liked Anna Netrebko far, far better than I expected to. This is the longest I've ever spent listening to Anna. I've never really been able to get my head around her, or at least around the sound she makes. I could hear that she was doing fabulous things but nevertheless couldn't quite feel that fabulousness - if that makes any sense at all. There was a weak moment at a Borders listening post, when I almost bought her Opera Arias purely on account of her 'r' sound, but I resisted. In addition, of course, there's my natural skepticism concerning fiercely marketed gorgeous sopranos. All that glamorous packaging is offputting; it just makes me feel even less like giving somebody a shot. Magdalena Kozena's pretty pretty publicity shots were, I'm ashamed to admit, part of the reason I took my time in appreciating her wondrous talent. Likewise, I've never felt particularly inclined towards testing the Netrebko waters. All of this begins to sound like a set-up for the description of an epiphany: but no. I have not been turned, overnight, into Anna Netrebko's #1 or even #10 fan. But her Gilda elicited a reaction from me which nothing else I've heard her sing (and I admit, I haven't heard very much) has. I responded to her, I liked her, I enjoyed the sounds she was making: for once I didn't feel like I was testing her, or trying to like her, or failing to like her: I was just listening to a very pretty singer - and I do mean vocally pretty. I still don't think I've got my head around that sound, but it's a start.

I always do this. I did it with just about every broadcast in the last season. On and on and on about the soprano, then just a line or two for the men in the cast. Partly because I don't want to end up with a preposterously long post; partly because I'm generally just not very good at talking about tenors and baritones. I'm afraid it's the case here, too. I did like the dark shades of Rolando Villazon's Duke. He and Anna do make a good pair: I begin to understand all the fuss. Carlo Guelfi was fine, I suppose, as Rigoletto. I've no doubt that as I continue in life I will hear far better assumptions of the role than his but it wasn't without its appeal. I did think he conveyed all that conflicted paternal anguish quite nicely, there was a gravity to his singing which I liked; there was also times, though, when I wished he'd sing his words rather than bark them. This is about as much as I can manage on the performance. I'm also wary these days of the considerable gap between what's heard in the theatre and how it translates to radio, and so I think it's not the place to be making concrete decisions about singers.

The intermission features, however, deserve a word or three. I blushed for Joe Volpe. I think those thoughts about Renée Fleming were best left in his mind. Honestly: calm down. Melting eyes? And though I've no great emotional attachment to Maria Callas, praising Renée by sideswiping Maria seemed rather unnecessary. Is it an autobiography he's written, or just a feast of fawning? But I've missed the quiz, it was a joy to hear it again. Though I have a terrible confession to make: in the question about mute/invisible opera characters, I utterly failed to pick up on the clues about the man on the other end of the phone in Poulenc's La voix humaine. I mean, of all operas, they pick the one I've obsessed over for months: and it goes right over my head. I hate to think what this suggests about my operatic IQ.