Prima la musica, poi le parole

Tales of the City III

Das Rheingold

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!

Tales of the City II

Ariodante

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.

Tales of the City I

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

That should 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.

So much to tell you

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.