Gertsamtkunstwerk

Sommer Nachtsmusik

I watched the DVD of Friday night's concert on Saturday night and again today (while doing the ironing, I don't spend my entire Monday lazing around doing nothing!)

It was enjoyable and I am sure if I had been there I would have loved it. But I think I was right in judging it wasn't worth the bother of travelling, particularly as I assume hotel rooms would have been scarce and at inflated prices in anticipation of Germany v Spain last night (the best team won).

There were no lowlights in the entire concert, although in respect of the solo numbers by Rolando and Anna, I either didn't know them at all or barely know them. I didn't think the Wien, du Stadt meiner Träume worked very well (but that didn't stop the beeb showing a short excerpt at the beginning of Match of the Day, along with Amor, vida de me vida, the closest this concert got to being on British TV). I think in general, quite a few of the duos or trios gave the impression of being under-rehearsed!

I suppose the highlights included Winterstürme, of course. Interestingly, I have heard/seen Plácido sing this live three times this season, in the context of the opera; watching it, in concert on the TV, I was struck by how middle-aged he seems, compared to on stage when he seems like a young man barely out of adolescence.

I am torn as to which is my absolute highlight. It's a toss-up between:

E lui! Desso!...Dio, che nell'alma infondere, the baritone-tenor duet from Don Carlo;

or

Perhaps Love

Of course, YouTube is a pretty crappy way of hearing music.

I haven't found any substantive reviews on the 'net, but there again, I haven't been looking too hard - the weather's been too nice.

Update: Carlos has the entire concert (I think) pieced together from YouTube. Now that's what I call devotion :-)

At last - a Hunkentenors Blog

Obviously, Barihunks has been in my Bloglines for quite a time, but I never quite found it entirely satisfactory. Finally, the inevitable has happened, thankfully, and now there is Hunkentenor - The Sexiest Tenore Hunks from Opera. Naturally this site has been bloglined, but obviously it needs time to grow and flourish. They don't seem to have contact details so far but I would imagine they wouldn't object to suggestions of hunkentenors in their comments box!

Don Carlo Stage Door

It was raining when we exited the opera house, and I had rather assumed that Jimmy would want to be getting home, but he was quite happy to go and sit in the pub whilst I played the role of Groupie at the Stage Door.  I managed to get inside the Stage Door Entrance, but unfortunately, in the place where the opening door must go in order to be open. At one stage I did find myself being constantly shoved by one rather rude woman who didn't seem to understand that my glaring at her was nothing personal, just that I rather resented her physically shoving me about. And after she had pinned me back against the glass panel so I couldn't get anywhere near Rolando Villazón, she turned to me and condescendingly informed me that she was going, now. 

I don't normally criticise other people (rivals...sss) that I encounter at the Stage Door. There are times when I think things but that's no justification for writing it on the internet. In any given situation people behave in ways that I think 'I wouldn't do that' but that doesn't make it wrong, nor right for me to comment. And I don't think that my own behaviour is beyond reproach.

I think everybody has stories of people who have so many things to sign that they seem to monopolising the stars. Sometimes rumours abound that people are getting stars to sign so many things just so that they can then sell them on ebay or whatever. I think it's an imposition and an impertinence. Last night there was young man who had a whole load of photos for Rolando to sign. Rolando was there,signing away and signing away, and lightly and not nastily, he said "Are there many more?" Now, if a star had addressed me like that I would have been - probably embarrassed that it had ever got that far; certainly quick to realise that I was imposing. But this guy just said "Oh not many more," and fanned out a pile of photographs like a pack of cards. Again  pleasantly Rolando mentioned that he would be doing a signing at the ROH shop on Sunday, when there would be more time...That will  be at about 7.30 pm, by the way. AndI still don't think this guy got the hint.

Anyway, there was nearly a full round up of stars emerging through the Stage Door. I didn't get photos of all of them; sometimes I just like to chat a bit,and if they're clearly in a hurry or whatever, I just think, don't detain them any longer. First to emerge was Robert Lloyd, I didn't get a picture of him, because he seemed to be in a hurry, and we had already had a chat.

Then Ferruccio Furlanetto, and I got a picture of him.

Next was Simon Keenlyside who I have actually never met before. He got to the outside door and exclaimed "It's raining! Thank god!" I said something like "You won't have to water the garden", at which he smiled and said "It's too hot!" It did occur to me afterwards, that he's got not so much a garden as a farm, so I doubt he gets on his motorbike down the M4 after a long night singing Posa and then gets out his watering can. I asked him for a photo, and he was all modest and "Oh no not me," but he posed nevertheless. He seemed very nice, and added bonus was that quite a few of his fans left after that, meaning that there were fewer people crowding into the tiny space out of the rain!

Next was Sonia Ganassi, who seems to be a friendly person. I took a picture of her but it didn't come out very well.

Then was Rolando, who took a long time to get where I was. Finally when I spoke to him, I said that I thought he was fabulous, really amazing,I really liked it. He said he hoped he was getting over his allergy. (I should have said, if that was merely 'getitng over' I would love to hear you when fully allergy-free).  Instead I said something about looking forward to the DVD; he said it would be the performance on the 3rd. Then I noticed that he had his suitcase with him, so I said "Good luck for Vienna tomorrow night. Enjoy Vienna" (I can't do all that 'toi toi toi'  and 'in boco del lupo' stuff). He said he was flying that night. And I took his photo. I can't think of many opera stars who would pose quite like this...he is the one and only!

Next out was Tony Pappano. I managed to say something like "Thank you for tonight, and for the whole season." 

I then realised that it was gone to five to eleven, so if I hurried, I could get in the pub just before last orders (isn't it amazing that all over the country pubs in fringe residential areas stay open until 1 am or whatever, but Westminster City council in their infinite wisdom have decreed that pubs in Central London, Theatreland and so on, should close strictly at 11pm, just as  in the days when the ammunition workers had to be sober because the First World War was going on.)

Don Carlo revisited

I returned last night to Covent Garden to see Don Carlo again. Last time, I was well back in the Amphitheatre, this time I was in a Balcony Box on the Left, on an imaginary line that runs behind the conductor.

In almost all respects, it was a much better performance than two weeks ago, for a variety of reasons. In one significant respect it wasn't. Unfortunately, Marina Poplavskaya had called in sick, and was replaced by Victoria Nava. Victoria was nothing special, and although she got through the role adequately, albeit at times with evidence of strain and tiring, and I wouldn't especially avoid her in the future, there was nothing about her voice or dramatic interpretation that grabbed me.

I had been disappointed with Rolando Villazón a couple of weeks ago. I am such an admirer of him as a singer, and I like him a lot as a person, and he was warm and friendly in his greeting. If last time had been my first time hearing him, I would have thought 'what's all the fuss about'. Last night he was stupendous. As soon as he started with 'O Fontainebleu', I just knew he was on fire, and he just got better and better. I could pinpoint a couple of notes that was less than ideal, but you know, a couple of notes in a major part in a long opera, I only mention it to highlight how gorgeous I found his performance. So many times I was 'oh, that's beautiful'!

Although it's called Don Carlo and I'm a tenor nut, one of the great things about this opera is that it has great writing for many voice types. A major major highlight was the confrontation between Philip II and The Grand Inquisitor, Ferruccio Furlanetto and Eric Halfvarson - two basses! Not just vocally - although I found that I 'got' other people's fascination with basses* - but also dramatically, historically, politically, the confrontation between Church and State.

Tangentially, I have been reading a few Philippa Gregory books recently (which are inspiring me to read further about the Tudor era) and It was interesting reflecting on the parallels at a very similar period of history (Philip II had recently been widowed by Mary Tudor).

Indeed, I found Ferruccio Furlanetto to be splendid throughout, as I had found previously, and I also very much liked his Fiesco earlier this spring, and a couple of years back, in  a rather forgettable Forza he had been superb as Padre Guardiano, so it's probably fair to say he's my favourite Verdian bass. I enjoyed Eric Halfvarson as The Grand Inquisitor and Robert Lloyd as the Monk.

I have nothing but praise for Simon Keenlyside as Posa. A dignified and restrained interpretation and vocally gorgeous. I was reduced to tears early in the scene where he visits Carlo in prison, a nervous wreck, his 'Per me giunto è il di supreme...Ah! io morro, ma lieto in core', sounded even more thrilling than on his album Tales of Opera.  Even though I was expecting the gun shot that killed him, I was shaken and bowled over.  And a major highlight was the scene in the crypt at San Giusto, with that amazing duet Dio, che nell'alma infondere, sung brilliantly by both Eyebrows and Shirtless, who were so convincing in their portrayal of blood brothers.

I was more convinced than before by Sonia Ganassi's performance, certainly vocally, although I still didn't warm to her dramatics. And again I was impressed by the strength in depth, especially Pumeza Matshikiza as Tebaldo and Anita Watson, the Voice from heaven (or actually, the Dome of the Opera House)

I thoroughly enjoyed the orchestral performance, and particularly, the orchestral writing. There's some idiot who writes on opera newsgroups and claims fraudulently to be an orchestral musician, who says that Verdi never wrote properly for the orchestra. The man is either an idiot or has never actually heard Don Carlo (or many others of his great operas). Again and again throughout, I was struck by magical passages. Too many to mention them all, but I particularly adored the cellos accompanying and enhancing Ella giammai m'amo, the naive writing for the brass during the auto da fé, and the frequent use of leitmotifs, especially whenever The Grand Inquisitor was mentioned.

I still don't like the production,although I was satisfied that from my seat nearer the front that it did serve the opera reasonably well. Just a shame that that didn't come over to my not-very-cheap-seat halfway back in the Amphi last time. I think it will look good on Big Screen next week (only Trafalgar Square, Canary Wharf and Liverpool ) and subsequently on DVD (which Marina Poplavskaya referred to on mmofm, and Rolando also mentioned last night). For all the attempts of slick scenery, lean acting and so on, the scene that still worked best for me was the splendidly over-the-top auto da fe. Must mention the always excellent chorus in this scene, in particular.

I attended with Jimmy. At the first interval he said he felt it was dragging, going nowhere, but subsequently he bucked up and really enjoyed it. Perhaps he didn't fully realise at the time, the long drawn out first two acts, taking an hour and a half without interval, are needed in order to build up the story for the various dramatic denouements that occur later on.

Also there were Miriam, Tony and Raff whom I know from various yahoo groups, and Janet from simonkeenlyside.info (which contains lots of info about this production - and much more!).

Don Carlo has to rate as one of my favourite operas. I don't wish to waste time rating very different operas into some league table of spurious precision, but I don't like it any less than Ballo or Rigoletto, and objectively it surpasses Otello in some respects (but subjectively, Otello is my favourite Verdi!). It is a profound story. Essentially a story of the loves and lives of individuals, a Big Theme in itself, and one played out against the Political tensions of the historical time (although this isn't a reliable source for the actual history). A couple of years ago I made a point of studying it in some detail - repeated listenings and watchings, and some reading round the subject. The insights I gained are not particularly reflected in the blogpost I wrote (which was never intended to be an essay!) but I would definitely say that the time and effort I afforded have paid dividends over and again. And CD set remains one of the highlights and treasures of my entire collection.

* I generally find it difficult to differentiate low notes as sung by basses, although, intriguingly perhaps, I often find the basses to be the most goose-pimple  part of choral singing.

Holiday planning

This is the time of year one's thoughts turn to holidays.

I have grown to accept that I will never get my cycling holiday round Norfolk. Nor my tour on a narrow boat along the canals of England.

Instead, we want sunshine.

We want somewhere maybe 2 or 3 hours, and certainly no more than 5 hours from London. Somewhere it is possible to swim in the sea in late September or even October.

A resort which is geared up for the mature but lively. Lots of good restaurants with lots of variety. Opportunities for excursions, maybe by boat. Bars that stay open late (absolutely not looking for English bars, nor karoake places, nor Thudthud discos). Somewhere it isn't necessary to hire a car.

Perhaps a hotel, or a self-catering complex, which doesn't insist on noise pollution (thudthud music) from dawn to bedtime. Ideally, somewhere that is unsuitable for children, or maybe even adults' only (but not a Swingers' Resort!). Preferably within walking distance of a beach, and with alternative beaches available, off the beaten track.

Somewhere, in the EU, where cigarettes are 3Euro or less a packet.

Any thoughts, from you my dear readers?

Holiday planning

This is the time of year one's thoughts turn to holidays.

I have grown to accept that I will never get my cycling holiday round Norfolk. Nor my tour on a narrow boat along the canals of England.

Instead, we want sunshine.

We want somewhere maybe 2 or 3 hours, and certainly no more than 5 hours from London. Somewhere it is possible to swim in the sea in late September or even October.

A resort which is geared up for the mature but lively. Lots of good restaurants with lots of variety. Opportunities for excursions, maybe by boat. Bars that stay open late (absolutely not looking for English bars, nor karoake places, nor Thudthud discos). Somewhere it isn't necessary to hire a car.

Perhaps a hotel, or a self-catering complex, which doesn't insist on noise pollution (thudthud music) from dawn to bedtime. Ideally, somewhere that is unsuitable for children, or maybe even adults' only (but not a Swingers' Resort!). Preferably within walking distance of a beach, and with alternative beaches available, off the beaten track.

Somewhere, in the EU, where cigarettes are 3Euro or less a packet.

Any thoughts, from you my dear readers?

Behind the Scenes at the Met

At The Met: Stars Deal With Chaos Behind The Curtains - includes downloadable video.

"I can't believe you've caught me in my underwear," said tenor Placido Domingo, as he gets ready for a dress rehearsal in wardrobe.

Calm down, girls - this isn't quite what it seems :-(

I can't help thinking, though, that the woman doing the report has somewhat the wrong job for her grating voice (she'd be better as a Trappist nun print journalist...)

Jimmy's brother on t'internet...and telly!

On Sky News, and their website - he's the greengrocer. That's our road, that is. "And her in the Deli" added Jimmy!

Thanks to my sister for ringing up and pointing this out. And to think Jimmy was only over there at about 5pm, getting organic lettuce and organic cherry tomatoes for dinner!

The excitement!

Time for a rant

BBC NEWS | Education | Experts to champion better maths

I noticed this story earlier in the day but didn't pay it much attention.

I'm now sitting here at half seven, with the TV on in the background. BBC News 24. They just had a feature on this, with an interview with some or other expert. The expert made the point that many Primary School teachers are not comfortable with Maths. I resisted the temptation to think "A Primary School teacher who is uncomfortable with Primary School Maths is perhaps in the wrong job", because, what do I know?*

Then the coke-addled halfwit so-called 'journalist' on the BBC put a question to the expert. It started off half-sensible. Along the lines of, you'll be looking for people who love Maths to take on this role. then he went into a total wibble and giggling fit "Ha ha ha I suppose there are people out there who like Maths, strange people, giggle giggle, I can't imagine it, oh my word, Maths!!!!!"

What a total arsehole. Try substituting 'English' or 'Literacy', or 'Sport', into that, and think how utterly ridiculous it sounds. Who are these people, self-confessed innumerates, who get some position of influence and present a news bulletin broadcast before the watershed and think they have the right to mock people who are better than them? It's not a new phenomenon, but it does make me very angry.

I watched that drama about Mary Whitehouse the other day (on time-shift) and I did wonder if I am, in fact, turning into Mary Whitehouse, complaining about the piss-poor standards on the TV. But then I remembered, she was in favour of ignorance and oppression, I am in favour of knowledge and enlightenment, and I detest the way these cocky TV people assume their entire audience is thick. And I like swearing.

* I had one of those teachers in Junior 4, (now Year 6). She had the spiffing wheeze of getting the top people to teach ourselves. Not just in Maths, but also in English and History, too.

Stage Door Barcelona 1 June

(between about 2 am and 2.30 am)

Not great photos, but some when the crowd was really pressing, and then as the throng began to clear. Almost all taken by Jimmy.

click on thumbnails for bigger pictures

Previous entries
The show after the show
Curtain call
Die Walküre @Liceo (Act I)
Walküre Acts II and III @ Liceu
Photos of the curtain calls 31 May 08

Rolando at the Stage Door

  Not a great photo! I had previously got him to pose for two other photos but my camera was all wrong*.

I had not held much hope of seeing Rolando Villazón at the Stage Door, because the production sponsors, Coutts**, were holding a post-performance reception. Someone asked him why he wasn't there; he explained he wasn't dressed for it - sadly not visible in this photo, he was wearing a Kermit the Frog t-shirt.

He saw me and greeted me with 'hello' and then a hug and a kiss, which was rather delightful! There were a fair few people gathered round, asking for autographs and so on. One chap said "I don't do autographs, but would you like to come for a drink...?" Apologetically, he said he was already meeting friends. So the chap said "Jonas Kaufmann did!"

To which Rolando replied "He's nicer than me." Pause. "And he has a bigger voice." A mixture of laughter and people, like myself, saying "You have different voices...". Indeed I put to Rolando the suggestion someone had made  on a newsgroup of a modern 'Three Tenors' featuring Rolando, Jonas and Juan Diego Florez because of the differences in their voices. His reaction was, it' s not going to happen***, although he and JDF are doing a concert in Paris, but it was clear that he acknowledged the attractions of such a combination.

He then went on to talk about Jonas's performance as Cavaradossi, full of praise. Someone mentioned the 'Vittoria, vittoria', Rolando commented on Jonas's piano singing. I was deeply impressed by what he was saying. His praise was generous and genuine and totally ungrudging. He was speaking like a fan. I guess it would be easy for fans and critics to create some sort of 'rivalry' but I definitely didn't get that impression from Jonas either. Someone asked Rolando whether he had any plans to sing Cavaradossi; he said five years. So someone asked about Otello (to the general horror of everyone around). Rolando said he would sing it once, then his career would be finished! But he did treat us to 'Esultate!', which was lovely.  I said something or other about how wonderful I think he is in the lyric rep, and how I am so looking forward to Hoffmann in the autumn.

I could have waited to see if anyone else would be coming out (Robert Lloyd and Sonia Ganassi had already left) but I figured that those who were going to the Reception could be a long time. I had work the next day, and while the Victoria line is closed after 10pm, my journey home is somewhat longer.

* someone had been twittering in my ear; someone I regularly stand with at the Stage Door. I actually like her quite a lot, but sometimes I just like to concentrate on the task in hand...

** I've used their cash machine once or twice

*** I think the 'three tenors' thing has been done already

Secrets on a train

I really cannot believe the stupidity of people.

Secret terror files left on train

This sort of fuckwittery just makes my life more difficult.

I've heard rumours of the grapevine of Whitehall Village* that all writable CD/DVD drives, memory sticks etc have been disabled as a proportionate and appropriate over-reaction to the HMRC-Child-Benefit-Discs-to-NAO scandal. The only commensurate control against this incident is to ban all public servants from travelling on public transport. Or else to prevent anyone from taking any pieces of paper out of any Government building.

I could recount numerous anecdotes from the past of people making silly mistakes and leaving documents where they shouldn't. I had a manager who managed to leave a signed account in a pub, which is just really embarrassing. Someone I worked with trained with someone who was reading clients' papers on a train; someone from the client was on the same train;  the trainee became very sacked in just a few days.

I had great fun reading a counsel's opinion on a contract on the Heathrow Express a few months ago. Eventually, the woman reading it, and discussing it on the phone,  cottoned onto to her indiscretion and put it away.

A former colleague on a train was becoming increasingly irritated by the annoying loud conversation from the party across the aisle. He realised they were in the same professional institute, and told them that as they were discussing the private business of their employer in public, if they didn't shut up, he would report them to the institute for gross professional misconduct

A former colleague took home a 'confidential' report which was tantamount to an Idiots' Guide to Fraudulently Claiming Agricultural Subsidies. Our manager had been reluctant to let him take it, but agreed. Sod's Law, his morning train was really crowded, so he put the report on the overhead rack, and forgot it until he had got off the train and the train had begun its next journey. It was several hours before he was able to retake ownership of his locked briefcase.

I remember all those years ago when I started in this business, nothing with a marking, even restricted, was supposed to be carried in anything but a locked briefcase. These standards have slipped - just look around any bus or train and spot the paucity of briefcases compared to rucksacks and shoulder bags - but there again, most of us don't even have access to 'Top Secret/UK Eyes Only' files, let alone the ability to remove them.

It's easy enough to do, I suppose. I have often had meetings in another building and rather than go out of my way to return to the office, I have gone straight home carrying papers. I once went to the Barbican carrying 'Confidential' papers for a meeting the next day and was very relieved when they didn't order me to leave my rucksack in the cloakroom, as they had done in the immediate aftermath of the July 2005 bombings.

* unattributable, non-departmental specific, as always;-)

Don Carlo @ ROH

As I am going again in two weeks, I will write only a 'hit-and-run' report. It's a massive opera, in its five Acts it's Wagnerian in length, although, sadly, without the Wagnerian supper interval.

Caveat: I was in row M of Amphi, too far away to be entirely satisfied

An opera full of glorious music from start to finish, a complex story involving personal relationships in a (quasi-) historical and political context.

I hated the production. Turgid and static, Met trash in a deceptive set. Oh, by the way, most of these comments don't apply to the "What a Day for an Auto da fé" scene.

The set was always dark. Too dark merely to give a noir mood. Just dark. Admittedly, I was more aware of the failings of the lighting having had someone (a reader) explain to me a few shortcomings in other productions. However, just to give one example, when Eboli started to park-and-bark sing 'O Don Fatale' (one of the great mezzo arias, one of the big 'numbers' of the work) she started off standing in the spotlight, raising the arm that signals despair, before clenching both fists, and going to sit down at the table to signify utter despair. Her former parking-space remained lit; her new sitting place was in complete darkness.

There was very little movement on stage at all. When there was movement, I presume it had been introduced by the singers themselves, in contradiction of the director rather than by instruction. A production built for singers such as Rolando Villazón and Simon Keenlyside should have had far more movement; they are both agile around stage and natural movers.

Actually, I lie: at various times in the production, various characters ran off or on stage. The chorus was blocked horrendously. Particularly noticeable when the Ladies were in the Queen's Garden and Eboli was entertaining with the Saracen Song. A lot of it was AmDram style. Particularly farcical was the scene just as Posa is killed and they realise there is a riot outside. Just before the back scrim rises to reveal the riotous mob, the line of soldiers do the campest most hilariously inappropriate dance. Oh dear.

The hype leading up has made a big deal of how it was set in the actual time it was set, 16th Century, so I wondered why the King (Philip II) was initially dressed as a 17th century Puritan. And why the Queen's Garden was in front of a wall straight out of a 1970s Habitat catalogue.

Most of the time I detested what was basically a concert performance in costume with cheap sets (mainly scrims).

But then, bizarrely, Act II scene ii, the auto da fé was Zefferelli-like in its vulgarity (although, perversely, I liked it), with its Cecil B de Mille cast of thousands, its overacting chorus/crowd of revolting peasants and its bright colours. Being high up in the theatre, I didn't see Vallodolid cathedral in all its glory,which is regrettable, but I don't think removed anything from the action.

Plenty of photos at Arena Pal

The costumes were as unremittingly dull as the production, the highlight being - and I am shocked that nobody else has picked up on this - Eric Halfvarson as the Grand Inquisitor made up to look like Joseph Ratzinger - who of course held this job immediately before becoming Pope. Oh, the biting satire (completely out of place in such a lame production).

The singers were variable. Much as I love Rolando, I was disappointed, particularly in the first two acts. It must be a nightmare role where the most important aria of the entire opera is right at the beginning, (when that man in row N, on the aisle is still actually talking to his wife) but, bluntly he didn't seem the Rolando I know and love from Hoffmann, Rigoletto and Eugene Onegin, and numerous recordings, live and studio. As the night progressed so did his vocal condition. I think the critics who are saying his career is over are wrong, but I don't think that this is really an ideal role for him. Such a beautiful voice in lyrical roles; please don't go the José Carreras/Roberto Alagna route of ruining a gorgeous instrument by choosing the wrong roles.

I found his acting subdued, as was Simon Keenlyside's. I blame the director, because they are so suitable for serious stage work. Simon sounded fabulous, probably the best I have heard him (on form in an opera I love). Rolando at least got over to me that Carlo was adolescent and stunted in his emotions, whereas Simon, I am afraid, conveyed merely that Posa was a gorgeous singer who winced when he was dying of being shot.

Marina Poplavskaya once again showed her vocal potential as Elizabetta. She is far from the finished article and I find her a bit wooden in her acting, but she is gorgeous vocally and physically.

Ferruccio Furlanetto was outstanding as Philip II. Extraordinary that me, not a bass-fancier by any stretch, has managed to be well impressed by two of them this summer! He managed to convey such dignity as the king.

I didn't mind Sonia Ganassi as Eboli, although she was nothing special. Particularly not in the acting which was 'emote by semaphore'.

Luxury casting for Eric Halfvarson as the Grand Inquisitor, and Robert Lloyd as the Monk/Charles V HRE. Also hon mensh to Anita Watson (Voice of Heaven) and Pumeza Matshikiza (Tebaldo), both of them Jette Parker Young Artists.

Tony Pappano waved the stick. A lot of critics have singled out the conductor and orchestra for multi-star rating, but, to be honest, they never fully set me on fire, even though the playing was always beautiful.

I did enjoy it, because it managed to be greater than the sum of its parts,and I am looking forward to seeing it again in a fortnight. I wonder if I will like the production any better then!

Photos of the curtain calls 31 May 08

None of them is a particularly memorable or remarkable photo. Each thumbnail is clickable but I'm afraid there's no easy navigation from photo-to-photo

 

I had a dream (last night...)

I was at a speed-dating evening and so was Adrian Sevitz.

We were segregated by age range, so I, being a forty-something woman had to speed-date 20-something men...which makes so much sense...

I was on the Tube last week and I saw a number of 20-something men. Perfectly pleasant, I'm sure, probably with a good mix of positive personal qualities. Interesting, maybe. Demons in bed, even. I looked at them and thought 'you might be nice guys but you're so unattractive'. It's not just the sideburns and the clothes that look like they've slept in them - I believe that's currently fashionable with the young set - it's the fact that they're so young, so lacking in self-confidence (the one that comes from within), and so anxious. They're simply not attractive.

Adrian was in a different group, a different Speed-Date Circuit, the one where thirty-something men get to speed date thirty-something women.

I spread the word round that he was a llama farmer from Peru. Not in order to stymie his chances, but because I honestly believed he was, and I thought it would help him if people knew the truth.

But there was a bee buzzing outside my bedroom window which woke me up. Only slowly, so I thought I was still in the speed-dating and I could actually hear myself snoring, out of the front of my mouth*. Then I heard an alarm clock go off. It was coming form one of the houses at the back, who also had their bedroom window open. I looked at my clock, 5.45 am. I knew I had an hour and a half more in bed.

* how gross is that?

Walküre Acts II and III @ Liceu

What is first is last and what is last is first.

I have friends who swear that Act III is the highlight of the opera. To me it is not. If performed well, I enjoy it tremendously. Indeed there have been times when it has rendered me incapable, tears streaming my face, an emotional wreck. This was not one of those occasions. I am loath to criticise. It was one of those performances where under routine circumstances you'd come away thinking "Yeah, that was fine, nothing special, perfectly adequate" and so on. Conducting ragged at times. The Valkyries, mainly,  sounded fine as individuals, but seemed to grate ensemble. There was an absence of 'ride' in the Act opening. There was an absence of 'magic' in the Magic Fire Music. but, that's okay, I'm not complaining. It was a concert performance, not much time for rehearsals.

Act II was most enjoyable. I did not notice any great problems with tempi such as had dogged the first act; I overlooked orchestral raggedness and instrumental flubs.

In Act II we are introduced for the first time to Brunnhilde, Wotan and Fricka, the last two of whom have already appeared in Das Rheingold, if one is doing the Ring properly.  It is fair to say that in this performance they were all lesser 'stars' than the Act I principles, but I feel they all acquitted themselves well. Jane Herschel was Fricka. Curiously, she sang as if it were a 'straight' concert performance; if she had had a score on a music stand it would have not made any difference to her performance, which was most definitely 'park and bark' and use semaphore. Except she wasn't 'barking', she was singing beautifully. Not necessarily in a way that characterises Fricka, indeed, she did nothing to portray the character, to me at any rate. But I just loved her voice. And when someone has a gorgeous voice, I can forgive them a lot. I got quite a frisson in the Deiner ew'gen Gattin
heilige Ehre beschirme heut' ihr Schild!, after she has had it out with Wotan and Brunnhilde has come hojohotoing back

Alan Held was Wotan, and I have no complaints about him. Not the best I have heard, but certainly not the worst. I don't know if tortured and puzzled comes naturally to him, but he certainly did tortured and puzzled well. He did little to put over the complex and intriguing character of Wotan; he moved about stage, but his actual acting was perfunctory. Vocally he presented no problems, which is always a good start. Not an especially beautiful voice, but   I didn't notice any great problems with pitch, tone, no wobble and so on. I wasn't that overwhelmed by his cursing of Alberich, but  I would be happy to book a Walküre in future if he was the Wotan. I wouldn't book it specially, though. 

Evelyn Herlitzius was Brunnhilde, a name had that simply hadn't even grazed my radar previously. I have read quite a few reviews where people said they didn't like her voice. Certainly it seemed it seemed an unusual voice to be singing Brunnhilde, lighter than I would normally expect. And towards the end she was audibly tiring. But I liked her voice. And I was particularly struck by the way she portrayed the transformation of Brunnhilde from frisky teenager to mature and reflective. (And I loved her outfit!).

I actually enjoyed the first part of the act more than I often do; it actually seemed to pass much more quickly, ironic considering the funereal pace of Act I. However much I enjoy the first two scenes, it is Scene 3 -5 that really do it for me.

The music builds up for the return of the Twins, the most extraordinarily evocative music and they reappear. There is a long passage where they are sitting on seats on the stage. I watched the entirety of Scene III through my binoculars and was convinced I was a voyeur, intruding an intensely private and intimate moment between two true loves. Then I remembered that I was in an opera house with about two and a half thousand other people. Nevertheless, that feeling of intimacy remained.

During the musical interlude they caressed each other; she lovingly held his arm, whilst he caressed the back of her neck. And then when she was singing, beautifully, he sat back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, with a look of sheer bliss on his face. And then sang beautifully! Such wonderful stage chemistry.

And then, arguably the most beautiful passage in the entire opera canon - the Todesverkundigung, heralded by the brass and timpani so creepy so ominous, then Brunnhilde arrives, and the exchange is the most dignified imaginable. I just love it, I want to wrap my arms round my body and bawl my eyes out, yet every nerve and every braincell is totally focussed on the music and the stage. Our Brunnhilde for the evening  sang it well enough, even if not the best I have heard.

And our Siegmund was just fabulous. A wonderful mix of dignity and young innocence. As Brunnhilde patiently explained what was to happen he remained in his seat, then he rose to his feet for So grüsse mir Walhall, grüsse mir Wotan, grüsse mir Wälse

There is something unbelievably wonderful about this whole sequence. The singers singing towards the bottom of their range, the brass building up the tension, the pitch gradually rising. The dramatic tension, the sadness of the story, the music, and above all the singing. I had tears running down my face.

Scene 5 seems like a musical anti-climax in contrast. And the Act ends with the stage empty, except for Siegmund "dead" on the stage. I was ever so slightly disappointed that his "death" was only sinking onto a chair and rolling somewhat in the chair, no floor was involved. Still, for a concert performance, I had no grounds for complaint! And it was a nice touch that at the end, Plácido was alone on stage so we could cheer and applaud. And there was one woman in Box 20 at Platea level who screamed, too, would you believe...

We are a (step) grandmother

Jimmy's middle son has had another child. Now four in all.

The oldest is called Charlotte, because Charlie is a nickname for cocaine. The second shares his name with his dad, Jimmy's son.

Then later, and with a different mother, the third is called Caine (spelled I don't know how!), short for Cocaine.

The latest, born today, was at least due to be called Avril, because her father, Jimmy's son, was born in April.

A picture of Jonas

Last Thursday evening

Not the best I have ever taken of him, but here it is, anyway...

Squatters in the garden

Over the years, regular readers will no doubt have become bored of various tales of how our garden becomes a no-go zone.

We have had near neighbours with paraffin-fuelled barbecues, other idiots with stinking pilchards on their barbecues.

We had the Tesco 'we will work 24-hours a day over the summer's hottest weekend because even though what we are doing is noisy and illegal by the time the authorities catch up with us, it's too late'.

We've the noisy Sloaney Cow with the grating tones who decided to build on our party wall, including at 8 am on a Bank Holiday Monday.

And now we have a completely different problem!

Squirrels have built a nest in our garden.

They're not really squirrels. They are, in fact, sparrows, but they are known as 'squirrels' following the hilarious 'Jimmy gets his words mixed up after consuming several pints of strong Polish beet' (this was when Jimmy...oh, you can guess the rest).

Mummy Squirrel (or Sparrow) is so bossy

I came home early and tired one evening last week to hear a dreadful racket in the garden. It sounded like the 'chuchuchu' leaks from 'thudthud music' played on buses through earphones. "What's that noise?" I asked wearily. Turns out it was the chattering of the baby sparrows. Jimmy moaned about Mummy Squirrel; she keeps nagging him. She flies out to go hunting (I wonder where Daddy Squirrel is, apparently he has been spotted occasionally, he's not always down the pub) and then if she comes back and sees squatters in her garden, rather than flying back to the nest, she stands on the flat-roof and gives a mouthful of abuse. "I'm not letting you lot know where my nest is. As if..." Little does she know that we know!

Last night we decided to eat al fresco. And that nagging bird is back. I had finished, so I lit a cigarette. She stood on the roof and had a right go at me. Jimmy says she's annoyed, I'm exposing her children to passive smoking. Running a guilt trip on me, can't even smoke in one's own garden.

I don't know when it's time for the Baby Sparrows to fly the nest, but until then we will be terrorised by the squatters in our garden.

Euro 2008

It's difficult, being English.

We have this mispalced feeling that we ought to be there. Crap,of course, we weren't good enough to qualify. End of.

If Ireland were there, Gert Cottage™ would, naturally, transfer their affections.

But in their also absence we have to make judgements.

I'm backing Poland, cos they're the only Home Nation actually involved ;-) (did you know that the single biggest wave of immigration to Britain over 2000+ years is the Polish wave since I started blogging?). Him Indoors is supporting Spain. Apparently Geoff Hurst is supporting Germany.

We were out on Brixton Hill, enjoying out Inter-course cigarette. A car stopped at the traffic lights, flying Portuguese flags. We waved, they waved and honked back. Hey, we thought, we could have fun. We could actually support every team and have a three week party.

But I still reckon the most supported team in England will be Poland

Eating etc in Barcelona

We stayed in a hotel called Medinaceli, which I found on Hotels.com as recommended by a colleague whose recommendations I respect. Another colleague suggesting trying hotels in the back street of the Barri Gotic but conceded that as I was - originally - going on my own and intending to be wandering around at Silly O'Clock, this was not necessarily advisable.

I would have no hesitation in recommending it. It was exactly as we expected, and no complaints whatsoever. The shower was particularly good, having different jets at different heights to massage the body. It was just off the Passeig de Colom and easy walking distance of Las Ramblas and the Port Vell, walking distance of Barceloneta. It wasn't cheap but at the time of booking it seemed to be more affordable than other hotels in its class.

On arrival we were quite desperate to get some refreshment - Jimmy had refused to eat or drink on the plane, because they charged foreverything (a bit of a surprise because we thought Iberia would have at least given out soft drinks as complimentary). We hadn't banked on it taking so long in the taxi, unfortunately there was an accident en route which caused gridlock and made the journey take an hour and a half. Just one of those things, I suppose. The taxi driver tried to undercharge us a result but we insisted on overpaying (he was just as frustrated as us, but we all kept calm). And we had an excellent and detailed view of the cemetery at Montjuic.

There was no shortage of small bars and cafes in the immediate environs of the hotel. For once we got sensible. We wanted water and coffee so just went in the first place we saw, even though it was no smoking and the food menu was not enticing. Then we moved on and ended up at the top of Las Ramblas. We sat down outside the first bar we saw but soon realised that common sense should prevail over immediacy, and as there were only two serving staff and two enormous and loud stag/hen parties from England, we moved on.

Ravenous we came to Casa Joan on Rambla Santa Mónica and had a good and filling meal. I had a fish stew and Jimmy had oxtail. I wouldn't rave about it being the 'best' but it was satisfactory, good value and good service.

Jimmy found an ice cream parlour more or less opposite the Liceu and returned several times.

After an early evening siesta we headed across the Litoral and down the Rambla del Mar for drinks and tapas. It was very plastic and commercial there; our Tapas came to as much as our meal earlier. We then wandered back to the main drag, a bit surprised to see so many places closed at 11, but eventually found a bar where we drank mojitos for a couple of hours.

We didn't get up early on Saturday, and it wasn't long until brunch. This was where we struck lucky. We wandered through the Placa Reial and randomly chose one of the many restaurants there. My 'random' being "it's got linen tablecloths, let's look at the menu". This turned out to be Les quinze nits; a quick google finds it well reviewed. We chose a seat outside, even though the maitre d' warned us that if it rained (possible) we couldn't move to another table. We got there at one and left just after three, and paid €60 for three courses each, a bottle of wine, water, 2 Irish coffees for him and 2 cappuccinos for me. We were amazed to see it fill up quickly and then for a massive queue to develop, snaking back far into the square. Every time we passed it subsequently, the queue was massive.

I started with a goats cheese and walnut salad, followed by a fish stew and finished with a cheesecake with mango chutney. Really excellent food.

On the Sunday we walked out to Barceloneta. Alongside the Maritime Museum and the Passeig de Joan de Borbo, you really are spoilt for choice for places to eat. We did in fact sit down at one place in PdJdB, because rain was threatening, but the most appealing dish was egg and chips, which, I am sure, if I had been in an egg-and-chip mood, it would have been fine. We quickly decided to stick to our original plan. Lonely Planet had recommended several places in a side road off - Carrer de l'Almirall Aixada. We don't stick religiously to guide book recommendations; in this case we spotted a place which turned out to be recommended - Can Ros, where once again we were given excellent food and excellent service. I started with an excellent goats cheese and roasted vegetables, with a bouillabaisse for main, and finished with a fine Crema Catalunya.

From there you can see a pattern emerging. And that in a nutshell is my problem. I think all the meals we had were of high quality; particularly noticeable was the freshness of the ingredients. And when visiting Spain for a long weekend, I have no problem with eating exclusively Spanish (or Catalan) food. Barcelona was not so much a problem as Madrid, where I did get to the point of thinking - oh god, not another restaurant serving the same old same old unvaried. I also recognise that when you visit a place you operate differently than in your own hometown. But I did think that if I was there for a whole week, I would just get bored. Ignorant people knock food in Britain, but when I am going out in London, or even in the local suburbs, (or New York, or Calangute, or even Na'ama Bay, maybe) I first think 'what sort of food do I want'. I did think there is more variety on pokey little Floral Street than on the entire Las Ramblas. Obviously, if you know a city, you know the hidden secrets, the restaurants that appear to be nothing special but have a certain je ne sais quoi. I accept that I limit myself by not eating meat, but I do eat fish, so it's not like I'm a macrobiotic vegan or whatever.

We had an interesting encounter in a bar near the hotel. We had only gone there because the maid was making our room up. Nice quiet backstreet bar, with a customers in twos or threes, quiet without being moribund. Then we were invaded by a group of 14 men from Liverpool. They were loud, but what really pissed me off was their attitude. They had that colonialist attitude of contempt and superiority that they were better than the 'foreigners' behind the bar,because the 'foreigners' were, well,'foreign'. They failed to understand what the barstaff were saying, in English that was better than their own. Everything was done with an underlying aggression. I understand it's a product of their innate lack of confidence, but I have found the world over that my poor verbal language skills are compensated for by smiling and adopting an attitude of mild humility.

The blokes ordered their beers and the staff began to serve them with tapas. One bloke turned to Jimmy, saying 'I'm not eating this rubbish, I'm not paying for it, who do they think they are?' Jimmy explained wearily that it's local custom and culture, why should they be wanting to rip you off. This bloke had engaged Jimmy in conversation by asking where he was from*. Jimmy said London, and because he was wearing a deep blue shirt (not a football shirt, a proper one with collar and buttons) this Scouser went 'Chelsea?'. No, said Jimmy, Crystal Palace, which he has found on numerous occasions to be a great conversation-stopper/aggro-avoider (and true, too). The bloke then went onto say that they had been out on Las Ramblas the night before and had gone with a prostitute who had dipped his pocket, was Jimmy going to be out on Las Ramblas tonight, be careful with those tarts. Jimmy pointed out that 'the wife' was sat next to him.

Like most of the rest of the pre-existing customers, we got out of the bar pronto.

* I have a probbaly irrational dislike of Brits abroad starting a conversation with 'Where are you from'? It strikes me, no doubt unreasonably, as a primitive tribalist marking of territory, a bit like a dog pissing up a tree.

Interview with Plácido

Available for download here

Interesting, especially when he was talking about rehearsals, and about how he had expected he would have retired by his mid-fifties,and his future plans. (We have this Big Question in Gert Cottage - who's going to retire first, Plácido or Fergie?Even though we know neither will ever properly retire - but the question really is - what will happen first, Plácido stops singing or Fergie stops managing Manchester United?)

When asked about the prominent tenors of the younger generation I have to say I was mightily disappointed he didn't mention Jonas...

It mentions here he will be singing in Jordan next year. Jimmy has said he wants him to sing somewhere we can go for a holiday. When we were in Taba, Egypt, a few years back we were booked to go to Petra but the previous party had got snowed in overnight and needed to be dug out by the Jordanian Army, so our trip was cancelled. Since then I have been wanting to try again to go, and recently I have been gripped by a desire to go to Syria. 

And a photo from last Saturday:

Tosca @ROH

Last night.

I would like to say thank you to both Karen and Martin who emailed me to tell me how to set the camera for taking photos in opera houses. Sadly, neither of them, nor anyone else, had the psychic powers to say "and whatever you do, don't rely on the battery that is basically dud and should have been binned two years ago, especially if your replacement is at the bottom of your overly packed handbag..." So, I failed once again to get decent Curtain Call pictures. I shall just have to make sure I see Jonas in performance sometime soon...

I decided during the second act that if there is one aria that ought to be cut in the operatic repertoire, it is Vissi D'Arte. Sure, I know intellectually why it is important, it tells us all we need to know about how Floria Tosca regards herself. It is a brilliant pause in an otherwise fast-moving opera. The fact that it is meditative in a tightly-packed work ought to be a good thing. But I find it boring, I find it longer than the whole of the rest of the opera put together. And I don't like the tune.

For me, Tosca is primarily a tenor vehicle, with both Recondita Armonia and E Lucevan le stelle being well known even to people who have never been to an opera, and Vittoria vittoria being amazing writing suitable for amazing singers. But, actually, the musical highlight is the Te Deum that closes Act I.

Tosca is a superb opera for anyone who is generally unfamiliar with the genre. The tightly packed action full of tunes doesn't take much insight to enjoy. And yet every time I hear it, I do hear something new. I had a sense that the house was packed out with noobs. You get this sense from the way people are dressed. And the fact that in Act III during the Love Duet, there is a brief rest in the music and Tosca and Cavaradossi turn to the audience to sing Trionfal, di nova speme l'anima freme in celestial crescente ardor, many of the audience burst into applause, drowning out that phrase, which is very important.

Until I got to the Stage Door I didn't see a single familiar face in the audience. I'm not just saying the people with whom I chat, but also the faces that just look familiar as a result of frequent fleeting encounters. Well, unless you count Michael Howard*. At least, I think it was Michael Howard. When I arrived, Michael Howard, or his doppleganger, was standing outside waiitng for someone. He saw me looking at him, and suddenly buried his head in looking down to txt on his moby. Later, just before the curtain, I saw the same bloke still looking very like Michael Howard, with a woman who looked a lot like Sandra Howard (who is very elegant) taking seats in the orchestra as I looked down from on high. But I can't be sure.

This run of Tosca was supposed to be a routine revival, originally with tba as Cavaradossi. When the tba turned out to be Jonas Kaufmann, 'routine revival' was thrown out of the window. Sadly, the rest of the cast was simply not in the same league. I enjoyed both Micaela Carosi and Paolo Gavanelli as Tosca and Scarpia, to call someone second-rate is not particularly an insult, and I am sure the noobs would justifiably think they were excellent. But, still.

I did find Gavanelli quite frightening as Scarpia and much to my self-disgust I did rather feel a frisson when he sang that basically he gets more pleasure in the well fought conquest than in the exchange of tender caresses. The frisson wasn't musical.

I noticed a marked difference in the orchestra under Paul Wynne Griffiths last night as compared to Tony Pappano last week. Again, I'm not knocking Paul (who was very friendly at the Stage Door) but it did lack some fire and some momentum. Although again I have to give special kudos to whoever was on bass drum, arguably the most important instrument in the entire opera.

When I saw it last week, I had a sense of wonder, something so familiar from so many recordings and yet sounding fresh, which I didn't experience last night. I thought Jonas was absolutely marvellous and yet, I don't think he was quite up to last week's performance. Whether that is actually true or whether it is a product of my physical and mental tiredness, I really can't tell.

And I can't decide what to think of the production. It is very traditional, and on the whole I don't like Traditional, but I can't really think of any other way of doing Tosca, other than say, having Cavaradossi as an ex-druggie painting a community centre, Scarpia a Drug Dealer and Tosca as some blingy rap artist. I don't especially like the layout, trying to work out why the church appears to have two levels... I suppose Cavaradossi could have been painting in a crypt but I don't think the Attavanti chapel would have been located in a crypt. I dunno, it's years since I've been to Rome and I can't remember whether Sant'Andrea della Valle was one of the two million churches my mother took me into. I can see the point, during the Te Deum, of Scarpia being down below in the dark crypt while the choirboys sing out in bright colour up above. But I suppose it sums up my major problem - it is dark all the way through. Again, I know why, it does make it realistic, but the only contrast is this barely glimpsed scene. I just got tired of it being dark, dark and nothing but dark.

Overall, a very pleasant evening, which ended with me being part of a crowd gathered for Jonas at the Stage Door. As usual he lingered to stay and talk, sign autographs, pose for photos and so on. I asked him for a kiss and I was rewarded!

* Failed ex-Leader of the UK Conservative Party

Exhaustion and stress

It is so frustrating. I know that all the time that I am better than I was a year ago, two years ago. Three years ago I took two or three weeks off work because I was exhausted. Four years ago I took most of a year off because I was exhausted. Just about 4 years ago I slept through until the afternoon before going to ENO's The Valkyrie. I got a taxi home and slept for another fourteen hours. So, you know, such a difference now.

One of the problems in being in recovery from CFS is over-confidence, 'overdoing it'. There are broadly two theories about CFS, one is that it lasts for ever; the other that it lasts for about 4 - 7 years. Sometimes I think, more than 4 years later, I'm cured.

Which of course is rubbish.

A double-edged sword is that I survive a lot on adrenaline and nervous energy. So, being in Barcelona at the weekend, I got through really well. Saturday was a marathon and I don't think I got to sleep until five o'clock, but I never felt tired. It was nice spending Sunday on the beach at Barcoleneta. Walking back to our hotel, I found parts of my body just packing up. It's always exciting trying to predict which bit will go next. I have been struggling on and off with my right knee, which makes going downstairs problematic, but far from impossible. But when you have a dodgy right knee, and then your left foot packs up, it makes life...fun.

My journey back was totally unstressful. The plane was due to go at 1410 and didn't start boarding until then. Knowing that I already had my seat allocated I saw no purpose in standing around in a queue that wasn't going to move. So I sat reading for half an hour, and was the third last person onto the bus to be driven five miles around Barcelona airport. And then I had the stress of a taxi driver from Paddington who was a worshipper of the Queen Mother,and then started harping on about the good old days when Debutantes, the daughters of Lords, just had 'honorary jobs'. I did get a bit annoyed, pointing out they are complete nobodies, people who have a title because they got pissed with some king from long ago. My grandfather was a bus-driver and his father a farrier, and I am proud to be from that background.

It was slightly stressful to be on a different flight with Jimmy. I have this idea in my head that he can't look after himself, but he did point out he has managed to get himself to and from and around Australia on his own! He was a bit concerned that we were smuggling cigarettes. I patiently explained that it is perfectly legal to buy duty-paid cigarettes in other EU countries, as long as they are for personal use. Even so, we swapped suitcases so that I could swan through UKBA without suspicion, whereas if he was stopped (because of sharing family ties including a surname with convicted drug smugglers) he would just have to explain away having female stuff in his suitcase...that being, I'm a girl, I have a heavier suitcase...shoes, gadget chargers, bags of magic stuff (like shower gel, painkillers...), he's a man, he carries the heavier suitcase. He had a copy of my eticket print out.

But actually, it was also less stressful not being with Jimmy. He hates flying, and twists and turns and grumbles throughout flights, plus every action I take has to be communicated 'I'm going to the loo,you wait there; the exit is to the left; the train goes in five minutes..."

But then I was really knackered on Tuesday and decided to take the day off. Not exactly snowed under with work (waiting on other busy people so I can kick a couple of audits off), and flush with Annual Leave, it was a sensible decision. I struggled through Wednesday and Thursday, just about, and last night went to Tosca. I enjoyed it, although not as much as last week. This was partly for objective reasons (Tony Pappano wasn't conducting), partly because a second hearing in close proximity actually detracted a bit from the magic, but mainly because I was tired.

I went to bed almost immediately I got home and slept the clock round. I did not feel great when I got up and I have done virtually nothing since. It annoys me, it was a trouble-free, stress-free weekend away. I used to do it all the time. In my early twenties I was away visiting, or entertaining guests, nearly every weekend, working full time, partying hard, and I never really felt drained, let alone achey.

Die Walküre @Liceo (Act I)

For an hour and a half I was building with an anticipation so tense that it was painful, almost unbearable. I kept telling myself 'stop stressing, enjoy the opera'. We waited outside the Liceu for Plácido to arrive but I was also fretting about picking up my ticket from the Box Office*. Much as I would have liked to have seen Plácido beforehand, getting my ticket was more important.

Plenty of time to find my bearings around the opera house. Although the auditorium is traditional, the peripheral areas are modern, with plenty of room to circulate, and easy access and egress. Not enough Ladies loos would be my criticism. I was also a bit annoyed that they didn't sell plastic bottles of waters and I could not find out how long the intervals were. But I am sure if it was my regular house, I would work all that out quickly.

Looking closely at my ticket, I realised I was actually in the third row of a box in the Platea rather than the third row of the Platea as I had read off my email. Stupid me! I liked that access to the box was by entering the barcoded ticket into a reader, rather than having to rely on the sour-faced camera police such as at the Royal Albert Hall. I couldn't get my surtitle screen to work, first it said that English wasn't available, then the screen just went fuzzy. I didn't miss it; I am quite familiar with Die Walküre, and in any case I could see other people's screens well enough for when I needed a Catalan translation of the German text;-)

Feeling stressed for way too long, I opened my box door and heard some brass practising the Wotan leitmotif and suddenly all my stress dissipated. I arranged my stool to optimise my view of the stage. Announcements counted down the vanishing time until the start of the opera, then the three Act I principals walked onto stage to receive welcoming applause. With those three, you can be sure that the welcome was emphatic. And actually I was pleased I had not managed to see Plácido beforehand. Seeing him on stage had an air of mystique of him being a legend, rather than that very sweet and approachable man one sees outside opera houses. And with him were Waltraud Meier, whose presence in the cast just increased my desire to attend, and René Pape, whom I had never heard before.

The gentleman left the stage and Sieglinde sat down on one of the three chairs that constituted the 'set'. Act 1 began with that amazing storm music, then Siegmund entered the stage walking backwards. At which point I knew that it was going to more than just a 'concert' performance (admittedly, I had read so on the Barcelona blogs after Wednesday's performance).

Five and a quarter hours later I left the opera house regretting that the opera was so short. It is one of the shortest in the entire opera calendar.

I did not rate the conducting particularly highly. This was most noticeable in the First Act. I think the conductor was trying to bring out that it is essentially a Chamber Opera. In doing so he sacrificed the overall structure of the piece. Obviously, it is a matter of interpretation, but I do feel that the 'Walsë Walsë' signals a significant change in gear with a relentless momentum pushing onto the glorious climax. In this performance it often seemed ponderous, which was frustrating at times. Also, there were times that I felt it left the singers with longer phrases than was ideal. There were also bits where I noticed some scrappy playing but I can easily forgive that in such a long piece.

But the singers were so wonderful that they shone out above the so-so conducting. I felt sorely cheated that Hunding is such a short part. I am not really a bass admirer - I am one of those people who cannot distinguish properly between low notes and I rarely find a bass voice intrinsically beautiful. But I could tell why people rave so about René Pape. Perhaps less menacing than some I have seen or heard in the part but with exquisite phrasing and with none of the barking I often associate with basses.

If I adored Waltraud Meier before this evening, I love her even more now. I have only seen her live in this role (four times now) but I also have numerous recordings of her as Kundry and Isolde. I love her voice, I love her role interpretation, in fact I might even have a girly crush on her.

Oh, and Siegmund? My Plácido was...Plácido! What more can I say! In the first two scenes he was reserved and moderate, and gorgeous, then with the 'Walsë Walsë', he was dramatic and lyrical, and always beautiful. My favourite singer singing my favourite act of my favourite opera. What more can a girl want. I would have been perfectly satisfied if it was a conventional concert performance, stood behind music stands.

All three Act I singers used the stage and their bodies to act out the opera, absence of costumes and scenery not a loss, quite possibly a bonus. General praise for Waltraud and René who were excellent. And I have some wonderful memories of Plácido.

For example, as the Twins were initially attracted, there was something in his body language that was so erotic...then Hunding's hunting horn sounded. On his knees in his soliloquy (and I gazed through my binoculars on those gorgeous thighs). As the opening notes of Winterstürme twinkled, Siegmund and Sieglinde revelled in the falling invisible rose petals. And then when he seized invisible-Nothung. Totally gorgeous singing.

Wagner was a clever bugger, the way he wrote the closing of that act. there is something about it as it reaches its frenzied climax that makes one need to just scream with pleasure after the final note. And the audience did. Prolonged and wild applause, several curtain calls, and blinking out into the light, struggling to control one's emotions in the quotidian surroundings of Las Ramblas revving up for Saturday night.

* the card used to purchase it has changed since the purchase so I assumed it couldn't be used in the automatic machine; the box office opened one hour before the performance.

Curtain call

Here is a curtain at the end of Act III - quite a bit after the end of Act III :-)

Alan Held Wotan; Evelyn Herlitzius Brunnhilde; Waltraud Meier Sieglinde; Plácido Domingo Siegmund; Jane Henschel Fricka; René Pape Hunding

Chopper ride

Just trying to get my photos up to date. I have just finished loading the pictures I took of our helicopter ride in April.

Find them here

As I published the photos, it struck me that while I always knew vaguely where we were, outside of Westminster Village I was very hazy on specific details. So I would be really interested if readers could fill me in where my details are vague. Or just say 'that's my house...' or whatever.

Some of the photos are wonky and I kept them like that, because we weren't always perpendicular to earth. Others have interrupting corners, which in some cases I kept, as being a lesser evil than chopping something interesting off.

The show after the show

I should post my considered and thought out review of the concert performance of Die Walküre before I regale you with tales from the Stage Door. but I have a lot of boring domestic things to do this evening (eating, unpacking etc) and I have three days of work to follow :-(

On the Friday, when we arrived in Barcelona, Jimmy suggested we wandered along Las Ramblas; while we were there we recce'd the Opera House. I ended up in the shop, and with hundreds of Euros burning a hole in my purse, I bought a doll. A Richard Wagner doll. As one does. Jimmy suggested that I took my new Wagner doll along to the performance of Die Walküre. So I did. He sat on the floor of the box and listened.

Afterwards, Jimmy met me at the main entrance of the opera house at 1.15.  We walked to the Stage Door where a crowd was beginning to mass, including very many familiar faces. I waited outside, while Jimmy got in a last half hour of drinking in a bar in the central reservation of Las Ramblas right opposite the opera house.

I managed to catch Alan Held and thank him for his performance as Wotan, and I took a photo which didn't come out at all well. I saw René Pape emerge and I half-heartedly chased him a few feet down the road before giving up.

Then I waited and waited and waited. I was out on the pavement; the lobby area of the Stage Door was just packed with people. We just knew when Plácido emerged: the heaving mass erupted in applause. So we went inside and I hung around on the periphery of the crowd of adoring fans.

From time to time I could see the top of Plácido's head, and I could often see him through the screens of other people's cameras. I had surrendered my camera to Jimmy, who just kept taking photos. Ever so slowly the throng around Plácido began to thin; I could see him, he was there, in the flesh, and from where I was standing,  he was looking lovely and was clearly in fine spirit, chatting with people, signing, posing for photos, letting one woman fling her arms round him and kiss him.

Jimmy said to me - get out your doll, and ask Plácido to pose for a photo. At first I resisted. I thought, Plácido will do what is the closest he will ever get to 'yeah, right, whatever...' which is to nod politely and vigorously a few times. But Jimmy insisted.

So, a bit self-conscious I approached Plácido and asked whether he would pose for a photo with my doll. He took one look at the doll and laughed, clearly taking an instant liking to it. "It's Richard Wagner!" he exclaimed. He asked me whether he sings. (Afterwards, it occurred to me that if I had been in my sarcastic default mode, I would have said 'No, it's you that sings, Señor Domingo, remember..." - but fortunately I wasn't in my default sarky mode!). I replied- if you wind him up, he plays Ride of the Valkyries. And I explained they sell them in the shop next door. 

There were so many people there, not pushing as such, but  when a small space is packed with people it's inevitable that there will be some jostling. We were taking photos for fifteen minutes, according to my camera, but we started long after he first emerged. Everyone wants their moment with him, he's turning this way and that, and while, obviously, no one would jostle him intentionally, I can't say that I would be entirely comfortable in the middle of such a crowd. My time with Plácido  were just a few moments. Very special. For those few moments I felt that I was the only person that mattered to him. It's a special gift to make near-strangers feel that way. And afterwards I was trembling with pleasure!

Jimmy also spoke to him, thanking him for all the happiness he brings to people. Jimmy had been good - he'd stayed in the hotel room till midnight, then had spent an hour in a tapas bar before meeting me, and another hour while I waited, so he wasn't drunk, but he was a bit tipsy,  garrulous and unrestrained, so I did think for a moment that he was going to fling his arms round Plácido and kiss him; he didn't!

He came out into the street and we applauded him as he got in the car;  people on the central pavement on Las Ramblas (where the bars were now shut and even the human statues had packed up for the night) joined in. Then one man, who was clearly drunk, or high, or disturbed, or all three, decided to run across the road and past the car making some stupid noise. I am sure that I was not alone in thinking 'uh-huh, what's going to happen now...?" Plácido  just laughed and said "And that was the best of all...!"

Afterwards, Jimmy remarked that what impressed him the most, wasn't that he was so patient, charming, attentive and pleasant to the fans, although that was impressive, but the way he was so cool about the drunken fool. So many self-imagined stars would have been freaking out, getting their enormous attention-seeking entourage of heavies to go in all heavy. But Plácido's attitude was so much better - presumably he's well aware of how Las Ramblas is - and it just turns a potential 'situation' into a non-event. (But Jimmy assures me that if the drunk had turned violent, Jimmy would have tackled him with both fists, and would not have resented spending the night in the cells, if necessary...)

Plácido left at half-two, waving to us as he went. I then realised just how badly my feet were aching, and it seemed  a long walk back to the hotel (It had taken fifteen minutes when we went out). We did try a couple of bars that still had customers, but they were closed to new people. We did eventually find one that was still open, and I managed to knock back a couple of vodkas-and-orange, before returning to the hotel room. Jimmy reported that Albert my teddy bear was a bit upset. He was already upset the previous day at me introducing a 'new kid on the block' into the family. But when it turns out the 'new kid on the block' is called 'My-Richard-Wagner-doll-that-has-been-touched-by-Plácido", well, Albert is just jealous...

I loaded my photos onto the laptop and purred with pleasure. I even detected a wifi signal, but when I tried to use it, it wasn't strong enough actually to connect to the internet. Sorry. Over the next few days I will publish a few of the better curtain call photos and also some of the ones from the Stage Door. I didn't get any at the Act One curtain call, because I wasn't really prepared. I took some at the end of Act II, and loads at the end of Act III.

They all trooped on to take their bows, the Eight Valkyries, then Hunding, Fricka, Sieglinde, Wotan, Brunnhilde and the conductor. It dawned on me that Siegmund was not going to do an Act III curtain call, which is disappointing, but not entirely surprising, considering he ends up dead at the end of Act II, and probably had a plane to catch, another opera to conduct, an opera company to generally direct, a restaurant to run, or whatever. I was disappointed that it meant that I would miss the chance of seeing Plácido afterwards, but of course, my main reason for being there was the performance, so disappointment is all relative. They all trooped off, and trooped back on again...with Siegmund, changed out of his concert clothes and into a suit, and late back from hanging out in some or other bar on Las Ramblas! He received hearty cheers, of course! The photos I took of the curtain calls covered sixteen minutes. There's fifty in all, many of them not good enough to publish, but the best I will. I will also publish the best of the rest of Stage Door photos and presume that the people in them don't mind, because it's sort of a public place.

I'm back!

I have just walked in the door having got back from Barcelona. The worst aspects of the holiday were:

The Brits in Barcelona
British people in Barcelona
Behaviour of British People in Barcelona
The fact that it took us an hour and three quarters to go from the airport to the hotel (but only 20 minutes to return)
That after the rain on Sunday afternoon the sun came out so I was on the beach (and paddling in the sea) in my t-shirt and knickers, while my bikini and sun-hat were back in the hotel.
That I ended up feeling embarrassed about being British because pretty much all the loutish and/or rude behaviour I witnessed came from Brits (most of them with an arrogant attitude of superiority)

Er, that's it. The good bits were very very good. We had a good meal on Friday evening, and really truly excellent meals on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes. It did rain from time to time, but mainly when we were indoors. Die Walküre was wonderful (notwithstanding some strange tempi etc from the conductor) and it was fun outside the Opera House afterwards. We took over a hundred photos inside and outside the house. Some of them may appear here in due course!