I love opera, bluegrass, burger joints and fictional detectives. Mostly, but not always, in that order. Formerly of Dunedin, formerly of Sydney, now travelling the world with the tenor in my life (Stuart Skelton) and blogging as I go.
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.
Almost exactly a year since my last visit, I'm bound for New York again. Last time it was for a début, this time for a star turn: the tenor in my life will sing Siegmund in the opening Ring cycle at the Met. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't get sick of saying that. Siegmund! At the Met! Weirdly enough, although it's one of his signature roles, I've never yet heard him sing it live; in fact, I've never heard anyone sing it live. Well, not exactly. I heard Jonas Kaufmann twice from the Green Room last year, but I don't think that counts. As far as I'm concerned,the April 13th performance is my first live Die Walküre and Stuart is my first live Siegmund – and because, in this instance, I'm entitled to be just as spectacularly biased as I like, I can already tell you he'll be my favourite Siegmund too. So there.
Anyway, that accounts for one evening, and maybe a morning too if they let me into the general, but this is New York and there is plenty else to see. Not as much as last time, because we're only there half as long, but I repeat: It's New York. There's always something. Here's what's on my Must See List so far. Now I ask you, O Faithful Readers, to point out all the essential events I have unforgiveably missed.
St John Passion at Carnegie Hall I could pretend that this all about the transcendent beauty of Bach – and no doubt in part it will be – but the truth is, this is the only chance I'll have in the foreseeable future to see the oh-so-gorgeous Karina Gauvin in performance, and that is why I'm going. And why I'm sitting in the front row. In an ideal world, she'd be doing a solo recital, or a Handel opera, or something similarly vehicular. But in the absence of all that, this concert will do nicely.
Porgy and Bess Audra McDonald. Need I say more? I know that this is the meddled-with production which prompted a long and scathing letter from Stephen "God" Sondheim but I don't care. Audra is Audra is Audra. And it would be nice to see a production of Porgy and Bess, too.
Diva festival at the Met I'm really showing my soprano bias, aren't I? As if you're surprised. I don't really like Manon very much but am very keen finally to see and hear Anna Netrebko in action; L'elisir d'amore is a cute opera made unmissable by the delightful Miss Damrau; and while I have no idea whether Natalie Dessay really should sing Violetta, I can say without a doubt that I'm going to need to hear her do it. So those are my top three. Might be nice to hear Tom Hampson sing Macbeth, too, and my completist side is quietly hoping I'll make it to Rheingold as well.
Anna Caterina Antonacci in recital at Alice Tully Hall Another singer I've wanted to hear live for many years.
Seminar Not opera, not even musical. I'm not necessarily so good with the legitimate theatre, and this review doesn't inspire massive confidence, but I'd brave far greater danger for the chance of seeing Alan Rickman. Especially Alan Rickman "shredding egos". I always believed in you, Professor Snape!
So, New Yorkers and cultural ninjas: I'm in town from March 21st until April 13th. What unmissables am I missing? I'll never see everything, of course; but I'd hate to find out a day too late that I deprived myself of something exceptional.
– 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.)
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.
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?
This should by rights have been my New Year's Eve post, a round up of all that was grand and glorious for me in 2011, just as it drew to a close. Then several things got in the way: my incompetence, which caused me inadvertently to delete said post; Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve; our own New Year's Eve celebrations; sleep; and last, but not least, a drive to Miami and a flight to Spain, with absurd behaviour from American Airlines obstructing our progress wherever possible.
We made it, however, and are now starting to settle into Oviedo. Rehearsals for Peter Grimes are in their second day and although 2012 is nearly half a week old, I'd still like to celebrate a few of last year's highlights. After all, there's no opera here until Grimes opens, in three weeks or so, so I have to find other blogging fodder, and what better than a list? I love lists.
Thus I give you, in no particular order, my Top Eleven of 2011.
London
Our travel for the year began here, and while it was not my first visit, it was my longest, and reinforced once again my eternal love for this city. I mean, the duck confit sandwiches at Borough Market would actually be reason enough on their own for devotion, but then you start piling on the museums, the parks, the shopping, the Indian food, the sheer sense of history, the theatre and oh my gosh the music. I don't know how people who live there permanently cope with it all: we were only there for eight weeks, and the volume and quality of live classical music on offer was already overwhelming. I saw plenty, but missed even more; and such was the concentration of brilliance that I was twice obliged to forsake my own tenor's Parsifal in favour of other, less repeatable delights. The weather was pretty rotten but if I could have stayed forever, I'd still have done so in a heartbeat.
The Met
Mecca. I finally made it there, and for the most part it lived up to my expectations. Which is to say, it was huge, quite glamorous, and offered an impressive variety of repertoire and an even more impressive line-up of star soloists. Suddenly my CD collection came to life: there were Joyce DiDonato, Diana Damrau, Juan Diego Florez, Renée Fleming, Joe Calleja, Bryn Terfel, Deborah Voigt, Karita Mattila, Peter Mattei, Natalie Dessay and and and ... the list goes on.
And because I was there in the company of another of those star soloists – whose own Met début was even more exciting than any of the star spotting – I was able to experience the backstage half of the company too. I was in the Green Room on opening night of Walküre when ill health forced the divine Eva Maria Westbroek out halfway through and Margaret Jane Wray was summoned to take over (which she did magnificently). We went and said hi to Joyce before she strutted her stuff as the Komponist in Ariadne auf Naxos. I was even hugged by Bryn Terfel. And I'm sure this all sounds like so much insufferable namedropping, but believe me, it's said with nothing but awe and disbelief. Maybe as time goes by, I'll become jaded, but right now I'm still wide-eyed as anything.
Michelle DeYoung
I've lost count of how many times I've raved about Michelle this year, but it's quite a few. She's so worth it. I was fortunate enough to hear Michelle three times this year, in three different countries: as Judith in Bluebeard's Castle with the New York Philharmonic, then in Das Lied von der Erde in Hong Kong and again in Sydney in Mahler 2. Believe it or not, I'm actually not stalking her; but given half a chance, I probably would. She's truly amazing: a wonderful artist, with a voice which is both heaven and earth, all at once, and also one of the coolest people I know. Michelle, you rule.
Orchestras with proper pits
Sydneysiders will understand. While I will always feel a sort of filial affection (coupled with seething frustration) for the Sydney Opera House's Opera Theatre, with its dodgy acoustic and hellish concrete pit, it has been quite a revelation to spend this year in opera houses which don't stow their orchestras under the stage, and whose auditoria are actually, you know, designed for opera. Even the Santa Fe Opera, which is effectively outside, pulls off a fuller, more convincing sound, and the Met, or in Zürich or at either of London's opera houses, well, let's just say you don't know what you're missing until it smacks you round the head. In a good way.
Cheryl's Tosca
Let me get this out of the way first: I am stupendously grateful to whichever operatic deity ensured that Cheryl didn't cancel on me. She has been known to do so, and while I, whose devotion is unconditional, always forgive her for it, it might have been a bitterer pill to swallow this time. When I lived in Sydney, I just booked for every show so that I was covered either way. But I had to fly to Brisbane from Taiwan, and I could only stay long enough for two shows, so the potential for a shattered heart was far greater. Actually she did shatter my heart, but by showing up, not by cancelling. Her Tosca was all I could have hoped for – and I'd been hoping for a while, ever since she was announced for – and then bowed out of – Opera Australia's Tosca two years earlier. As spoilt rotten with opera as I am these days, it still stings a little that I've left the town where I could see my favouritest soprano on a remarkably regular basis – pursuing her is harder now, but my dash across the globe for her Tosca proved that it's still ridiculously worthwhile.
Wagner
From the moment I was brave enough to dip my toes in Wagnerian waters, I've loved the stuff, but for many years never felt I had the fortitude to spend more than the occasional afternoon in its company. Wagner, I felt, was the antithesis of background music – it required all of my energies and attentions – and thus, because I am inherently lazy, I ended up listening to very little. Then along came a Heldentenor and I had no choice but to be immersed. Well, it's been grand. I know Parsifal almost as well now as I know Don Giovanni or Vec Makropulos – a circumstance I hardly saw coming – and can make Lohengrin jokes with the best of them. I know Walküre better than I did a year ago and by the end of 2013 I think I'll probably have it (or at least the first two acts...) down pat.
I love it still, and I still find it perfect and transcendent and all of that stuff which Wagner so patently is. Never too long, too ponderous, too slow or too loud. I've seen more Parsifals this year than your average bear – fifteen I think, in two productions – and it only gets better. I've learnt to love Wagner in rehearsal chunks and in full performance, and I look forward to the day – and it will come – when Tristan arrives.
God
Meaning, of course, Sir John Tomlinson. His Gurnemanz at the ENO was awe-inspiring – imposing and sonorous yet quivering with human emotion, a privilege to behold every single time. And yes, I was also lucky enough to experience Matti Salminen's Gurnemanz, and yes, he's also God, pretty much, though in a rather scarier, Old Testament-y way. Sir John's was the one that got to my heart, however. He was also the first person this year to turn me into a babbling fangrrl when I met him.
Ned Canty
The whole Santa Fe experience was fantastic from start to finish – the food was excellent, the views mindboggling, the opera company treated us beautifully and the show we were there for, Daniel Slater's production of Wozzeck under the inspired leadership of David Robertson, was a massive success. The town itself, and its surrounds, were a revelation in themselves. But operatically speaking, the biggest revelation was the directorial genius of Ned Canty, whose production of Menotti's rarely performed The Last Savage provided one of the smartest, funniest and most captivating nights I've ever had in the theatre. The opera itself was fine, musically, and surprisingly hilarious, but I have no doubt that it was Canty's superb production – and the pitch-perfect performances he drew from a very talented cast – which really caused this rarity to scintillate. I really, really hope to have another chance to see his work, and soon.
Eva Maria Westbroek
I fell for her first in Turnage's Anna Nicole, which did her glorious talents scant justice but still couldn't hide her radiant presence or the liquid gold of her voice. I fell for her again on DVD, in a weirdo production of Fanciulla del West, where I wished she could sing forever, in every role. I missed her, would you believe, in Walküre; even being Siegmund's cover (or his consort) wasn't enough to get tickets for that sold out show. I did meet her, by happy chance, and reverted to babbling fangrrl mode once again. I've been devouring YouTube clips ever since. And this year on April 13 – o wondrous day! – I shall submit to a surfeit of delights, when the Met starts Ring-cycling again and my tenor sings Siegmund to Eva Maria's Sieglinde. I should start training my hands now for the ovations.
Surreal encounters
There have been a few, but the winner has to be the day we arrived in Zürich – and my apologies if I've told you this story before – and found that the key to our apartment didn't work. In the ensuing attempts to unlock the door, we were assisted by two of our neighbours: who turned out to be José van Dam and Peter Seiffert. José made many valiant attempts to wrestle the door open, but in the end it was to no avail, so his wife kindly drove off to collect a new key for us while Peter provided red wine and chocolates. The image of us all, clustered together on the landing and conducting trilingual conversation – while my inner voice squealed that's Lucia Popp's widower! – is not one I'm ever likely to forget. And if I were in need of an emblem of how completely different my life became in 2011, well, there it is.
The tenor in my life
Forgive me now if I get soppy and a bit more autobiographical than usual. It's only for a moment. It has to be said, however, that the facilitator of practically all of the above – the glamorous, the gorgeous, the transcendent, the surreal and the newly pervasive first person plural pronoun – has of course been Stuart, the tenor I ran off with just as 2010 was ending. 2011 has meant a completely new life for me. When I announced all the changes, almost exactly a year ago, I titled the post "Happy New Everything". Well, it's a little less new these days, I suppose, but believe me, just as happy. Happier, in fact. I'm living a life I could never have predicted, an opera fanatic's dream in many ways; but the best thing about it, when it comes down to it, is just having an awesome person to share it all with. He's got a nasty habit of murdering swans, of course, but hey – nobody's perfect.
Right, that's the soppy bit – and the list as a whole – over and done with. Here's your reward for making it this far.
It's Joyce! Because I can't quite believe I didn't give her a separate listing here.
What better way to spend the free night between performances #1 and #2 of Das Lied von der Erde than with a ridiculous French operetta? Hey, if it's good enough for Sir Simon Rattle (who's been conducting both) then it's good enough for me. Besides which, I am a Magdalena Kozena groupie, and it would have been churlish to miss her while we were all in the same city. So it was off to the Staatsoper on another cold Berlin night. And not to Unter den Linden – that venue's currently undergoing major renovations – but to the Schiller Theater in Charlottenburg, the Staatsoper's pleasant (if slightly spartan) temporary home.
I'm always pleased to see Magdalena, and L'étoile, if you'll pardon the pun, is certainly a nice star vehicle for a mezzo: Lazuli (the pants role) gets more arias than a Handel hero. Seriously. S/he also gets the final bow – but I think it's safe to say that (again, pardon the pun) the evening's biggest star was the desperately funny Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as King Ouf, exploiting his diminutive stature (I never realised he was so little!) to his advantage with dead-on comic timing.
And for me, the other (triple pun warning) star of L'etoile was Stella. Doufexis, that is. I've known the name from CD covers for a while now, and somehow had got it into my head that she was 1. French and 2. a soprano. Turns out she's 1. German-Greek, 2. a mezzo and 3. wonderful. It was a shame that her character (Aloès) had comparatively little solo singing. Here she is with some Offenbach. If you're at all familiar with my vocal predilections, it probably won't surprise you that she was my favourite.
I can't say I was massively taken with the opera itself. It had its moments of charming French eccentricity, and also moments of proper comedy, but somehow was never quite as kooky or as funny as the set-up (loopy king, confused lovers, comedy Frenchmen and everyone in disguise) suggested it might be. And just as you thought it was about to take madcap flight, Chabrier chose instead to slow everything down, with interminable ensembles which lost momentum about halfway through. Dale Duesing's 1950s hotel setting (with the odd inexplicably anachronistic costume) was very appealing, though, and I am a bit of a sucker for comic opera with choreography. Not sure why the men's chorus broke into a quasi-haka at one point though.
The other highlight for me? The program. I don't often buy programs, I'm afraid, but I was informed that the Staatsoper's were something special. And so they are. They're little hardcover books, nicely bound and beautifully presented: the sort of thing I suspect Frindley would love. Evidently they're famous, so maybe you've all seen them before, but nevertheless here's a not-very-good photo of my program for L'étoile.
Pretty, isn't it? And half the price, I might add, of Opera Australia's rather less gorgeous publications. It's full of essays (auf Deutsch) which I shall probably never read, but it really is a lovely keepsake.
L'etoile may not be my new favourite opera but I was happy just to experience the (albeit transplanted) Staatsoper for the first time – not to mention a pretty nifty cast and the sheer thrill of novelty. And now I have a new mezzo to love, which can only be a Very Good Thing.
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?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
This is the Dresden Striezelmarkt. Dating back to 1434, it's one of Germany's oldest Christmas markets. Its 577th incarnation is currently under construction no more than 50 metres from the front door of our apartment building. Tragically, we'll be gone before it's up and running and looking like this. *sob*
From Taiwan I flew to Sydney and then, after a few days of shopping and catching up with friends and former colleagues, on to Brisbane, for Opera Queensland's Tosca. Or rather, for Cheryl Barker's Tosca. The list of Sopranos I Will Travel For has only one consistent entry, and Cheryl is it. I couldn't justify an Australian trip for her Capriccio earlier this year, but this Tosca I was determined to see.
Now, if had still been living in Sydney, a quick trip to Brisbane and back would have been no big deal — I might have even done it on two consecutive weekends, to see more shows — but arranging such a trip in the midst of this year's travels required more advanced logistical skills. It was fortunate, then, that the Taiwan Fidelio put me at least put me in vaguely the right part of the world. Had I been coming from Europe, it would have been a much more gruelling trip: getting back over here (I arrived in Dresden last night) from Sydney took roughly 38 hours.
Would I have travelled 38 hours to see Cheryl's Tosca? You bet I would have. Maybe that's the sheer lunacy of devotion speaking, but she repays me so completely for any effort or money I spend in seeing her, that I've always felt I had the better end of the deal. In truth, she transcends all those boring, quotidian things — booking fees and airplane food and unwieldy broken-handled suitcase — anyway, so that the question of whether she's worth the price is irrelevant. She's Cheryl, she's my diva, and she's priceless.
Her Tosca did to me what all of Cheryl's characters do to me the moment she turns her hand to playing them: she changed for the better, gained an extra degree of warmth, sympathy and just plain irresistibility. She always finds room for a revelation (or at least a revelation to me) in every role, even something like Tosca, where so many have gone before. I always love a character more when she's passed through the Cheryl Barker filter, and Tosca — whom I've always respected but never felt especially close to — was no exception.
I loved the sweetness and lighthearted humour she brought to her Act I interactions with Mario, her jealous behaviour — which tends to irritate me — delivered with enough self-awareness to make it endearing instead. I loved also the intense play of emotions in her eyes in Act II, as she gripped the knife and built herself up to the fatal moment. And her naïve optimism in Act III broke my heart almost as much as Cio-Cio San's does, which is saying something. I've never loved Tosca like I do Butterfly, but in Brisbane, let me tell you, I came close. It was also a joy to hear such a remarkably organic and sensitively developed Vissi d'arte, not always the case with such a famous set piece of an aria.
Lest I be accused of ignoring everybody else, let me say that we had a wonderfully heartfelt Cavaradossi in Julian Gavin, a malevolent, dark-voiced Scarpia in Douglas McNicol (best Sharpless ever!) and very buffo Sacristan in the inimitable John Bolton Wood. Most of the rest of the cast were making role débuts, and all did so admirably. The chorus were excellent, the orchestra better still, and I liked Nicholas Braithwaite's majestic and highly dramatic reading of the score a lot.
John Copley's production has been around a long time, and is as traditional a Tosca as you could hope to find, but unlike some productions of similar vintage, this one deserves its longevity, because it still works incredibly well. It's as opulent as it needs to be, but not overstuffed with crowds or lavish costumes, and it tells the story clearly and with strong theatrical instincts. Beyond that, it just gets the hell out of the way and lets great performers do what they do best: bring the opera to life. Which is exactly what this cast (and revival director Cath Dadd) did.
I cannot, however, tell a lie. This was an excellent show in all its facets (probably one of the best all-round nights at the opera I've had this year, in fact) but I was there for Cheryl alone and oh my, it was wonderful to see and hear her again for the first time in very nearly a year. I don't think I realised how much I'd missed her until I heard that first offstage "Mario!" and got, yes, a bit teary. Just to hear that incredibly familiar and oh-so-glorious voice again, and to watch her weave her very particular magic, as I have so many times before, was a beautiful thing. It was at least as much a homecoming as when I'd arrived in Sydney a few days earlier; possibly even more so.
I've had an extraordinary year of opera. Even I can't really grasp the people and places I've seen, the voices I've heard, or the fascinating backstage world to which I've been gradually admitted. Yet with the sole exception of my own particular tenor (and that's different anyway) Cheryl still wins. She's still the highest highlight, just as she always was. I always knew she was my favourite in the world, and this year's adventures have only served to make me even surer. Vive la reine.
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Elevator girls at SOGO department store, Taichung. (Taken with instagram)
Here we are, back in Orlando, just long enough to unpack, draw breath, re-pack and leave again. This is our fleetingest visit yet: we arrived late last night and tomorrow evening we hop a flight to Zürich for the Wiederaufnahme of Parsifal. Getting here was also one of our longest journeys yet: for boring administrative reasons, we flew first from Dunedin to Hong Kong via Auckland, and then from Hong Kong to Orlando via San Francisco, with reasonably long layovers all the way. Almost two days in transit.
And those two days just happened to be my birthday. Yes, both of them. Sort of. September 22nd arrived in New Zealand just after we'd taken off from Auckland, continued in Hong Kong, and lo and behold, when we arrived in the US, it was still going. Thank you, international date line — I'm a big fan of extended birthdays. I'm not sure I'd exactly recommend an in-transit birthday, but it was nice to be offered champagne by Air New Zealand and, a day or so later, to have my present (jewelry, yay!) brought to me along with dessert by United — in cahoots with my travelling companion, of course, who really did a lovely job of turning 48 exhausting hours of travel into something resembling a birthday party. I probably owe the Travel Gods a word of thanks, too, for keeping everything disaster-free: no delays, no lost luggage, nothing.
I'm not really massively keen to be back in the air so soon. But I've just had a look at Zürich Opera's schedule for the two weeks we're there and I have to say, it does help: Traviata with Eva Mei, a Simon Keenlyside recital, Shostakovich's The Nose and a Fanciulla starring Emily Magee. Plus Parsifal of course. I think I can probably live with all of that.
We went to London for fairly practical reasons, but I engineered it so we'd spend an extra night and see Cendrillon at the Royal Opera. It is, after all, a truth universally acknowledged that you can't come within reach of a Joyce DiDonato performance and decide not to bother. Although, perhaps not as universally as you'd think: the show wasn't sold out, and I booked my ticket on the morning of the show.
Just one ticket, as it turned out. It would have been two, but my date was called upon to save the day and step in for the Verdi Requiem here in Zürich — so after 24 hours in London, he was on a plane again, bound for rehearsals, and I stayed for shopping and mezzo-sopranos. Sounds like a fair balance, don't you think?
And there really are a lot of mezzo-sopranos in Cendrillon. My hat is off to whoever went to the trouble of assembling Joyce DiDonato, Alice Coote and Ewa Podles (who's a contralto, but still) in one cast. It's such a surfeit of low-voiced pleasure that when the ominous man-with-a-microphone appeared onstage with an announcement, and said "Joyce DiDonato..." and I thought she might have cancelled, I remained philosophical, because, hey, we'd still have Alice and Ewa. As it was, however, she who sang Rosina on a broken leg, was still singing — she just craved our indulgence if her illness interfered.
She needn't have apologised. I bet there are singers who'd happily buy and imbibe a bottled form of whatever ailment she was suffering, if it would make their voices glow as hers did. She sounds lovely in French — I started wishing that her next solo disc would be French art songs — and sweet, generous, resilient Cinderella fits her temperamentally to a tee, I think. Alice Coote sounded eerily similar to her at times, yet different enough to keep the two voices distinct, and to blend beautifully in their duets, which are probably some of the best music in the opera. To nobody's surprise, Ewa Podles's outrageous (and hilariously curvaceous) Evil Stepmother stole the show. Evidently, along with freakish vocal gifts (as impressive in-house as on record) she's also blessed with natural comic timing.
Honestly, I think this opera is the female equivalent of Parsifal in terms of skewed gender balance. There are almost no men. There are, however, two stepsisters, played with priceless vacuity by Madeleine Pierard (my compatriot!) and Kai Rüütel, and the platinum blonde Fairy Godmother — Intermezzo nailed it with the Dusty Springfield comparison — of Eglise Gutierrez on coloratura duty. Jean-Philippe Lafont, as Cendrillon's father (still alive, in this one, but powerless to resist his horrid wife's bullying) has the only sizeable male role, and struck a kindly if cowering figure; and I wished that Jeremy White, as a rather sprightly king, had had more to do.
I liked Laurent Pelly's production a lot. It's all made to look as if it's been fashioned out of a big old-fashioned book of fairytales. The walls are printed pages, chairs are made from letters, the carriage is shaped like the word "carosse", and almost everything sticks to a black/white/red/gold colour scheme. Cendrillon is allowed some shades of grey, however, in her rather fetching rags — an outfit which wouldn't look out of the place in the window of Anthropologie — and her ballgown (pictured above) is a beacon of light in a sea of ladies in bizarre scarlet concoctions.
Pelly goes with the fairytale flow, he doesn't try to subvert it, and I'm glad. The show was laugh-out-loud funny in front of an audience of adults, and I'm certain an audience of children would be even more enchanted than we were. What a shame the Royal Opera hasn't made it easier for them to come; a Christmas season of matinées — you wouldn't even need the same, starry cast — would be ideal.
As it was, my inner child and I were delighted by the frolicking horses, the red-painted servants, the fairy godmother's chimney-top world and the dancing. Oh, the dancing. We wanted to hug both Alice's adorably shy Prince Charmant and Joyce's radiant Cendrillon. We laughed at the silly stepfamily, and forgave them when Cendrillon did — they're pretty harmless in this version, Madame de la Haltière is not exactly Angelica Huston, and the sisters are to easily flummoxed to pose a threat. We cried sad tears when the lovers were separated, and happy tears when everyone lived happily ever after. It was all pretty magical.
The music, well, it's Massenet in sugary fairytale mode. Well, apart from that bit where he forgets, and turns Cendrillon into Thaïs or Manon in their respective repentant modes, singing expansively about redemption and misery. It showed everybody's voices off well — especially our trio of low-voiced ladies — without ever turning into, say, great art. But who needed great art anyway? That's what I have Parsifal for. Cendrillon is not Massenet's most memorable score, but while you're actually listening to it, it evokes the shiny unreality of the tale quite wonderfully. Having previously known only a couple of arias, and not the score as a whole, I can't say much to the merits of Bertrand de Billy's conducting; but the magic in the pit seemed basically to match the magic onstage. Ça suffit.
Now I'm back in Zürich, gearing up for a Verdi Requiem and one last Parsifal, before flying to Santa Fe — where, as it happens, this production of Cendrillon had its premiere — for Wozzeck. All very serious, weighty music, and magnificent of course, but I have to say: I'm glad I had my little sliver of enchantment in between.
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.
Finally, after three weeks in Zürich, we actually went to the opera. I must be getting jaded: I looked at what was on and frankly, Parsifal aside, From the House of the Dead was the only prospect that really grabbed me. I had been half-tempted by the Anna Bolena, but then Elina Garanca pulled out of the last three shows and they replaced it with La bohème, one of my least favourite operas. So this was our first trip. Led by me, it has to be said, as I am definitely the Janáček groupie in this household. (Even though it's the other person in said household who actually sings the stuff.)
Peter Konwitschny's production is, well, weird. The reviews I've read seem divided as to whether it's good-weird or bad-weird. I'm pretty sure it's making some kind of point about the nature of exile or loneliness or isolation or something along those lines. No doubt it's all terribly Brechtian and clever, but I have to confess it passed me by.
Briefly: Siberian prison is replaced with a gentlemen's club, run by the Mafia and lit like a school cafeteria. The play-within-a-play involves writhing by strippers of both genders. The chorus leaves the stage and enters the auditorium at one point, as does a soloist who shouts "lies!" from various boxes, and there's a planted couple in the front row who leave in mock-disgust after playing out some enforced audience participation. There's no wounded eagle; Goryanchikov isn't really released; Shishkov doesn't really recognise Filka. And by the end, all the men are embracing various parts of a giant matryoshka doll. As you do.
The novelty of the weirdness was intermittently entertaining, at least; Sydney doesn't really do productions like this, although I half suspect that Patrick Nolan's Acis and Galatea was aspiring to the style of this show. Evidently some of the critics were quite struck by Konwitschny's take on it, but personally, I fear I missed the pathos of the only other production I've seen (Chéreau's, on DVD). There, the exiles were, in their shabby way, ultimately sympathetic (or at least pitiable) and there was a glimmer of hope and camaraderie amidst the misery. Call me unimaginative but for me, the self-imposed exile of a cocktail lounge just isn't as touching.
No matter. There's the music, and I'm a Janáček freak, so I was happy. I'd forgotten how much like Makropulos it sounds – and in particular, how much like the glorious final twenty minutes of Makropulos it sounds. You can, as my companion pointed out, play "Janáček Bingo" with it, but that doesn't trouble me; on the contrary, I love the recognisable-yet-different world of this score, with all the tics, tricks and motifs I love, bent to the will of a new story. Soprano fanatic that I am, I'll never love House of the Dead as much as his Kamila operas, but then again, it's not the kind of opera that's asking to be loved, is it? The singing was all good, sometimes very very good indeed. Don't ask me to single out soloists, because I've no idea: it's one of the ensembliest ensemble pieces out there, and not the opera for a baritone or tenor who wants to make a star turn. The Zürich Opera House orchestra played magnificently under Ingo Metzmacher, all shiny strings and creeping percussion.
Musically at least, I was in Janáček-groupie heaven. Drier-eyed than I might have liked (which was not the case with Chéreau) but satisfied just the same. Next stop: Parsifal, of course.
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.
For a while there, we thought the horrific storms in the South might have foiled our plans: an 11AM departure for Nashville turned into 7.30PM and then 8.30PM, and meanwhile the weather reports on TV made us wonder if we should be going there at all. But it all came right eventually — the plane left, we had a magnificent view of Manhattan by night which just about made the nine hours in La Guardia's food court worthwhile, and we arrived in Nashville to gorgeous warm weather.
The delay meant just two full days instead of two and a half, but we still managed to pack plenty in. Highlights? The Grand Ole Opry, clearly, where most of the names on the bill were unfamiliar but most turned out to be hugely entertaining. I mentioned the fabulous Jean Shepard — still going strong at 77 — in my previous post. I also loved Bobby Osborne and the Rocky Top Express, not surprising since I am a bluegrass girl at heart.
And did you know Nashville had a full scale replica of the Parthenon? I didn't, until somebody on Twitter told me about it the night before I left. As it turned out, it was just across the road from our hotel. It's seriously impressive and seriously weird. I loved it. Particularly the insanely huge and very very gold statue of Athena inside.
I loved wandering down Broadway and hearing live music from every second doorway. I went on a couple of productive souvenir shopping sprees — one at 11pm, because apparently nothing on Broadway ever closes, and one at the Mecca which is the Country Music Hall of Fame. I had a hilarious fried chicken dinner on the rooftop of the charmingly disorganised and rough-around-the-edges Wild Bill's Beignets and Bikes — our waiter Brian is my new favourite waiter ever. And I could have wandered around Hatch Show Print for hours, plotting the abduction of their adorable store cat and coveting every single poster on the wall.
Two days isn't nearly enough to do the town justice, clearly, but we sure tried our best and I'm determined to get back there, sooner rather than later. Sing it, Dolly.
Don't worry, this isn't one of my usual solemn and rhapsodising Wagner posts. Das Rheingold was of course magnificent, soul-filling Wagner but it was also, dare I say, quite a lot of fun. This is Part the First of Francesca Zambello's so-called American Ring. Wagner filtered through American mythology and cultural history. Sounds subversive enough, but its bark is worse than its bite. It's as if she had nerve enough only to come up with the basic concept, not to pursue it as far as she might have and possibly should have.
I mean, if you're going to go as far as blatantly Americanising Wagner, for heaven's sake, you might as well go all the way. Zambello hasn't. Leaving aside objections to the very essence of the concept (and I realise many won't be willing to even do that), I think her idea of aligning the Rhine and its gold to the California gold rush is not without its appeal. However, it seems a little pointless to have the idea and then create a scene which looks like any big river. The only aspect which says "gold rush" is Alberich's prospector costume; why not, since video projections were such a prominent part of this production, use some to evoke the particular historical moment she's apparently referencing? All the projections provided us with was rushing water and swirling gold — what's specifically American about that? Nibelheim didn't match either; I expected it would look more like a working mine but it too could probably have passed for a conventionally Germanic underworld. It looked good, don't get me wrong; it just didn't seem to fit the concept.
The world of the gods was a bit more consistent. A burgeoning 1920s dynasty, lounging about a temporary vacation residence while waiting for their mansion to be built. Jennifer Larmore was appallingly marvellous as a hardbitten, grasping Fricka. Still, Zambello stumbled over details. There seemed no attempt to translate Wotan's spear into 20th century American terms; likewise Freia's golden apples. Now, you might fundamentally object to any attempt to translate such symbols, and that's understandable; but if you're Francesca Zambello, and you've had this big idea, surely you ought to have the audacity and the creativity to integrate every part of the opera into your vision. You've already gone ahead and meddled with the Ring, I doubt anyone will be very surprised if you fiddle with the symbols a bit.
Then there were the bits that were just plain weird. Like Alberich's slinky Discohelm, a square of gold lamé which he tucked into his belt like an oil rag when he wasn't draping it ridiculously over his face. No wonder the surtitles just called it "Tarnhelm", since this was not in any way, shape or form a helmet. I was disappointed by the staging of his transformation into a giant snake — music that terrifying deserves something more substantial than scaly video projections. The toad (which became a frog for the purposes of alliterative surtitles) was much better; actually it was very cute. I wanted one. I thought turning Donner's hammer into a croquet mallet was a stroke of brilliance, though.
One thing up with which I will not put, however, is the blithe manner in which Cori Ellison has just changed the translation of "Rheingold" in her surtitles. Apparently it now means "pure gold". On account of the pun in the libretto, "Rheingold! Rheingold! Reines Gold". Not really a pun if you turn them all into the same word, though. The Rheinmaidens are now "river maidens". Of course, I can see that she really had no choice. You can't set the opera in America and then have your characters wittering on about the Rhine every three seconds but still... it makes me uneasy. Especially since the word in question is also the title of the opera. Good on Ellison, though, for attempting to retain the libretto's alliteration in her surtitles where possible, even if Wagnerian German alliteration and Ellisonian American alliteration haven't quite the same rhetorical effect.
The only singer I really want to rave about is Stefan Margita, who was slick, seedy and fantastic as Loge. Everyone seemed to relish their parts but Margita still more or less stole the show; from his final monologue you'd think it had been his opera all along. It was lovely to see Jennifer Larmore in person, too; she was obviously enjoying herself a lot and given that Wagner is way out of her usual repertoire, she sang pretty damn well. She needs, however, to EAT SOMETHING. And preferably quite a lot of it. My other favourites were Andrea Silvestrelli (Fasolt), Tamara Wapinsky (Freia) and Lauren McNeese (Wellgunde). I also like Buffy Baggot (Flosshilde), mostly for her excellent name.
And! The orchestra! Thank you, Maestro Runnicles, I like you a lot. Seamless, shimmering playing which, American Ring be damned, rose from the very depths of the Rhine. Also, it has to be said — what a difference a pit makes. I've always known the conditions for the orchestra in the Opera Theatre were atrocious, but I don't think I really realised how atrocious until, at my first SFO Lucia, I was reminded what an opera orchestra can sound like when playing from a pit not actually designed for physical discomfort and muffled sound. Luxury!
Hardly the most scintillating production — actually it could easily be deathly dull, except that it isn't, because it's peopled by a clutch of fascinating singers. And I know it's trendy to scoff at baroque opera where the singers are dressed as if they're singing baroque opera, and to profess one's inability to take such people seriously but perhaps I am an old fashioned girl at heart. I didn't find this laughable. It seemed to me that the point of it all was not to convince us that Ariodante is a ripping yarn or (that vile word) relevant in some deep and meaningful way to contemporary society, or any of that; but rather, to celebrate the one aspect of the opera which remains utterly captivating — the music. If I'm right about that, then it achieved its purpose; this was a pretty fabulous tribute to Handel.
Ruth Ann Swenson totally bowled me over. And I am somebody who already loved her dearly. But my attachment to Ruth Ann has always been at root an emotional one. I loved her for the part she's played in my musical life and because she has always seemed adorable; and I've loved listening to her, but have never gone exactly mad for the voice in and of itself. I also had essentially no idea what to expect from Ruth Ann in a live situation.
She was sublime. She was more than it even occured to me to hope for. Recordings aren't a patch on the loveliness of her voice in person and she radiates sweetness and light. I could have watched her and listened to her forever. Stunningly beautiful in every respect. And yes, my emotional attachment to her colours that view a bit, but even if she'd been totally new to me, she'd be getting a rave here. I just wish I could be there on July 6th, to clap my hands raw when she's awarded her San Francisco Opera Medal. Ruth Ann deserves every accolade going.
And as if she weren't enough — Susan Graham! I knew she was good, but for whatever reason I've never become a proper fan. She was, of course, totally stunning as Ariodante. Stunning in a more objective sense than Ruth Ann, too. Susan sang the living daylights out of this role; it was a total triumph. I appreciated the sheer gorgeousness of her voice more than I have before, and revelled in the thrills and spills of all that terribly heroic coloratura. Plenty of fun ornamentation, too; a lot of it showing off her rather impressive upper register — not the most obviously masculine sound, but who cares? Fabulous is fabulous. Her "Scherza infida" is something to treasure.
Just before the curtain went up, I heard a man behind me say to his companion: "I like her already — she looks like Eddie Izzard." Which cracked me up, because I knew immediately he meant Sonia Prina, and he was completely right:
Although in her stage beard, she looked less like Eddie and a whole lot more like TAFKAP. I still wish I could have heard Earth Mother Ewa Podles as Polinesso, but never mind. Sonia is a different brand of contralto, her voice is edgier and more compact. Sometimes a bit too metallic for my tastes but all in all an appealing villain. Although I was a bit troubled by what seemed an idiosyncratic approach to passages of rapid fire coloratura; her runs emerging in a sort of violently staccato Morse Code. Then again, she was expressing rage, so that's possibly fair enough. Anyway, the important point for readers in this hemisphere is that I think we can look forward to an excellent Orlando from her in August. I wonder if she'll have another Princely beard.
Veronica Cangemi was weirdly appealing as Dalinda. She grew on me. Well no, actually, I liked her immediately but then her first aria didn't quite live up to the silvery appeal of her recitative. But as the night progressed she got more impressive and her whole performance had that sort of neurotic charm that I tend to like. Her mad scene — complete with lightning on cue! — was wonderful. The more I think about her, the more I like her in retrospect. I bet she'd be a lot of fun as Atalanta in Xerxes.
I only realised afterwards that two of the cast of this Ariodante also appear on the Minkowski recording of same. Veronica's there, and so is Richard Croft. With Ewa it would have been three. Richard Croft, incidentally, sounds so good in this role he's almost a guilty pleasure. Handel tenors (a little like Mozart tenors) can be a bit negligible but there's usually opportunity for a spot or two of knee-weakening — he takes full advantage. To think this man was not long ago roaming the Met in a sheet as Gandhi in Satyagraha. Which, come to think of it, means that every Handel opera I see this year will contain a member of that Satyagraha cast, since Rachelle Durkin, OA's Angelica, sang Miss Schlesen opposite Croft.
The other boys — Eric Owens as the King of Scotland, Andrew Bidlack as Odoardo — weren't quite so swoonworthy, but still, enjoyable. Particularly Owens, who exuded a Sarastro-like air of wise nobility, even if he was a bit mean to his darling daughter.
But oh, Ruth Ann. And oh, Susan. Beautiful apart, bliss as a couple — they, and their voices, are very well-suited indeed. Their duets were among the highlights of the opera. My favourite moment, though, was Ruth Ann's tour de force in Act II, a mad scene of sorts where the laughing girlishness of Act I gave way to a darker, more emotionally complex portrayal and where I hung upon her every delectable note. Four years ago I went to New York. I was supposed to see Ruth Ann then, but she cancelled. I'm happy to say now that she was well and truly worth the wait.
I never meant to take so long to write about San Francisco. If my hotel hadn't had the World's Worst Wireless I might have written more while I was there, but it was all I could do just to check my email and the weather. Anyway, here goes.
On Lucia
Thatshould actually read "On Natalie" because you and I know, that's what all this was about. Natalie's Lucia was the single, solitary reason it occured to me to make this trip. Everything else wonderful was just so many cherries on top.
Knowing full well that it might be folly, but quite unable to stop myself, I let my expectations of Natalie build and build. How could they not? For nearly four years — excluding the break I took, which we don't talk about — I have worshipped and adored Natalie in every medium available. In my dying days of file sharing, I downloaded dazzling bits and pieces — "Glitter and be gay", "Tornami a vagheggiar" — and wept with bliss. I have bought CD after CD after CD. If she records it, I want it. I re-christened YouTube NatalieTube because that was (and still is) the best thing about it — it's full of Natalie (thanks in great part to DessayBestSinger). The soprano who won me simply with the sparkle of "Suis-je gentille ainsi" and the limpid sweetness of "Vive amour qui rêve" (I owe Massenet a lot) transpired to be probably the single most captivating all-round performer of my experience; only Judy Garland comes close. Natalie, as far as I am concerned, has everything. I could love her for her voice alone. I could love her for her acting alone. Hell, I could love her for her mad curtain calls alone. The point is that I don't have to love her for one reason alone, or even for several reasons separately. I love her in her total, glorious Natalieness; I love this nutty, hilarious person who is also fiendishly bright, a gifted artist and, I truly believe, among the most significant operatic performers of her time. Perhaps of any time.
So it was with all of this besotted baggage that I arrived at her Lucia. Which is why when I say that she met my expectations, it is not faint praise. I can't claim she exceeded my expectations, because I myself had made that impossible. To use uncharacteristic sporting analogies: I expect Tiger Woods to be the world's greatest golfer. I expect a climber of tall mountains to conquer Everest and K2. And so I expect Natalie to be the Natalie of my dreams. And she was, she was, she was. All that CD, DVD, YouTube and the praise of others had led me to expect, she provided. Though she might just be a little more beautiful in person.
I kept waiting for the experience to feel more surreal than it did. But the truth is, opera at this level — and experiencing my #1 diva in the flesh — is what I've been waiting for. Not an unattainable fantasy, but a possible new reality. Seeing Natalie didn't feel unbelievable, it felt natural and right and true; a logical, normal part of my devotion to her and to the art form. It was magical, but it made sense.
And not a clue where to begin. Partly because I'm a bit exhausted still; partly because I'm in the midst of writing reviews of what I saw, and I want to have those done with before I start rambling at characteristic length here. Still, silence is tedious.
Operagoing in San Francisco is a gorgeous experience, though I'd need a lot more practice to begin to feel like an habituée. My local house is probably the most globally recognisable opera house there is, but I've always craved one which actually looked like an opera house, which San Francisco's does. Columns and arches on the outside, gold and marble aplenty on the inside. The theatre itself was almost too much grandeur for little me; I think it took until the second night before I was able to calmly contemplate and take it in.
On Night One the usher was friendly and helpful. On Night Two he recognised me. By Afternoon Three he knew my name. Now that's what I want my opera house experience to be. That's my version of Cheers. There are people I've known a year or longer who I suspect might still struggle to come up with my surname; and I know from my own experience that I can take much longer than three days to learn the name of a customer only ever seen in passing.
People cough, but not, I think, as chronically as in Sydney. Or perhaps there's just more space for the sound of hacking to be lost in. Or perhaps I was just concentrating on the stage, which had a slightly uncanny tendency to be filled with People I Adore. There was a sweet or two noisily unwrapped beside me. And there was, of course, the man who, I swear, spent much of Monday night's Lucia engaged in toad impressions.
On Saturday morning, after a delightful bloggers' brunch with Dr. B, I walked along Grove St. past the opera house and noticed block upon block of vaguely familiar artificial flower beds sitting outside. I stopped to look and spotted the writing along their sides — they were the garden sets from Lucia. Maybe it was Loge at my shoulder, but I felt compelled to obtain a souvenir. Thankfully for my conscience, I found a loose little sprig of fake foliage sitting at edge of one of the blocks. Reader, I took it. Don't sue me, SFO. It is green and purple, with a hint of glitter — and you can see its cousins in this video, spending quality time with a particularly delightful French soprano.
Meanwhile, in the world beyond Civic Center...
You've seen the photo below of my Amoeba haul. Thank god I'm so genre-specific, or I'd never have escaped from the depths of that shop so relatively unscathed. I'm proud of all my purchases, but one deserves special mention. It will come as a surprise to absolutely nobody that I own quite a few recordings of Yvonne Kenny. In fact, if you were to compare a list of my collection to one of her complete discography, you'd find, by my count, six items missing. Two of which I have heard frequently enough not to own any time soon. The others, well, one day... But before I visited Amoeba, there were seven items on the list. Since I was there, wandering amazed in a world of out of print goodness, I thought — I might as well look. Specifically, I thought I might as well look for the Harnoncourt recordings of the Hunt and Peasant Cantatas. I made my way to the Bach cantata section, which takes up about three vertical rows. Bracing myself for a long and fruitless search, I flipped the section header forward — and there it was. The first CD in the section. Sitting there waiting patiently for me for lord knows how long. Mine now. And as an added bonus, she's unexpectedly fabulous in it. So speaks bias, I know; but even by my skewed standards for her, she's exceptionally good — she really should have done a lot more Bach. And now all I need is the other Messiah (she did two), the other Pulcinella (again, two), Dewi Saint and the Inoue Mahler 4, and I'm complete. No hurry.
Completely off-topic — opera house aside, my favourite place in San Francisco was the Musée Mechanique. As far as non soprano-based enjoyment goes, you can't do much better than restored antique arcade games. I had my fortune told, watched The Opium Den and The French Execution in action, saw the Earthquake and Fire in Glorious 3D, was traumatised by Laffin' Sal and learned what, To Be Happy, Every Married Woman Must Not Avoid. Alcatraz was pretty excellent too.
