Prima la musica

Barbara

Last night, in the tiny and lovely Utzon Room, I heard Barbara Bonney sing songs by Schumann, Grieg and Richard Strauss. And these were, without exception, songs to which Barbara introduced me. My first encounter with every single one of them was in one of her recital discs. In most cases, too, it was Barbara who taught me to love them. Barbara's version which became my benchmark. Barbara's voice engraved in my brain. Barbara gave me these songs. In fact she gave me the gift of art song, full stop. She introduced me to the songs of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Robert and Clara Schumann, Richard Strauss, Grieg, Sibelius, Mozart, Purcell, Dowland and more. I'm not exaggerating. She's one of the foundations of my whole musical existence and I loved her even before I loved opera. 

So to sit in that space and hear her sing those songs to me — to hear that music sung live, by the very person who imprinted it upon me, by the voice to whom, for me, it will always belong — well, I don't know how to describe it. And to hear in the flesh, a voice which I have loved for so long on record — and to discover in it, not only all the familiar sounds, but more beauty, more to love — again, words fail. She was Barbara Plus. I sought in her performance everything I've loved for years, and found it; and then she offered me new riches besides.

I had been remarkably calm in the lead up to this recital. Even five minutes before it started, I was tremor free. It was not until the end of Marshall McGuire's introduction, when at last he said her name, that it hit me. Here she was. One of the people who started it all. A singer vital to the life I now find myself leading, and yet so fundamental to that existence that I know I am prone to take her for granted. When she walked into that room, though, I was overcome. With joy, with gratitude, with love, and with tears. 

Oh yes, I was a mess, from start to finish. It was extraordinary. I've never felt myself transported in that way by a singer before. I thanked my lucky stars that I was not there to review her, and could simply adore. That adoration encompasses her artistry, of course, not just my emotional attachment, but at the same time, the two are bound together. Her sublime mastery of this craft, her transcendence of technique and academic interpretation, her innate, unlearnable ability to find and convey the soul of a song, and her glorious, glorious voice — all of these things are what, at a time I couldn't have hoped to articulate them — drew me to her, and they're what have kept me there. She gave these songs a heart, and my heart responded.

Through recordings alone, Barbara has given me more than enough. I could have lived my whole life with only those, and been content. I could even live my whole whole life with just, say, her disc of Strauss songs, and be content. Instead, I was given this, a gorgeous culmination of all she's taught me and all the joy she's brought me. I'm still taking it all in. All that's left for me to say is what I stammered out to her afterwards. Thank you so much, Barbara. 

First and last

It's a curious sort of double life I lead. On the one hand, I live and breathe opera every day, and have done so for years; I listen to it, I watch it and, of course I write about it, and while doing so doesn't pay the bills, it nevertheless is, for lack of a better term, What I Do. But on the other hand, I'm only twenty-five and I've only lived in a city with an opera company for three years. So however deep my immersion, it's the plain and simple truth that a lot of things which happen to me, happen for the first time. And Peter Grimes has been richer in these Firsts than most.

We know I'm an obsessive sort of person and almost always inclined to see a show more than once if I can. I'll do that for all sorts of reasons. But I usually don't see every show in a season unless there's a particular — generally soprano-shaped — drawcard. In fact, there are only four productions about which I can absolutely truthfully say I saw every performance, and it will be no surprise to anybody that the cause in every case was either Yvonne Kenny or Cheryl Barker. I'm seeing every performance of Peter Grimes, however, and while the cast abounds with singers who would, on their own, be more than reason enough for my completist urge to kick in, it's nevertheless not about any one individual or any starry-eyed fixation. It is the show itself which keeps pulling me back, and above all, it is the opera itself — all this irresistible magnetism has its ultimate roots in the magic wrought by Britten. 

That magnetism must be powerful, too, because this is also the first season in which I've seen my own urge to return and return reflected in so many other people. People who sometimes think I'm a bit mad for going back are now doing it too. A few friends who almost never see anything twice, have come back, and among my fellow devotees, my 6/6 record is closer than usual to being equalled. In fact I expect it has been equalled, and so it should. And while there's a glow that hangs about from show to show, each time is somehow also the first time, as fresh and as revelatory as when we began. There's no going through the motions and no sense of getting through the less interesting bits, as I might have felt with other operas I attended multiple times. Each visit is its own experience. 

Peter Grimes has also given rise to a delightful subculture that I've always sort of wished for and never really seen. On Twitter, on Facebook, via email and in the comments of this blog, those of us knocked over by the show seem hungrier than usual to discuss it, to read and write about it, and, despite the piece's devastating nature, to joke about it. I've cried more than ever while watching it, but between acts and between performances, we've had a lot of fun. I've met old friends and made new ones during the intervals. I've traded lines from the libretto with fellow Grimes-nerds over the internet. The other night, a passing suggestion that we might all come to closing night in Borough-themed costume turned into a hilarious and increasingly surreal discussion of suitable outfits — from Ned Keene's jaunty vest, to William Spode's ghost, to my personal favourite: sea horses. 

Most striking of all has been the audience response. In my admittedly limited experience, I've never known anything like it, and I suspect the Opera Theatre hasn't felt this kind of outpouring for quite some time. Sydney audiences, who so rarely stand, have stood more than once for Peter Grimes. And they've done so immediately, rising at Stuart Skelton's first solo bow and staying on their feet throughout the entirety of the curtain call. Even before that, the applause which has filled the house just at the end of the first act has been consistently longer and louder than usual, and when conductor Mark Wigglesworth leads the orchestra's bow before Act Three, the ovation is quite extraordinary. In a sense, I think the applause has become for us a form of catharsis as much as a mark of approval. Even on opening night, when I suspect we were all too taken aback to stand, I have never seen so many arms raised so high to applaud — as if we wanted to just reach out and embrace the artists who had given us such a phenomenal experience. Nor have I myself ever clapped so loud and so long and on so many occasions. My shoulders ache. I can feel them right now.

Without hyperbole or wolfcrying, I can tell you this: I've never experienced anything like this Peter Grimes in my life; and while performances of a similar magnitude might flow a little thicker and faster in the years to come, I nevertheless cannot see anything ever effacing the particular and precious memory of this season. Certainly it has beaten everything else comparable in my life so far — and in fact, I think it did so before the Prologue had even finished on opening night. The moment I first saw Peter Carroll lead Stuart Skelton gently and silently downstage, I knew this was something different, and something which would stay with me for a long long time to come.

Amidst all these firsts, however, comes a cruel finality. The season was a short one and tonight sees the final performance of Peter Grimes. I've already heard talk of a revival: let us hope it is sooner rather than later. Too late now to tell you to see it; if you haven't done so, you probably either feel keenly what you've missed, or were never much bothered to begin. Those of us (and there are a lot of us) who have seen it or will do so surely can't help but feel how incredibly fortunate we've been to see this Grimes, and to see it at the start of its journey. Next comes Perth, then Houston, and after that, who knows? I hope Neil Armfield's show will see — and be seen by — the world. Both they and he — and Benjamin Britten — deserve nothing less. 

Il core vi dono

Reading so many times how sick we're all going to be of Mozart by the end of this year, I almost began to believe it myself. Then I watched my new Così fan tutte DVD five or six times within a week and realised just how difficult it actually is to get sick of Mozart.

For too long Così has languished, unjustly and inexplicably, as the Mozart/Da Ponte opera with which I was least familiar. Despite owning two recordings and two DVD versions I've somehow never got around to taking the time to listen to it at length and in depth, to let it get under my skin as Figaro and Don Giovanni have. In fact I probably knew Idomeneo, Die Zauberflöte and even Mitridate, re di Ponto better too. However at long last, courtesy of Christmas, I've immersed myself in Così fan tutte and it's like coming home. Much of it is familiar of course: it has produced its fair share of Soprano X: Mozart Arias hits, after all. And it isn't as if I'd never heard or seen it before. Back in the early days of my full-blown devotion to opera, when bought the DVD of her incredible Fiordiligi and for many months I was watching her "Come scoglio" on a daily basis; and "Per pietà" whenever I had the emotional fortitude. But I only made it through the thing in its entirety once. I mean it's four hours long for heaven's sake. Which these days isn't necessarily a problem for me, but it exhausted me so the first time, I was never quite inclined to go through it all again. Fine. But I am now. This latest Così is an hour shorter. It's not exactly a stunning production. The girls' costumes are criminally unflattering: they look - which isn't the case - as if they were made for substantially larger singers and not altered for the women actually wearing them. The sound quality isn't what you'd call marvelous either. The singing is uniformly good, in some cases great, in one case utterly superb.  That's not my point here, however - this isn't a DVD review (though I warn you, there will be one.) Rather, it's an expression of my newly revived and strengthened love of this opera with its embarrassment of musical riches; and of my undying love of Mozart. Where did he come from? He's impossible. Not simply the humble, potentially unworthy, autopen-wielding vessel of a gift from on high but at the same time, not just normal and human either, not just another of-this-earth composer. No. I'm reminded of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas: "only three times in my life I have met a genius and each time a bell within me rang". Listening to Mozart, in Così or anywhere else, I hear that bell.

Which is why I've been happy to watch this Così so many times in the last couple of weeks. I can't stand the plot. More precisely, I can't stand those two men. It's such a nasty situation that everybody ends up in. The bet is a hideous one to make, one which can only turn out badly. In a sense, Ferrando and Guglielmo put in me in mind of the Countess Almaviva, working hard for the success of a plot which they surely would rather failed. The Countess helps Susanna write the letter to the count, she wears the disguise, she does everything she can to ensure the Count's deception and humiliation are total, but she'd be far happier if it failed, if her husband didn't respond to the note, didn't want to meet Susanna. It's this which makes "Sull'aria" break my heart as it does: both Susanna and the Countess are singing "il capirà", and they're right: but the significance of that fact is very very different for each of them. Where am I going? Ferrando and Guglielmo. They throw themselves into seducing these women. They ought to want to fail, but neither ever puts a stop to it. That it's each other's girlfriends they're pursuing doesn't necessarily matter: they cherish a belief in female fidelity but cannot resist testing it, even when it's becoming clearer and clearer that they won't like the results of that test. The epilogue has it right: leave well enough alone. But saying so at this late point is useless, and no matter how cheerful and flippant the cast in this particular production might look while they join hands and sing it, it's still a pretty miserable kind of conclusion.

Ah, but I'm in love with Fiordiligi and with her music. The transformation from girlish mock-heroics in "Come scoglio" to painful genuine feelings in "Per pietà" - a transformation then repeated in miniature in "Fra gli amplessi" which begins in earnestness and ends in eroticism - is captivating dramatically, and musically even more so. However, I've always loved Fiordiligi - what's wonderful now is to experience and absorb the opera as a whole. To know it is to love it: and I do and I do and I do. I won't pretend to be better behaved or less of a philistine than I am: if My Diva were not this production's Fiordiligi then, no, I wouldn't have watched and re-watched it this way, and my full appreciation of the gorgeousness of Così would be still to come. But it would come. I mean, it's Mozart: it was always going to happen, one way or another. This just happened to be the way, and I'm terribly happy about it.

Ian Bostridge

Here's a thought I never thought I'd have: "I might need to buy his Henze song cycle CD." But Ian Bostridge is having that sort of effect on me. I bought his Die Schöne Müllerin some time ago, loved it then, but only listened a few times all the way through before returning to my cosy, packed-with-sopranos world. However the last time my mp3 player broke (it does that) and everything was wiped, I loaded some thing to it which I hadn't heard lately - Ian's Schöne Müllerin among them. Most of the time I keep the player on shuffle so I'd just been hearing single songs at random, and pretty rarely - there's a lot of other stuff on there for them to compete with. But on Wednesday I went shopping and I thought, to hell with it, I'll throw caution to the wind and listen to the whole thing, start to finish, as I roam the streets (looking for the perfect YK recital outfit, naturally).

Oh my. OH MY. I know I'd already declared my admiration of Ian Bostridge when MezzoGregory's interview meme required me to list the male voices I'd listen to if I could no longer hear the women. But even so I hadn't quite realised how much I adore this voice. I hope you know me well enough to realise I'm not damning with faint praise if I tell you I'm moved to declare Ian Bostridge an honorary soprano. It is, after all, only female voices which have had this sort of stopping-in-my-tracks (not a great move in the middle of town) effect on me, but here Ian is and I love him. I can't make any critical judgements about his Schöne Müllerin for the simple (shameful) reason that this the first time I've ever heard this song cycle. For all I know he may be taking terrible liberties - though I doubt it. The liner notes, which he wrote, make fascinating reading. Fiercely intelligent, this man. But his singing isn't over-analytical or pedantic, it's smooth and musical and simply beautiful. Fabulous diction and such variety and colour. I like Schubert, but I tend not to get particularly excited about him - unless a singer leaves me no choice. Ian is such a singer, and makes me keen as well to hear other versions of the song cycle (like Brigitte Fassbaender's!! be still my beating heart...). Even more though, he makes me keen to hear more of him.

Which is why I may just have to return to Real Groovy sometime soon and buy his CD of Henze songs. And I have to remind myself that he's the hero of the L'Orfeo I own, if not the star (that, surely, is Emmanuelle Haïm, no?).

Tales from the Song Quest

Where oh where do I even start to begin? I have ten thousand things to say, and all of them want said immediately, but clearly that's impossible: so we'll just proceed at a leisurely, chronological pace, shall we?

Act One

Queen St.

There were no performances to attend on Wednesday, my first full day in Auckland, so I spent it shopping. Yes, that kind of shopping. I started at one end of Queen St., with Real Groovy, faced the Borders monster at lunchtime, and spent a leisurely mid-afternoon at the beautiful Marbecks classical store. I bought fourteen CDs in about four hours. Apparently that's quite a lot. (I suppose it is. I bought twenty one in three weeks in Melbourne. But never mind.) Anyway, I've got fourteen lovely new children now. An Yvonne compilation, her English songs, her Christmas CD, Kalman's Csardasfürstin and Lennox Berkeley's A Dinner Engagement, in both of which she stars; the incomparable Véronique Gens' Berlioz CD; Isabel Bayrakdarian's CD of Pauline Viardot-Garcia songs (somebody picked up my telepathic vibes!); Renata, Birgit, Franco Jussi & co in Turandot; Debbie Voigt's Obsessions ($12 thankyou very much!); Cecilia's Armida under lovely Nikolaus Harnoncourt; Arcadian Duets (you were right about the cadenza Gregory!); Elisabeth Schwarzkopf having her way with Mozart Lieder; Lorraine Hunt Lieberson's Bach Cantatas; and Les fantaisies de Patricia Petibon which you- yes all of you- need to own.

I could pay quite lengthy tribute here to the classical CD stores/sections of Auckland (particularly the wonderful man who served me at Marbecks, who I had fabulous discussions with about all my purchases) but I know that 99.9% of you couldn't care less, so let's move on...

Muoia!

I think it's very likely that there's a Puccini devotee lurking within me, waiting for a chance to reveal itself. So far, I've heard surprisingly little Puccini in my life, outside of the standard arias that appear on everyone's solo discs. I have yet to see or hear a complete Bohème or Tosca. (Did I really just admit that?). Same goes for Rondine and Fanciulla too. I've seen Madama Butterfly but I don't own a recording of it. But this isn't like my (steadily disappearing) fear of Wagner; I listen to Puccini willingly, and always like it a lot. It's just that, with so much of my time spent in the eighteenth century, I've never yet quite managed to do the Puccini thing properly. But, as I say, I've a feeling that when I do, I'll be won forever. After all, the CD which heralded the beginning of my true immersion in opera was none other than Puccini Gala: Famous Arias. I'd always enjoyed whatever opera was thrown at me (and there was a lot of it) but not until I started listening constantly to this CD did I start to feel the urge to explore the world of opera on my own: and, as you can see, I've never looked back. So there's obviously some power which that music has held over me since the start. What's more, the very first aria I ever obsessed over was 'Signore, ascolta' from Turandot. For a while, with no idea of who Liu was or what she was singing, I was listening two or three times a night to Ruth Ann singing 'Signore, ascolta'. And Anna Leese's performance in the Mobil Song Quest final had me fascinated by 'Chi il bel sogno di Doretta' as well (I've still never heard anyone sing the words 'Folle amore' more beautifully than Anna did.)

And there's something else besides. Turandot. The only Puccini opera I own, the only one I've listened to repeatedly. And I love it like you wouldn't believe. I didn't expect to, necessarily: I bought it because it was secondhand and had Elisabeth Schwarzkopf in it. But that music! With no effort on my part, that music invaded my brain, and it's stayed there ever since. I didn't even notice, until I was in Melbourne and saw it there. I was a million miles from the stage, the Turandot, Maria Dragoni, was having serious vocal problems, the stage was far too busy and the orchestra was a little on the erratic side. But I was hanging on every note. It's the sort of opera I would love even in an orchestra-only arrangement; the thrills and the goosebumps I get come more from the notes written than anything else. The xylophone at the very beginning; the opening bars of 'Tu che di gel sei cinta'; the words 'mio piccolo Liu'; even the tune of 'Nessun dorma', which by rights I should be sick to death of - in every case, no matter who's playing or singing the notes, and no matter how well or how badly they're doing it, I think about the existence of that music, those notes, sitting there on the pages of the score and I adore it.

Certainly Puccini was good at tearjerkers and listenable stand-alone arias; there's noone better if you want something for your Opera in the Park concert. But, even though it gave the world 'Nessun dorma', Turandot is something much more complex and fascinating than a few hits and lots of exciting choruses. What I love about it is the sense of unity. We move from Calaf's mad passion, to Liu's desperate pleas, to Turandot's icy murderousness, and everything else that comes in between, but even the sharpest contrasts are linked beautifully. There's echo after echo, themes which appear and reappear, while the story and its characters continue to develop. Take the riddle scene, for instance: the things we heard at the very beginning, as the Prince of Persia was lead to his execution, are back; but now with the addition of Calaf, everything is changing, and so we get new sounds as well. Arias have been successfully extracted for the Greatest Hits CDs, but when you hear the opera complete, you realise how few pauses there are in it: neither 'Signore, ascolta' nor 'Nessun dorma' allows an audience much chance to applaud, and 'In questa reggia', a serious star turn, still only reaches its climax after becoming a duet. Puccini creates a whole musical world (or a city at least), which he never lets disappear. And whether it's really there or just a psychological thing, I do think I can hear all this slip away a little at the point where our maestro lays down his pen and Franco Alfano picks it up again. Perhaps it's because I don't want it to be, but I can't help but feel that in that final scene, a little of the magic has disappeared. Of course, the plot at this point doesn't help: I think this opera has one of the worst endings ever. Calaf really does not deserve to get the girl; and I think Turandot's sudden transformation is utterly unconvincing. Actually I don't much like any of the plot, but does that matter? Not one little bit.

There is actually a reason for this sudden outpouring, in case you were wondering: yesterday's Met broadcast on Concert FM was the Turandot from January 29th. For the first time, I managed to get myself organised and do what I've been wanting to do since the broadcasts started: follow the vocal score. In fact, I even went a step further, and spent my Saturday evening playing it through on the piano (not that anyone would have recognised my hideous bangs and twangs as Turandot, but I enjoyed myself.) Which is no doubt why my mind is principally tied up with the music, rather than the singers. They were, however, very good indeed.

Andrea Gruber is rather frightening. I can't imagine what she must be like in the flesh. That's one seriously powerful instrument she's got there. Not one which particularly appeals to me, but it was an excellent performance nevertheless. And although she wasn't a very icy Ice Princess, the passion of her hatred made the transition into passionate love a little more credible. Johan Botha's Calaf was a little too shouty for me, but otherwise didn't present any problems. Krassimira Stoyanova was an excellent Liu, a little more full-bodied and willful than I've been used to, but it worked well and she sounded wonderful. And Ping, Pong and Pang (I haven't the energy to check who sang them) were quite lovely and lyrical; their first appearance is (yet) another musical moment in this opera that I love to pieces.

So obviously I need to delve further into Puccini than I have. There's every chance I'll fall for the rest of his operas the way I have for this one. Here's hoping!

I'll finish now, but before I go, let me direct you to a couple of my favourite Turandot pictures (both chosen from Sandy Steiglitz's incredible opera gallery). Birgit Nilsson as the most nightmarish Turandot imaginable - have a look at those claws! And my darling Anna Moffo. I can't imagine how any prince could fail to listen to this Liu when she asked him to...

Warning: decadently long post

It's January the 1st 2005. 2004 is over. Time to look back. So.

This year I:

Tried and succeeded and tried and failed to love Renée Fleming the way her followers do. Bel Canto, Mozart Arias, Handel Arias. Sometimes I thought I'd made it. Then I knew I hadn't The Porgy and Bess duet at the Classical Brit Awards has given me a taste of what it's like: her voice is beautiful I want to throw myself off a balcony. I adore Renée as a person beyond belief and would fight wars (or listen to Amici Forever) to touch the hem of her skirt. As a singer, well, I live in hope.

Ranted about subjectivity in diva worship and about the evils of crossover.

Discovered myself- much to my alarm- slipping further and further away from liking Sylvia McNair. I used to! And I want to! Help.

Went to New York, didn't see Ruth Ann Swenson, but did shake the hand of and compliment rising star Karen Frankenstein at Caffè Taci.

Spent 11 months wanting a Patricia Petibon CD desperately, bought two and found that they actually exceeded my expectations.

Learned that both Kathleen Battle and Elisabeth Schwarzkopf have whole armies of vehement detractors; and despite (or perhaps because of) this I loved them just as much if not more.

Continued to adore: Cecilia Bartoli, Barbara Bonney, Kathleen Battle, Ruth Ann Swenson, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Lucia Popp, Jennifer Larmore, Ewa Podles, Karita Mattila and a legion of others.

And fell desperately in love with: Anna Moffo, Natalie Dessay, Patricia Wright and Yvonne Kenny.

But enough about me. I have awards to announce. Not prestigious and sophisticated like the Classical Brit Awards, admittedly, but here goes nevertheless. I haven't attempted to restrict myself to things released in 2004- I did after all have eighteen years of not-quite-fanaticism to make up for- but where possible I have tried to stick to things which I only really discovered in the past year. Right. Here we go.

The best ... of 2004:

Soprano:

Runners up:

Natalie Dessay. When I borrowed Natalie's French Arias just for the hell of it, I'd no idea what I was in for. Instant adoration. She becomes ever more important in my CD collection and life(which are really the same thing I suppose.)

Yvonne Kenny. A relatively new obsession to make it into this shortlist but while the first flush of new love will no doubt calm down in a while, experience (and a heartbreakingly gorgeous voice) allow me to say with certainty that she's established herself permanently in my heart.

And the winner is...

Anna Moffo. What can I say that I haven't already. Near the start of February, in the middle of writing a subdued, objective sort of post about Anna, I thought I'd have a listen to some samples on Amazon. Fledermaus in English. Two seconds later it was instant, head-over-heels, lightning bolt, love at first sight such as I've never experienced before or since. Less than a year later I simply cannot imagine my life without Anna.

Mezzo soprano:

Runner up:

Cecilia Bartoli.

And the winner is...

Magdalena Kozena. Cecilia is and always will be my absolute number one girl. Giuro. But I could not give this to anybody but Magdalena. In the space of this year she's gone in my eyes from irritating Cecilia-rival to something of an addiction. She's also become ever more important and famous and won about a trillion awards (not to mention the heart of Maestro Rattle). I truly believe she's one of the most talented people in opera right now. Her voice to me is perfection, to which she adds fabulous interpretative skills and an obvious love of what she does. May her star continue to rise and rise.

Male opera singer:

(Oh, come on, you don't think I know enough to split this one up.)

No runners up. It's Jonathan Lemalu. Absolute star and, it seems, very nice person, who deserves every bit of the success currently being showered upon him.

Live opera:

Runners up:

Xerxes. Handel. New York City Opera. This is still the highest level I've seen opera produced at, and it was sheer bliss. Loved every moment.

The Merry Widow. Lehar. Opera Australia. This gets in entirely on the strength of Yvonne Kenny who gave the best single live operatic performance I've ever seen.

And the winner is...

The God Boy. Anthony Ritchie. Opera Otago. I mean it. This was absolutely the best opera I saw this year. Even after four in Australia and one in New York, this was it: unbelievable music, fabulous singers, brilliant production. Spellbinding.

Recorded opera:

Runners up:

Le nozze di Figaro. Giulini; Taddei, Schwarzkopf, Wächter, Moffo, Cossotto. Beautifully sung, beautifully acted, and featuring two of my best girls singing 'Sull'aria' together.

Die Fledermaus. Karajan. Schwarzkopf, Loose, Gedda et al. With another six or seven to choose from, this one after just one hearing became quite possiblymy favourite version. Elisabeth is at least as perfect a Rosalinde as she was a Marschallin, and Emmy Loose is adorable.

And the winner is...

La traviata. Karajan. Moffo and a clutch of Italians. A live recording from La Scala, complete with coughing audience members and thuds from the stage. Close your eyes and you're almost there: and Anna is simply la Violetta assoluta. No arguments, I don't care. She's sublime. If I could take just one complete opera to that famous BBC-run desert island, I'd take this Traviata.

DVD/video:

Runners up:

Nina, o sia la pazza per amore. Paisiello. An absolute tour de force from mia cara Cecilia. She's unbelievable. Watch it to see (partly) why I've sworn eternal and unconditional devotion to this woman.

The Fairy Queen. Purcell. Will you believe me if I say this isn't just nominated because it stars Yvonne Kenny, my current obsession? Probably not. Nonetheless it's the truth. Once you abandon yourself to its total lack of plot, sense and logic (they've played with things so much that it has even less of these things than the original), this is just brilliant. Favourite non-Yvonne moments? The fabulous pink-and-yellow party planner in the 'Divertissement'; the dance performed by Henry and Jane; and above all the duet which begins 'Now the maids and the men'. This was written for mezzo and tenor- Coridon and Mopsa. Here it's performed by 'Dick' (Michael Chance) and The Drunken Poet (Jonathan Best). You know all my countertenor difficulties? Well they evaporate with Michael Chance in this duet. I love him as much as I do some sopranos. He's so good it's hard to imagine it being sung anyway- and the relationship played out between him and poet is absolutely gorgeous and very funny. From 'I'll not kiss til I kiss you for good and all' in this scene to a wedding at the end. They're a very sweet couple. So anyway, a million years later: this might just be on the list even sans Yvonne.

And the winner is...

La Serva Padrona. Pergolesi. Want to see an hour of utter perfection? Anna Moffo and Paolo Montarsolo are it. Vocally, Anna's at her absolute peak. She's a fabulous comedienne. And she also happens to be war-startingly gorgeous. Somehow, Montarsolo is actually more or less a match for her (apart from the gorgeous bit) and as I think I said at the time: had I the power, I'd declare this required viewing for...oh, everyone.

Special mention:
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf: Self Portrait. I didn't think this ought to compete with the operas above, but it deserves some credit. One of the most wonderful documentaries I've seen (on any subject). Her critics and detractors are rather numerous, but whatever you think of her, she's an intelligent and interesting woman and this is worth watching. And once that's done, do as I do: skip to 'Porgi, amor', 'Schöne Liedler' and 'Vergebliches Ständchen'. The Marlene Dietrich of opera and lieder.

Recital disc:
(No, really, I'm not a Francophile, it just worked out this way)

Runners up:

Natalie Dessay: French Opera Arias. See above. Heaven.

Magdalena Kozena: Anything. I don't know. I can't remember what I got this year and what I already had. I think the French Arias and the Songs were new this year. There isn't a single moment of Magdalena that I own and don't adore.

Patricia Petibon: French Baroque Arias. Talk about the perfect marriage of artist and music- it's as if Rameau himself sent her to us from the 18th century. Except she's got that added twist of her own peculiar style which means that while this CD is at one level a very very historically informed, 'authentic', recording, it's also unusual and different and in my opinion absolutely wonderful. And the only reason it hasn't won this section is because...

The winner is...

Patricia Petibon: French Touch. I've given up finding words for this girl. She's very odd and perhaps a little bit bonkers. It's a very unusual CD which I know won't be to everybody's taste but I think it's brilliant. Total commitment to the material somehow balanced perfectly with a unique, modern perspective which makes the most familiar arias sound new again, and makes what you've never heard before fascinating. And even leaving all this aside, I'm absolutely in love with this woman's voice: silver and shimmery with just enough warmth and humour- and with the sort of high notes which allow her casually to throw off a bit of the Königin der Nacht in the middle of Olympia's aria from Hoffmann. I'm not kidding.

So there it ends. Well, actually, no. Just when you thought I was forgetting (or being mean), here it is: the local section. My awards to Dunedin singers. No statuettes, I'm afraid- just the warm fuzziness of my good opinion. Enjoy..

My Dunedin favourites of 2004:

Soprano:
(I've taken Anna Leese out of consideration for this. I mean, honestly, it wouldn't be fair, would it.)

Runners up:

Nicole Evans. No, I'm not just flattering one of this blog's most frequent (and entertaining) commenters. The comments made me determined to hear Nicole sing so I went to the exam recital and wow. Very impressed. And just quietly, rather excited. Looking forward to hearing more from you next- or rather this- year, Nicole.

Penelope Muir. Penelope has gone from strength to strength and become one of my absolute favourites. And her performance as Molly Sullivan was just beautiful. I think this girl can have pretty much any sort of future she desires.

Danielle White. Another exam recital triumph: less of the exam and more of the recital- I wanted encores. Dear me what a beautiful voice.

And the winner is...

Alethea Chittenden. Yes, it's true, I've only seen Alethea sing twice this year- Elijah and a Bach cantata. But quality not quantity is important and the fact remains that I've heard nobody in Dunedin, barring Anna, sing more beautifully this year. If I have to keep attending church services in order to hear her sing, then I will: and if that's not the mark of a true fan, then what is?

Mezzo soprano / alto:
(Has the title given the game away?)

Runners up:

Claire Barton. Oh look I think you're just wonderful, Claire. So there. The Messiah highlights were particularly good.

Brigitte Heuser. Attention world: remember this name. Wow. Took me totally by surprise at the vocal competitions by being all of a suddent out-of-this world amazing. I have the highest of hopes.

And the winner is...

Erin Pickering. The most gorgeous, warm, contralto voice I've ever had the privilege of hearing. Communicative ability second to none. A 'Blow The Wind Southerly' which had me in tears. This talent which seems to grow every second. And the unnerving and wonderful gift of occasionally channeling the spirit of Kathleen Ferrier.

Tenor:

Runner up:

Nicholas Madden. It's hard to judge somebody based on a handful of choir solos. Nevertheless Nick Madden is unbelievable. Oh for a solo recital.

And the winner is...

Stephen Chambers. Actually he only wins because I know he'll leave a hurt-sounding comment otherwise. I am kidding. It's probably true, but I'm still not serious. This is, after all, the tenor who so totally enchanted the illustrious judge of the vocal competitions that she seemed to develop soprano-blindness. And why not? Highlights for me this year from Stephen: 'Ouvre ton coeur' and 'Una furtiva lagrima'. Keep up the good work.

Baritone:

Runner up:

Matthew Landreth. As Patricia Wright said at the ODT Aria competition, he should be on stage right now. Quite right. 'Non piu andrai' and 'Vi ravviso' at the Aria finals were both gorgeous; his solos in Fauré's Requiem were just melting.

And the winner is...

Robert Tucker. One of my absolute favourites! At the one point this year it felt as if every time he opened his mouth to sing somewhere, I was there: Marama Hall, First Church, the Town Hall, St Paul's, the Mayfair and so on. And it was wonderful. English songs, comic or serious opera, lieder, anything: I'm truly a fan. Particularly the comedy. And then of course there's the role he created: Jimmy Sullivan in The God Boy. Just wonderful. What a star.

Live performance:

Runners up:

Anna Leese's Marama Hall recital. Mozart arias, songs by Strauss and Poulenc to a packed house in Marama Hall. We might never get the same opportunity again: Anna is going to be very important very soon. She is already: signed to Askonas Holt, about to record her first CD, singing Fiordiligi (!) in the Benjamin Britten opera school's end of year production. But even leaving aside that sort of significance, this was in itself an utterly fabulous recital by a girl with an amazing voice.

Jonathan Lemalu with the NZSO. How excited can I get about a bass baritone? Very if it's this one.

And the winner is...

The God Boy. Anthony Ritchie is a star. This opera is magnificent.

Now I know you're all disgusted already by the excessive length of this post but I'm afraid I haven't finished yet. Because since I'm looking back and taking stock of the year and so on, I'm going to frighten you all and become semi serious for a moment with a few thankyous.

Firstly thankyou to my wonderful cousin Joanna in Melbourne who singlehandedly tripled the number of live operas I've attended in my life. There's spoilt rotten, and then there's this unbelievably generous present on a whole different level. Thankyou.

Secondly, to the singers of Dunedin. If anything compensates for the cruel twist of fate which caused me to be born in a city without an opera house, it's you. The things I get to see and hear are amazing and it's no wonder that people from elsewhere are envying Dunedin more and more in terms of singing. It's true that, being so musically inept, I'm impressed by anyone who can even vaguely carry a tune: but my opinion of you all goes far beyond that. You're wonderful and to a great extent you're my lifeblood.

And most of all: thankyou to Patrick in Seattle. Nobody else might realise it, but Patrick is basically single-handedly responsible for the continued existence of this blog. Back in April, I had an inferiority crisis and decided the blog was basically a big boring lump of egotism. I posted a rather pathetic and desperate plea for a response from anyone who was actually reading it- I assumed that nobody was and was all set to give up. A few weeks later, with no expectations, I went to see if there were any comments. There was one, from Patrick, which said all sorts of very nice and reassuring things and caused me to resume writing. If he hadn't commented this blog wouldn't be here now, and for that I'm truly grateful: I love writing this blog, I'm sure, more than anybody enjoys reading it. So Patrick: grazie mille.

And with that, I shall wish you all a happy new year, and say good night.