Gertsamtkunstwerk

(Tristan und) Isolde

Amongst all the operas I have never seen live, this is the one that I have most wanted to see. Hardly a rarity, nevertheless performances do not happen frequently. And on Friday, I achieved my ambition.

The new production opened nearly two weeks ago and has been dogged by controversy. I shall return to this controversy later.

The evening was an almost unqualified success, almost totally enjoyable. So many elements worked so well.

But I have to single out Ben Heppner as the one element that really did not work. I want so desperately to like Ben. He comes across so likeable in interviews (not important) and I believe that the basic voice is heroic.

He's an ungainly man, even 'slimmed down' he's seriously overweight. Nevertheless, he moves well around stage, and his body language is eloquent. His portrayal of Tristan 'the hero' was not strut and bombast, but a young emotionally vulnerable man.

All reports I had read suggested that in previous performances he had started well before audible deterioration. I thought his Act I vocal performance was impressive, despite isolated incidences of strain or lack of breath control. He started to fall apart in Act II. In the Love Duet (O sink herneider)  he strained, he missed the pitch of several notes, he wobbled precariously, he lost volume in alarming and random ways. He repeated this in his extended solo in the final scene of that act.

Before the start of Act III there was an on-stage announcement from a member of staff that 'Mr Heppner has an allergic reaction and will continue to sing but begs your indulgence blah blah blah'.

I really wish he hadn't. I am generally forgiving of singers who try to carry on despite indisposition, but I'm afraid I don't buy it this time. I have now heard Ben Heppner as Otello and Tristan and on each occasion he has gone into vocal meltdown. These are not isolated incidents, judging by reports from the current run and from appearances elsewhere. I paid what I consider to be a lot of money to hear Tristan und Isolde and I don't believe I got what I paid for. Fool me once, etc. I simply can't afford to have Ben Heppner ruin yet another much-loved tenor role.

Thankfully we had an Isolde to die for! Nina Stemme was superb. Simply to get through that role without any hint of wobble,  strain or screech is commendable in itself. She did so with a strong steely voice which projected well and did not rely simply on being stentorian; even better.

That voice is gorgeous to listen to, and expressive in colour and use of emphasis. She  sounds like she fully understands what she's singing (and I don't just mean the literal translation of the words). She looks good on stage, she moves well, she responds to her fellow actors. I hesitate to use the word 'perfect' if it means 'cannot be improved upon', but if it means 'flawless and thoroughly satisfying', I will use it. 

I spent some time at the weekend listening to the version of Tristan und Isolde I have on CD; sadly, the soprano on this set simply cannot match the sheer utter stupendous of Nina Stemme's live performance - the soprano on disc being Nina Stemme, recorded five years ago, at least a couple of years too early perhaps! (Still, the tenor's worth a listen, and, sensibly, declined ever to do the role live because of the damage it would inflict on his voice).

Sophie Koch was splendid as Brangäne, a role I have never really paid much attention to either on DVD or CD. She has a rich creamy tone at the bottom of her range and a very impressive top that many sopranos would love. Her sound penetrated through the orchestra. She brought the character to life, no doubt aided by the production. She, too, looked good and moved well.

I was a bit disappointed, though, that they stuck a ginger wig on her. They obviously decided that Nina Stemme's shade of blonde is sufficiently red not to need to be ginged-up, even though the colour is nothing like Irish ginger, but it's way too much of a cliché to portray Irish people as ginger. Think of Irish people and, surely, you think of Liam Neeson, me and Roy Keane, with our dark hair. Admittedly Tristan und Isolde predates the Spanish Armada but it is nevertheless a sort of lazy racism that assumes that all Irish people are ginges.

 
Sophie came across as a developed and convincing character but never dominated and always complemented the principals. At first I considered Michael Volle as Kurwenal to be too dominant, and, to be honest, a little bit full of bombast. But after a dubious opening he settled down into a convincing dramatic and splendid vocal portrayal.

All the other roles were satisfactory. I can't say I care for King Marke's part - it's one of those bass roles that just doesn't do it for me. However, I have no fault with Matti Salminen, who looked majestically Ustinov-like and used his walking stick to add regality to his role. It was not until the curtain call that I realised that the stick was for real as he walked with a limp and needed assistance in crossing the step/gap to the back of the stage, which is why John Tomlinson had substituted for earlier performances.

 I thought highly of the orchestra under Maestro Pappano. My biggest criticism of the CD set is the massive difference in dynamics which makes listening difficult in a small semi (And even more difficult on headphones however good quality). This flaw wasn't apparent in this hearing, and despite one or two slightly strange notes coming from the brass, it was on the whole a strong rendition. A neighbour remarked that she thought that the orchestra were being reined in to mitigate Heppner's woe, and I thought that quite possible.

I could go on at length about phrases and passages that thrilled me with delight, but, apparently it's bad form to discuss an actual opera too much in a report on a performance.The write assumes that you the reader knows the work intimately. You do not need to be told of the difficulties I had in staying still and not reacting physically to the orgasmic writing. Nor do you need to be told the synopsis or philosophy behind the opera, or be reminded that Richard Wagner was a genius.

There was controversy about the sets and the physical production. Some complaints that it is non-traditional - for example, Act 1 lacks a ship with full rigging and legions of galley slaves; that Tristan and his men are not dressed like the knights who say 'ni'; and the Ladies don't wear 3-foot-tall conical hats. I have little patience with people who demand a visually literal interpretation of an opera, even if it obscures the story or the characters.

I was more concerned by the reports that much of the action is simply not visible from seats on the left of the house (that is, seats that face directly opposite seats on the right, rather than those merely at an obtuse angle).

For me that is simply unacceptable. People buy those seats knowing they are 'restricted view' and they will miss some of the action. Nevertheless, I feel strongly that house management have a responsibility to ensure that the loss of view is proportionate.

I have seen too many productions where entire scenes, or crucial action within a scene, happen at the extremes of the stage for example Macbeth and Don Carlo. I understand that directors do not want to be forced to stage everything dead centre, but I have seen other productions - Cyrano de Bergerac, Carmen, Fleigende Hollander, where I have missed a little bit of action on the side of the stage but have considered it a fair compromise for a cheaper seat.

I had a seat that was fairly central - on the left, but on the front row just by the aisle, so these issues did not affect me. A significant aspect of the production was a curtain halfway down the stage which was often closed but sometimes opened partly or wholly to reveal the gentlemen of the chorus participating in a dinner party, quite separate in time and space to the main action down stage. Often they were shown motionless, as if in freeze-frame.

Subsequent to the performance, a friend explained that this represented a different psychological space. I can't say that had occurred to me, but it's an explanation I can accept. I suppose I thought it represented that the love affair between the two eponymous characters took place - induced by love potion - occurred quite separately to reality, that they were oblivious to the world around them, except when the supporting characters - Brangäne, Kurwenal, King Marke etc - moved from the world backstage to the world of T&I. I loved the bloody and gory ending, too.

I think I was particularly enthused by the set, large, white, light and airy. I cannot identify the period of the architecture, but it reminded me of a restaurant I visited by the beach in Valencia which itself reminded me of these vast white buildings with large windows in Old Havana. I suppose from the 20s or 30s. The costumes were understated elegance; indeed it was a very beautiful production to see. And with the chorus largely confined to the rear of the stage, it gave a lot of room for the main characters to inhabit.

As the seconds counted down to the grand finale, the Liebestod, I heard a door bang from across the auditorium. I hope it was an usher following the musical cue to open the doors and prepare for prompt departures. There are some operas you can get away with leaving early if train timetables permit - such as Don Carlo last week, I thought. But it is absolutely horrendous to leave Tristan early. You are left with an unresolved chord, and, surely, that must be as bad as sexual frustration.

Overall an excellent night. Together with Don Carlo, it gives the ROH 2/2 so far this season, whereas for ENO I've had one miss and one okayish (but of course ENO gave us Dr Atomic and Peter Grimes earlier in the calendar year). If only we had had a tenor who could get through the role unscathed!

NB I bought my ticket with my own money. I did not receive it - or anything else - free from ROH or anyone associated with them.

Lohengrin at ROH

I went to this with very confused expectations. Everything I had read had told me that the production was the worst example of Met trash this side of Manhattan. It's an opera I do love, but I was a bit scared that my adoration is based too much on the DVD I own of a very special knight in shining armour being very seductive.

I didn't leave the house as early as I intended and pondered how much I would regret arriving late and missing Act I. Not much I decided. But then there's Act II and that's very long, as well. Ah well, I'll just put up with it.

After four and a half hours in the opera house (with intervals) I emerged wrung-out and strung-up and yet bouncy and elated too, a real catharsis.

I can see why the production came in for so much criticism. An eighties production, it was obviously dated. This was particular noticeable in the costumes, some of which bore close resemblance to those in My Primary School Silver Jubilee Pageant where we celebrated the subjugation of Wales - I had to peer very closely to ascertain that the chain mail wasn't in fact knitted by someone's Mum. I am certain though that they borrowed some shepherds' tea-towels from the Infants' Nativity play. The King turned up to the wedding dressed as a Dalek. Here's a picture of René Pape from six years ago. He's very tall; Kwangchul Youn isn't, and looked swallowed-up in that costume.  It didn't help that the costumes clearly  didn't fit some of the singers, or else weren't cut to flatter their figures. Petra Lang, who is not plump had her large breasts squashed unflatteringly inside her dress.

I didn't particularly like the lighting. Too much reliance on spotlights and not enough effort to disguise the shadows they caused.

I took a dislike to the floor coverings. In Acts I and III a wrinkled sand-coloured cloth served as...sand (obviously pre-dating the era of ROH wonky boxes and paddling pools). In Act II a red cloth was rolled out, a brilliant shade of red, symbolic of Elsa's wedding night. I especially loved the Arabic women who did their  exotic  dances on it, although I couldn't quite work out what they were doing in mediaeval Brabant. No matter.  After a few  minutes, though,  it just started to look like a threadbare cloth.

The production was very static indeed, and I guess I was lucky being in Row K of the Amphitheatre where I was able to take in the big panorama rather than sigh from the expensive seats at the lack of action. The chorus had nothing to do but sway from side to side occasionally. And sing, of course. And, for the most part, the principals had little to do but raise their arms in traditional but thankfully now outdated operatic semaphore.

But I think that static works in Lohengrin. I couldn't really imagine it as manic dashing around; short of totally re-imagining it, I am not sure how it can be much more than a concert performance in mediaeval costume. What I would want though, is there to be more personal chemistry, especially between Lohengrin and Elsa. I regard Lohengrin as one of the most Romantic heroes of opera; he's so Romantic he buggers off at the end!

This reads as if I didn't like the production, which isn't really true. Perhaps because I had been prepared for the worst. Or perhaps really it was adequate. Having seen so many productions live and on video that are not adequate, that is in itself something.

If I have to single out one great aspect of this overall very enjoyable evening it was the conducting. It was quite an achievement for the Royal Opera House orchestra (especially the brass...) to get through an entire performance without one flub discernible by me.

Semyon Bychkov conducted an extraordinary performance. I had expected a lot of Wagnerian bambambam and crash-bang-wallop (those aren't the official technical terms); instead I got a sensitive, intimate performance of a chamber opera. I suppose it would have been lovely to have that matched with a production that was also chamber-like. I accept the downside of chamber-like and intimate is an absence of passion. That was noticeable especially at the end of Act II and start of Act III. The pay off was a stately, dignified, restrained reading which thrilled me with anticipation even as it unfolded.

The very special treat for me was the singing. I cannot believe that Johann Botha has escaped my notice for so long. What a beautiful voice! He can't act for toffee, physically or facially. He barely moves, his sword fighting was lame. There is no polite way of saying that he is fat;  his fatness (and a dodgy wig) makes him  look a lot uglier on stage than in photos. But there is something special about this short fat ugly bloke with the honeyed voice, secure at the top and sonorous at the bottom.

Even though he can't act and doesn't move much, he arrived in a stately manner, and was dignified and regal throughout. I did feel let down in the bridal chamber scene which I know can be romantic with barely restrained eroticism bubbling under the surface. It only struck me that the tenor doesn't appear until late in Act I, and barely figures at all in Act II. But Act III belongs to the tenor, and most certainly belonged to Johan Botha on Monday night. In Fernem Land was masterful; by Mein Lieber Schwann I was in tears, wanting to curl up in a ball and die, but in a good way.

Edith Haller was interesting. She wasn't initially planned to be it, but was drafted in to replace someone or other, I forget who, who withdrew months ago. Looking at her biography, she is not much over thirty if that, and having spent several years in inconsequential houses I've never heard of, she's suddenly taken on big roles - Elizabeth in Madrid's Tannhaueser, and now this. I'm not being dismissive of inconsequential houses; it's a great foundation for learning the roles and not forcing the voice.

I have to say she is not yet the finished article. She clearly lacked that intangible something I crave 'Stage Presence'. There wasn't a great deal of vocal personality nor colour, but there again what does Elsa do but "Lovz u, haz teenage crush on u shinning kniht on swan. Pls tell me ur name LOL" (Ortrud and 2 others like this).

But her voice got right to me. It has a pure bell-like sound, and sounded very unpushed. There was one note where she cracked at the top, but she recovered quickly, and it didn't mar that phrase let alone the evening. To me, it was an interpretation of Wagner that was influenced by the bel canto. To some extent, anyway. I read the reviews, mainly from the first night, were not particularly positive, so I feel pleased to have left this until late in the run. I suspect she will return in the not too distant future.

(Veering completely off topic I looked up her future schedule and discovered that she will be singing Emilie du Châtelet in Emilie in  Amsterdam in March. Having never heard of this opera I looked it up in wikipedia and instead got the biography of a fascinating 18th century mathematician and physicist. The opera is by Kaija Saariaho; Edith alternates with Karita Mattila.)

The rest of the cast were fine, without being particularly memorable. I found Petra Lang's voice to be quite harsh, which I suppose suits Ortrud, but I'm not sure I would like it in a more sympathetic character.

A few random thoughts - there were several musical reminders of  Weber's Freischutz.I thought it was a serendipitous pairing (for me) with Peter Grimes, looking at the  role of outsiders, the power of the crowd, the 'if in doubt, blame the woman' mindcast. Also, although they are both secular works, they both have strong religious-style chorus writing.

Light sabres! (NSFNY*)

A short clip of brief highlights from Los Angeles Die Walküre

Not Safe for New York;-)

Der fliegende Holländer

I attended this on 26 February, and, as a result of the Royal Opera House Ticket Booking Fiasco, I had arguably the worst seat in the House, albeit one that I paid only £9 for - at the very end of the Lower Slips overlooking the stage.

It was played through without interval, from 8 pm until 10.30ish, which psychologically is a challenge especially following a day at work where the inclination is to have many cups of tea. In reality I have a robust bladder but I also have disproportionate anxiety! It does tend to deter one from eating and drinking before the event, and I was a bit annoyed at the 8pm start. I know this was to make the finish close to the customary 10.30, but I can't imagine many people would have complained at the customary 7.30pm start and 10pm finish.

I can't say it's my favourite of Wagner's operas, indeed, other than the ones I don't know, it may well be my least favourite. 

I thought the production was interesting. I don' t think it was designed with the occupant of A113 in mind, though. There were many times when, even leaning forward, I could not see anything of the stage action. Acoustically it's a good seat, so I wouldn't avoid it in the future, especially if I am going to see the performance more than once.

The stage has a steep rake; at the front is a strip of water that is fed by a constant drip drip of water throughout the entire opera, which was directly opposite me. There was very little in the way of actual scenery. The middle act is set in a garment factory - so the Spinning Chorus becomes a sewing chorus, I suppose. The image of the Dutchman is represented by a toy model of his ship that Senta picks up and carries round from time to time, placing it in the strip of water and soon. Oh, and it's set in some indeterminate mid-twentieth century working class seagoing town "Peter Grimes! Peter Grimes!"

I have this on CD and I did watch on borrowed DVD (before I had the means to copy DVDs) the Welsh National Opera's version, set in Outer Space, which was shown on S4C the weekend we were having problems with satellite reception due to cranes...years ago. I have also had it on my mp3 player for years, so the music is all in my muscle memory, even if not necessarily in the right order - it has been suggested to me that it's a bit 'not right' to listen to Wagner on random play...is that so? Am I a lone weirdo?

The thing is, it doesn't do a great deal for me musically. There are no passages in it that create that special feeling. There are passages in all the others that instantly travel from my ears through my brain to my lymphatic system and make me want to clench and stretch my muscles simultaneously. But not Dutchman.

I have to confess that I was bored for large stretches. I didn't feel moved by the orchestra - I didn't get that Wagnerian blaze of complex sound; I didn't feel that there was an overall arch the work, which I feel instinctively is not only within Wagner's writing but is also crucial to one's enjoyment. I thought the Spinning Chorus and a lot of the stuff that surrounds it  resembles early Verdi or best-forgotten Donizetti. I was almost wishing there was an interval so that I could leave.

And then, something happened. It was just about the point that the Dutchman and Senta got together. I had just looked at my watch and clocked it as 9.40. It seemed that I had been there all evening, and there was still a long way to go. Something just clicked.

I saw the conductor wave his arms in that classic move also beloved by amateur conductors - All together now, loud! They all sat up and started giving it welly; meanwhile, on the stage, something special was happening. Bryn Terfel and Anja Kampe exploded, with some fantastic singing, and even better assumption of the characters.

The action moved on relentlessly, there were barnstorming choruses, and the rather confusing end - as far as I could tell, Senta did not kill herself. Apparently, this was to distance us from the misogyny of Wagner's interpretation of the myth, which merrily assumed that all's well with the world as long as women submit to men's needs. I think that rewrite is a bit patronising, actually. It's not exactly verismo anyway, what with the Dutchman having sailed the world for several hundred years only coming ashore once every seven years from his ship crewed by ghosts.

I enjoyed what I saw of the production, although most of it was out of my line of sight because of my poor seat. Throughout most of the first act I didn't really appreciate Bryn Terfel's character portrayal. He seemed to be somewhat detached from the action but I understood later how this contributed to his character. Not exactly a romantic hero, despite Senta's daydreams, and despite her infatuation at first sight, despite not knowing him to be her hero. He was sad and lonely, despairing and frustrated.

I had heard bad reports about his singing, notably that his voice had worn out in Act III on opening night. In Act I I heard some mediocre singing, that characteristic straining the words and notes through the side of his mouth, some sprechsang phrases low down in the register, and so did not look forward to Act III. To my delight he was mesmerising, his voice noble and beautiful. I am haunted by a still and measured presence, very spare yet naturalistic movements, as if he was an outsider looking in on a life he desired but could not have.

The most impressive singer was Hans-Peter König, whose vocal lines were effortless and full of legato. I warmed to Anja Kampe, once I got used to her steely tone. she had moments of shrillness, generally a no-no in sopranos, but they were few, and didn't detract from a strong performance, although I didn't think that she created or projected much of a personality. Torsten Kerl was disappointing in a relatively small but important role, especially having impressed me so much in Die Tote Stadt. I enjoyed John Tessier, perhaps as much for his athleticism as his singing, and Clare Shearer was fine.

In my special seat I had an unusual view of the stage, or, more correctly, the wings. The overture plays while a dirty white shower curtain hangs down from the proscenium. It waves in the wind and water streams down it, to portray the storm that so clearly sounds in the music. My view was a stage hand standing and holding it and wiggling it; no doubt he had a counterpart on my side.

Throughout the entire opera water drips audibly into the strip of water at the front of the stage; this seemed to be directly opposite where I was sitting; again and again my eyes were drawn.

Bryn makes his entrance (I think it's the first entrance, I may be wrong), by pulling a rope behind him. I was able to see stage hands in the wings reeling it out and in again. At one stage I noticed that, rather than being lit from the lighting gantry, the lighting came from a set up in the wings. From time to time I wondered about the purpose of a structure that resembled a small portable scaffolding set, also standing in the wings. It did not seem to be part of the lighting rig and I simply could not see its purpose. All became clear in the finale when the structure stretched upwards like an old-fashioned drying rack (or maiden) but metallic rather than wood. And out of it came a very steep gangplank, which, as far as I could see was the centrepiece of the scene where the Dutchman finally leaves land to rejoin his ship.

Overall it was a mixed bag. I think an hour and a half was a long wait to get forty five minutes of magic. If the entire opera had been like the final scene of Act II and Act III it would have been a superb and unforgettable night. I am a bit sad I didn't have the chance to see it from a full view seat (but I'll live). I thought it a thoughtful and effective production, but I can't say I like the opera any more as a result - in some ways it has only served to highlight its position relative to the Ring, Tristan, Lohengrin, Tannhauser, Parsifal, and even Meistersinger, another one I don't love.

Parsifal in Berlin

Those of who who have been watching my linklog or noticing my autoblog posts will have noticed, in particular, two blogposts on this subject

Berlin: Embarassingly underprepared Domingo as Parsifal with Meier, Salminen and Barenboim

As Parsifal, Plácido Domingo was notoriously underprepared, relying heavily on audible prompting, especially in the second act. Famous for his acting skills, he had no connection with the character at all, seemingly stretching himself to the maximum to get through it alive and pronounce the words at least partially correct. Has he ever been dramatically convincing as the innocent fool? I suspect not. But yesterday he was painfully unconvincing, almost downright terrible, I (as a staunch Domingo-Wagner fan) am very sorry to say. The tones, however, were beautiful and probably not to be heard better by anyone today in this part. In a concert performance he would have been stunning. However, is it really possible to watch a performance with no chemistry between Plácido Domingo and Waltraud Meier? I wouldn´t have thought so, but apparently it is.

with 'lively' comments thread

Parsifal, Staatsoper Unter den Linden, 6 March 2009

The true musical disappointment, I am sad to say, was Domingo’s Parsifal. When I have heard him as Siegmund, most recently for the Royal Opera, I have been greatly impressed. Here, however, it sounded as though detractors of his Wagner performances might have been right along. Given that I, not a native speaker, was constantly troubled by his pronunciation, then Germans most certainly should have been. More seriously, he seemed to have forgotten more than a little of the text, both verbal and musical. At one point, he simply gave up on a line, whilst there were plentiful instances of mangled syntax – it sounded as though the spear were to melt rather than to heal Amfortas’s wound – accompanied by all too audible interventions from the prompter. To begin with, I thought the latter was a deranged member of the audience, so loud were her contributions. Moreover, Domingo, for the first time in my experience, both looked and sounded old. One simply could not believe that this was Wagner’s ‘pure fool’. Salminen, hardly at the outset of his career, seemed a youthful Gurnemanz by comparison: a strange and troubling inversion.

Obviously, anybody reporting on anything but the basic facts is bound to introduce subjectivity. However, I have been reading both these blogs more or less since they began, both in 2007, and they rank amongst the best writers on opera on the web. Neither puts their ego before their desire to report accurately, they are both deeply knowledgeable about their subject matter,and they are amongst the blogs least requiring a pinch of salt.

This morning I received an email from Raffe who attended

All the bad things you've read on blogs are true...  The prompter costarred extensively during the 2nd act.  :-( I send two (crap) photos from the curtain call, plus one photo of a PD concert flyer that I got outside the opera house.  Picture of PD is here obviously taken during the fairly recent hunky, bearded, slim period. This Placifal is best forgotten.  I'm considering switching to the Salminen crowd ;-)

to which I replied

I think we should campaign for a return to hunky, bearded, slim Pláci  (says me who is having chocolate cake for  brunch!)

Thanks Raffe!

 

He looks just stunning in that picture, although the sharp eyed among you will notice the Amore Infinito CD cover, so what with flying Ryan Air to Baden Baden, several kilometres walk to the Rennplatz Iffezheim and Papal Poetry, I think I can miss this concert! All it really needs is Katherine Jenkins as support singer to make it unforgettable!

Of course René Pape cancelled this appearance and Monday's, plus Thursday's at the Barbican. I'm thinking of cancelling, too - a no-name cast, a cello concerto I didn't book for and have no interest in, and sitting downwind of Valery Gergiev. So if anybody wants Stalls Row G ticket for £30, face value £32, email me before 3pm Monday, if you can meet up for exchange in Brixton or Westminster/Victoria areas at a mutually convenient time.

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...

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

The Ring

Tomlinson Rescues Royal Opera's 'Ring'

A good summary review based upon the cycle I also attended.

The apparently ageless Placido Domingo reprised his familiar Siegmund, running out of steam a bit at the end of Act 1 but otherwise singing with ardent enthusiasm and the breath control of a tenor half his 66 years.

I filled in my happy sheet today - the Royal Opera House, like training courses and hotels, requests feedback on performances. I decided to have a moan about the bad way that soft drinks are served. I suddenly realised at the start of Act III that I really wanted/needed water. £2 they charge for it. And they had no chilled bottles....If I had realised in timeI would of course have got a £1 bottle from the newsagent, chilled.

Siegfried

It's a week since I saw this, and it's about time that I wrote a review. But I have been either tired or busy ever since, except at work, but writing long reviews of long operas isn't the smartest thing to do at work.

I have somewhat ambiguous feelings towards Siegfried as an opera. I don't feel the same emotional involvement as I do with Die Walküre, I don't have the same feeling of light and hope that I do for Rheingold, and I don't think the orchestral music is as glorious as is Gotterdammerung.

And, having sat through this a couple of years ago and not really enjoyed it, plus it was coming so soon after a glorious and special Walküre, so my expectations were very low.

I enjoyed the vorspiel (incidentally, I have had an amusing 'search request' for 'vorspiel foreplay' - I suppose it is a literal translation, but I don't think they carry the same actual meaning...!). It opens with a curtain down, covered with various equations, like differential calculus or maybe thermal dynamics. Mime (Gerhard Siegel) wrote E=mp3, which made me laugh, but no one else seemed to - perhaps the seemingly complex equations confused people, which is ironic, because I bet 90% of the audience can read musical notation better than I can.

I promptly fell asleep, to wake with a jolt at John Tomlinson's entrance as Wanderer; the scene between him and Gerhard Siegel as  Mime passed quickly enough. Siegfried is basically a whole sequence of duets. I enjoyed the Forging Scene.

Taken overall, Act II was a real highlight. A lot of people thought that the staging was naff, with a stag and a doe being wheeled on to reprsent Siegfried's parents. I didn't mind that. I loved the slaying of the dragon scene. Both Peter Sidhom (Alberich) and Philip Ens (Fafner) acquitted themselves well in brief appearances. And I more or less enjoyed the Woodbird scene, although being near the top of the Amphitheatre, I think I saw more than the director intended of the puppetry. I liked it when Ailish Tynan was lowered on a wire to actually be the woodbird. I thought she sounded gorgeous.

The first scene of the final act will stay in memory for a long time. It is an amazing piece of theatre. The stage is dominated by a slab which spins at some speed (and always on a tilt). Onto this were projected abstract images of clouds and so on. John Tomlinson's vocal performance was good, his dramatic portrayal was amazing, and Catherine Wyn-Rogers as Erda was memorable.

The second scene wasn't bad, either. And then the final scene started. I was pleasantly surprised at how pleasant John Treleaven as Siegfried sounded in his monologue at the beginning. I even had hopes for the Love Duet. Sadly, my hopes were dashed. It was really really awful. Treleaven absolutely murdered it; Lisa Gasteen finished it off. She was so  bad in this, a significant contrast with her performance on Die Walküre, and, as I was subsequently to find, in Gotterdammerung, as I had also noted in the original exposition of the production, that I can't help but wonder whether she is being dragged down by her singing partner. It is such a shame because it ought to be one of the musical highlights of the Ring.

And it completely ruined the mood for me. For the second half of Act 1, all of Act 2 and for the first scene of Act III I had been indulging in serious crying. It really is an indulgence and a great catharsis. It's not like my tears of self-pity or of exhaustion, and it's not like crying at a funeral. Crying at an opera (or a film etc) is a form of entertainment, because the sub-conscious knows that the emotions are manufactured and finite, with no consequences. And yet, the Love duet, I couldn't cry.

Overall, I enjoyed the performance much more than I thought I would. This is largely due to the way it was written (thank you Wagner!) and also to the orchestra. I'm not really sure what to say about the orchestra and its conducting. There was no place where I sat up and thought - gosh, I have never heard it played that way before. I feel that I have heard the opera, the cycle, sufficient numbers of times to know when something is going spectacularly badly or well, but other than the occasional duff note or chord, somewhat inevitable in live performances of this length, there was nothing that really hit me. I suppose that that mean that the interpretation was bland; I can't really say. I am not sure that I want an interpretation that is so idiosyncratic that it challenges my comfortable familiarity. And I can't say I have any great expertise in assessing orchestra or conductor, except that I know when something gives me a warm feeling or leaves me cold. I was tending to warm feeling.

In praise of John Treleaven

The Covent Garden Ring Cycle was beset by withdrawals, due to offspring's broken finger, severe colds, even a cover had a broken arm. One by one the characters got killed - by brother, in a row over a ring; by a brother-in-law he had cuckolded; by Wotan; in childbirth; stabbed for being a dragon;stabbed for being a mean gnome; and it was only after 15½hours that John Treleaven succumbed to being stabbed in the back.

Throughout three acts of the eponymous Siegfried, when he was barely off-stage at all, into the Prelude and 2½ acts of Gotterdammerung, I think we can all agree that John Treleaven gave 110% in effort. Totally energetic, absolutely unflagging, through four cycles (including the Preview Cycle), 25-30 hours of singing above a large orchestra, and there was never a time I couldn't hear him; I'm sure that applied to Cycles 0-2, too. The Royal Opera House selected him to play Siegfried, something he did with absolute commitment, in the performances in Autumn 05/Spring 06, too. And for that, I have to give him total respect.

I feel I ought to say that, because it seems cruel to criticise him. From what I saw, he was totally professional throughout. I have little time for singers who are obviously not trying. No one can level that accusation at John; he was very trying. I don't think he was up to the job, but he was appointed by the Royal Opera House. Appointed and retained. I hope he hasn't been reading the reviews, because he did what we all hope we can do in our respective occupations - gave everything to a job that was beyond his capabilities. I think we can all look ourselves in the mirror when we know we have tried our utmost at a difficult job. It does us no good to find out that people found us lacking. Apparently, he has a substantial career throughout Europe. Perhaps that is in smaller houses than Covent Garden. Perhaps in houses with less exacting standards. And we all know that Siegfried, especially in Siegfried, is a bastard part to sing.

I just feel I ought to say all this, rather than letting my reviews dwell too much on him. I do not want to disrespect the man, when his performance indicated that he is an honest committed performer of much integrity.

Let's just say that I find his voice unremittingly ugly. Let's just say that I found that his wobble/squawk unpleasant on the ears - before I had even attended I was drawing parallels with a dislocated shoulder. His singing was akin to a dislocated shoulder, unfortunately the NHS wasn't handing out free pethidine to get through. Some singers get compared to chocolate, velvet, crystal. John Treleaven - a dislocated shoulder. Another commentator said - and I quote

I would rather have watched 12 hours of a radio-controlled squid than the performance of a Mr John Treleaven

Bizarre as it may seem, the radio-controlled squid was actually an option at Another Opera House...in keeping with Monteverdi's wishes, I'm sure.

But without John Treleaven we would not have had Siegfried, and would have had a rather lop-sided Gotterdammerung with a massive hole in it.

And what a glowing testament to Wagner that not even Mr T could ruin his music...well, except for the final scene of Siegfried, but I suppose I just have to live with that. And I'm not even going to comment on his acting. He has massive stage presence. He has an innate musicality. It seems clear to me that he has a deep understanding of the score and what notes he ought to be singing. The fact that he couldn't hit many of them is entirely beside the point.

Right, I've acknowledged the elephant in the room; hopefully I can review the two operas now.

It's all over...

The Ring Cycle 2007 has come to an end. Eight emotional days. (Plus my bonus Die Walküre, of course). A couple of weeks ago I read something somewhere, sadly can't remember where, which suggested that attending a Ring Cycle  is a voyage of self-discovery. I have to admit that I was sceptical. I thought that I would gain a great deal of enjoyment and learn more about the actual operas. And I have. I don't think it's been a life-changing experience, but I would definitely agree that it's been a voyage of self-discovery.

Over the weekend I shall write reviews of Siegfried and tonight's Gotterdammerung, and I haven't forgotten my Die Walküre, curtain-call photos. Of course, my personal highlight has been Plácido as Siegmund, twice. You would not expect me to say otherwise. And meeting Plácido, a few times! But I will concede that this was John Tomlinson's Ring. I am so happy to have been proved so totally wrong. I had a little on-blog argument about JT's wobble. And yeah, he wobbled. He failed to ring out on the high notes. His is not a beautiful voice.

But OMG what an amazing performance! Utterly stupendous. Dramatically, all round sheer excellence. But that doesn't begin to describe it. You can't do convincing dramatic in opera without having the score in your bloodstream, without knowing the music, interpreting the music. People say "Voice first..." I say horlicks. John Tomlinson proved that it isn't necessarily about bel canto but about living and projecting the  role. Monumental. And if he doesn't get the appropriate award (Olivier award??), there is no justice in this world. This evening, he joined the curtain calls, despite not being in Gotterdammerung (he was dressed in a suit) and the house almost without exception rose in a standing ovation of tribute (I spotted maybe six people still sitting in the Amphitheatre).

My personal Ring journey began three years and eight months ago. Since then I have had the rare privilege of attending three different Rings, all within Zone 1 of London Transport. I suspect that this sequence in such a short period is unprecedented in any city and unlikely to be repeated. Lucky me! (And no, I never seldom considered myself part of a three ring circus!). In that,  I only missed the Proms Siegfried.  I can chalk up 4 Rheingolds, 6 Die Walküres, 3 Siegfrieds and 4 Gotterdammerungs. And now I feel bereft. For the first time in my recent opera-going life, I don't know where my next Ring Opera is coming from - although I've got Parsifal in December! But my life has been enhanced by that experience, and I believe that my self-knowledge has too.

It has been tiring and emotionally draining being at a Ring Cycle. I am rather pleased that nothing else has been going on this week. I was fortunate that most of my work this week has been downloading reports from the accounting system, which is about as dry as it gets, and although requiring concentration doesn't require emotional or intellectual input. Tomorrow - today - is Arsenal vs Manchester United, on Monday my lover has a minor operation. But this week has been Ring Ring Ring.

There have been a few people who have been a big and important part of my life this week - Mandy, Mo and Raffe, who have done the cycle with me, plus of course Anne Marie. Other people I have seen around and repeatedly:  a mother and son from Zurich;  David and Frances whom I chatted with at Rheingold and then kept seeing in the distance;  the familiar-faced smokers out on the terrace;  and, of course, the people sat near me - we even had our own little saga:  what would Rudolph's excuse for being late be this time - Easy Jet, M25, "I've been in the West End since 2pm...", and Rudolph's delightful colleague who I have chatted with but we never exchanged names. The man with the crutches, the woman with the cushion, the Irish women with their dry 'alternative' commentary. And the favourite of the Upper Amphitheatre, the noisy sweet unwrapper! I've spent more time with these people than I have with my work colleagues and most certainly than I have with my partner! And to the bloggers who have been there, too - especially Mostly Opera, Intermezzo, boulezian and Tales of a Cultural Hedonist (I think I was the only person who blogged ENO's Das Rheingold; opera blogging has come a long way since then). And a special thanks to my mother, who hasn't phoned during this special time ;-)

I don't suppose I will ever forget my first Ring Cycle. I don't know when I shall do it again...I expect something will happen in that great year of 2013 (or will my ambition be a Verdi cycle?)

Capsule review of the mythical Act III of Die Walküre

I say 'mythical' because people keep telling me that there is a third act of Die Walküre but for some reason I rarely get round to playing it at home.

I meant to write a long review last night, but Real Life got in the way, in a pleasant way.

So, Act III Bloody Good. I cried. Magic Fire Music beautiful. Pyrotechnics worked. I cooed.

Tonight is Siegfried (I'm taking a book,and some ear-plugs), but, hopefully by the end of the weekend I shall have edited and uploaded some of the photos from the Die Walküre Curtain Call

The second interval...

We gathered on Floral Street, in the rain, to queue and to wait. Plácido had said that he would be by the Stage Door at the second interval; him having said that guaranteed that many other people also would be, a lot more than last week, actually, probably word had spread. not only was it wet, it was also cold, but even though I had my umbrella (in contrast to a previous occasion), my coat was in the ROH cloakroom - I had not envisaged waiting outside for so long. Still, that gave us plenty of time to discuss what we wre going to say. I decided that I was going to say nothing, simply go down on my knees and worship ("Again?" someone asked...). Intelligent questions would  be such as "When are we next going to see you in London..." - incidentally, last week, Mo asked him about the Albert Hall concert. Nothing has been fixed yet, no indication of dates, but it's likely to be a zarzuela evening. Less intelligent questions could be 'When are you next going to perform with wonderful Katherine Jenkins?'.  We contemplated what an obsessive-fanatical total fan would do at this point - I know what you're thinking, but honest, I do retain a sense of perspective. Besides, there comes a point where obsessive-fanatical-total fandom becomes very disrespectful. However, if I were that sort of person, I would not have been standing out in the rain. I would have run out of the opera house at the second the conductor's baton fell, heaving with me my large collection of CDs, DVDs, pictures, magazine articles etc to be signed. I would present to him a love poem I had written especially - or perhaps a narrative of a fantasy scenario -  and a list of my future engagements when I shall be next slavishly following him. I'm telling you, we were waiting a long time.

I felt rather proud of my bullying skills, as I took the rearguard behind Anne Marie, Mandy and Raffe, all of whom I had bullied into accompanying me in star-stalking. We had to wait quite a long time just inside the door-to-the-street. The man on the door said that it was 'no flash photography', so Raffe took a couple from side on, and I was going to, but then someone else came to clarify that it was 'no photographs', so I didn't. Instead I just gazed on His Gorgeousness, who was looking especially gorgeous. He was still in costume, his hair and beard dyed, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. I had one of those delicious moments when, despite the fact that I do rather fancy him and I know that I fancy him, and I'm very familiar with his appearance, I experienced a frisson of surprise at how attractive I find him.

Slowly we wended our way towards the front of the queue, anxiously looking at our watches as the time for the curtain for the mythical Act III drew closer (don't fret, I did go to Act III, and will write it up in due course).  The order was Mandy, Anne Marie, two elderly ladies we had let in before us, Raffe and me, and I think there were at least a couple of people behind me - the remainder of the queue was the other side of the glass door.

Anne Marie approached him and said she had seen him in Washington after Die Walkure, but she had felt too intimidated to approach him. "Why?" he asked. I didn't catch what Anne Marie said, but here's her report from that evening . He asked her where she was from; he asked her where she lives. She then produced a score for him to sign, he asked her her name and signed her score to Anne Marie. He then asked her whether she was a musician. She explained that she is a violinist, and waggled her violin case around, so he said -  remember his delicious Spanish accent and his gentle way of speaking,

"Let us make music together..."

which caused certain of us to laugh and say "Ooh...!",  to which he said sternly,

"I said music," (at which point I felt suitably told off - or not...!). We just laughed again.  Of course, if I had had my wits about me, I would have said,

"Well, Plácido, you've been killed off and don't appear in Act III, and Anne Marie doesn't actually have a ticket for the performance, so you've both got time" but I didn't have my wits about me, so I didn't say that...missed opportunity or what...! Naturally, afterwards, I did try teasing Anne Marie, saying 'get in there, girl!' but as she quite rightly pointed out, he is passionate about promoting young musicians.

Of course, after that, any intelligent questions that might have been in my mind completely disappeared; instead I said what I have been wanting to say to him for a long time, which was to thank him for introducing me to opera. and he took my hand, which was really nice, and I was happy. And I got back to my seat in time for Act III!

People often say you shouldn't meet your heroes; by this they mean that if you idolise someone and then you meet them, it can be disappointing to find out that they are not as you believe them to be, that you can get a nasty shock if they turn out not to be likeable.

Fortunately for me, I hero worship someone very special, someone who, it is almost universally acknowledged is a very special person.  and is unfailingly courteous to fans. For example, appearing at the Stage Door like this, after a long and arduous performance - he is under no obligation to, and it must be quite tiring to then spend an hour signing autographs and welcoming so many people.  It's wonderful that he does, and I for one am extremely grateful as to how approachable he is. And it's wonderful to get the opportunity to tell him - however inadequately - how much he means to me.

And yet, paradoxically, the fact that he is so approachable and so down-to-earth, a good laugh, who comes over in such situations as relaxed and laid back, nice and friendly, actually just confuses me, because he's a complete legend in the music world, 58th Greatest Living Genius, and he is a consummate performer. Even on days like today when he didn't sing as well as I have heard him sing previously, he was still marvellous:  the singing, the dramatic portrayal, the stage presence, the charisma were truly something special. He's earned the right to act like a divo, but he absolutely doesn't, which just makes me admire him even more. And yet I am confused between placing the musician on a pedestal and being fairly informal with the person. I don't know how much longer he will be singing for, probably not more than about five years (but who knows...) and I just feel even more determined to hear him as often as I can.

Die Walküre (Cycle 3) Act II

The lights went down and Antonio Pappano was cheered to the podium. The curtain opened to reveal John Tomlinson as Wotan performing an act very close to furniture abuse - rifling through a pile of books on the floor and flinging them away. I presume this is Valhalla,, although it bears an uncanny resemblance to The Hundings' place back on earth. I suppose this retrospectively underlines Hunding's religious devotion, perhaps this included careful perusal of the Ancient Norse Mythological version of Hello magazine. There was the same table, set exactly as it had been in Act I, with even the overturned chair in the same position. The chaise longue was also there, now upended. At the back we saw a smashed window, on the left hand wall at the back was a lopsided bookcase. Wotan's pile of books was in the centre of the stage, next to a hole in the ground, similar to that which had led from his old gaffe to Nibelheim, and perhaps most importantly, the double helix, its lowest horizontal being the roots of the ash tree of life. And there was red rope.

I proceeded to get an attack of the stupids in quite spectacularly brain-dead style. I was confused by the music, which sounded a bit like the Ride of the Valkyries, and there were various Valkyries dancing around. I actually thought for a moment that somehow I had missed Act II and we were actually in Act III. How likely was that to happen? Then Wotan addressed Brunnhilde - Lisa Gasteen - and told her to saddle her horse and ride off into battle to ensure the Wälsung wins. I snapped to, and realised that of course it was Act II. We see Brunnhilde  being playful and carefree, her 'Hojotoho's prompted by Wotan's playful goading with his spear.

Next,  the interminable scene between Wotan and Fricka. It's quite a difficult scene because it is extremely important dramatically, explaining why Wotan has to behave the way he does, the nature of the relationship between Wotan and Fricka, his wife and the goddess of marriage, and a discourse on free will. But nothing actually happens, the vocal writing is possibly the least interesting in the entire opera, and it was not especially beautiful listening.

Rosalind Plowright portrayed Fricka convincingly, but I just didn't find her voice particularly attractive. John T is dramatically and physically the incarnation of Wotan, but parts of his voice are totally shot to pieces. I did pause to consider that Bryn Terfel would have sounded like in the role (I have heard him sing it three times) and while I will concede that if he had been bothered to turn up he would have hit every note and on pitch and sounded beautiful, but Bryn Who? wasn't missed by the occupant of my seat. Sir John T did a marvellous job of covering up for the areas where his voice is past its best. In some passages, rather than sing, he declaimed in a way that was not speaking, not parlando, and certainly not singing, but, you know, it really worked. And throughout, his acting was total and intense.

Fricka left and Brunnhilde arrived for what seems like a very long scene. I have a very weird habit, or talent, or weakness of managing to be awake and asleep simultaneously. So, I can be fully aware of what is going on on stage and yet have absolutely no control over what is going on in my head, so I am watching the action, listening to the music, incapable of reading the surtitles and unable to intellectualise what I can sense, whilst totally unconnected thoughts, scenarios and hallucinations are flashing uncontrolled through my mind. It is different from when I am falling asleep and is different again from when I am actively day-dreaming or fantasising. So I can't tell you a great deal about that scene, although  reading  through the libretto tells me I didn't actually  miss any of it, never actually drifted away.

I came dramatically back to a state ofcompos mentis when Wotan dramatically issued the curse onto the son of the Nibelung, and was witness to the poignant dialogue when Wotan, against his own will, orders Brunnhilde to ensure the death of Siegmund, in accordance with Fricka's decree and against the will of Brunnhilde herself (but she has no free will, anyway).

Dramatic music heralds the return of Sieglinde and Siegmunde, hauling themselves though the wilds of the Rhineland and across the stage with only the red rope, which Brunnhilde had attached to the chaise longue, to guide them. The exchange between them is intimate and sad; the love between them is true, but wrong, and doomed.

The most amazing music of the evening creates a palpable frisson around the theatre as an orchestral interlude introduces the second great scene of the opera. I'm not sure whether it's quite correct to describe Brunnhilde's comment as a Chat-up Line, perhaps more of a come-on, indeed, literally, a summoning of Siegmund to accompany her Nur Todgeweihten taugt mein Anblick; wer mich erschaut der scheidet vom Lebenslicht., basically,whoever gazes on me is doomed to die...I can't quite remember the exact translation used in the surtitle, but it sends a chill through me every time, and definitely qualifies as one of the better invitations of the evening.

It's an extraordinary scene, one that is given poignancy by being acted with utter dignity, poise and restraint, the slow question and answer, that makes me well up with tears as I write about it, his hope that in Valhalla he will find his father (still not realising that his father Walse is in fact Wotan in disguise, that Brunnhilde is also his sister); and the dignity and heartbreak of  "So grüsse mir Walhall, grüsse mir Wotan..." Unfortunately, this was not the vocal highlight of the evening, and, with hysterical over-reaction being not just my forte but also my default mode, I actually thought for one ghastly moment "this is the end of a long and beautiful career". The next phrase was long and very beautiful, and I breathed again. He recovered well, and when he got to "Zwei Leben lachen dir hier: nimm sie, Notung" he was powerful, dramatic, amazing. But in that passage, one of my very favourite, he had sounded strained and struggling, a bit phlegmy, perhaps not helped by singing in a kneeling position.

After that scene the final scene is almost a let-down, as if it was almost an afterthought by Wotan - fling in a Mad Scene from Sieglinde, but a bit of a half-hearted one; oh, better make sure we kill off that Walsung Boy, who's now a dramatic inconvenience. As I wrote in a previous post, I do get a secret pleasure (okay, not so secret because I've written in on the internet on a blog that's getting a lot of search requests today for 'Die Walküre'  - patience, please...) from that death scene. A small dramatic device which speaks volumes is when Wotan pauses to look at the corpse of Siegmund, conveying regret, sorrow, knowledge that his own days are limited. Very clever...

Blinking again into the light, a dash to the Ladies, where I discover my mascara has streaked all down my face...hmm, how did that happen...and then outside onto Floral Street, which, to my surprise, is all dark. Damned clock changes.

Die Walküre (Cycle 3) Act I

I was sick with nerves 'audience fright' as the curtain opened, half of me so looking forward to this, the other half absolutely petrified that I had built my hopes and expectations so high that I would be so sorely disappointed. Almost certainly the last time we will hear Plácido sing Siegmund in London.

This opera has become so infused in my bloodstream over the past couple of weeks that I now have to say it is my favourite. Over and again I keep playing it, almost to the point of obsession. I would actually have to try very hard (or get a score or something...) to make Act I any more familiar.

This was my fourth time seeing this production of Die Walküre in the Royal Opera House, and having seen it little over a week ago, there were no surprises. A lot of people have criticised it, and, I suppose if your preference is for literal naturalistic productions, I can see why it is irksome. Act I is set in Hunding's house,where Sieglinde, Hunding's wife (and property) also lives. As you look at the stage, this consists of a chaise longue on the left, and a long table on the right with - I think -two chairs next to it, one either side. At the rear of the stage is a box, suspended above the stage and slightly at an angle. Entwined around this is a giant double helix from floor to ceiling.

The first scene focuses on a stranger stumbling into this house and encountering the woman of the house. Tentatively, shyly, they converse, introducing themselves to each other, each telling a part of their recent history - how he has fled, his spear and sword smashed, from his enemies. Refreshed by the mead she offers him, he says he must be on his way and not let his bad luck spread to her house. She says stay, you can't bring any more bad luck to this house, he says, I call myself 'Woeful', which as conversations go isn't exactly going to feature in 100 Best Chat-Up Lines...But you can tell they are drawn to each other in a mysterious magical rapport.

Then Hunding arrives, and makes sure we know who is Boss by throwing his axe into the kitchen table. Sieglinde explains how this stranger stumbled in; Hunding offers hospitality, and begins to quiz the stranger abut who is. This prompts a surtitle which isn't supposed to, but, invariably makes me giggle (inwardly), translating 'Friedmund darf ich nicht heissen with 'I can't call myself "Peaceful"' (I wonder how this translates in Spanish opera houses...). He goes on to tell his life story which is really quite moving - heartbreaking, indeed. Slowly it emerges that the stranger and Hunding are enemies, and Hunding is obliged to challenge him to a fight, but in the morning, so as not to break the laws of hospitality.

I think what I find engaging about this scene is that because so very little actually happens, it is all just tale telling, filling in of back history, the director might be tempted to fill it with extraneous actions and superfluous props, get the singers to over-act. This did not happen here, with the music being allowed to speak for itself, to set the atmosphere, to highlight key milestones, such as the arrival of Hunding (his hunting horn sounds). The singers are liberated to interact with each other in spare movements, reflecting their hesitancy and shyness.

Scene 3 is possibly the greatest scene in the whole operatic repertoire and it opens with remarkable staging. The stranger is alone on a barely lit stage, left to ponder and soliloquise on his situation and his fate, how he has stumbled into the house of his enemy and has been challenged to a fight. He remembers the sword that his father promised he would find in his deepest distress; in distress the ringing call of Walse! Walse!" accompanied by an increasingly agitated orchestra signals the start of twenty minutes or so that pass in the blink of an eye, the acme of perfect opera writing.

He ponders on the feelings that he has for this woman, the realisation that he is love. It think it is at this point that he hits out at the ladder, which is lit in bright colours. I am puzzled about the ladder; it is the same place as the ladder that allowed Wotan and Loge to descend to Nibelheim, is this breaking of the ladder symbolic of his breaking with his father, who, although he doesn't know it, is Wotan in disguise. But, officially, we don't know that yet, either, so maybe it merely emphasises that he is different from the world of the self-centred gods and those that believe in them, such as Hunding.

The stranger, who calls himself Woeful, because he cannot be called Peaceful retires to the chaise longue to settle down for the night under his cloak with a real dead animal round the neckline (which I hope in this day and age is a fake real dead animal). Sieglinde tiptoes in, saying she has drugged Hunding's drink. she offers to show him a sword and recounts how this sword was left by an old man who had crept into her wedding - her Forced Marriage to Hunding - and had left the sword embedded in the tree. At this point we hear the Wotan leitmotif, telling us what the characters are ignorant of - the identity of the mysterious figure with his hat pulled down over his eye. She hints that she knew who the stranger was and for whom he left the sword, which none of the guests could pull out of the tree. She longs for that stranger today, and if she could find the 'friend' for whom he left the sword, she would embrace him as a hero. The stranger responds that he is the friend, and wishes to make her his wife, in what must count as one of the better Chat-Up Lines of the evening.

The door bangs, and rose petals float down on a joyful Sieglinde; those familiar descending arpeggios begin, the stage is bathed in light, the Stranger climbs the short ladder to the box and sings Winterstürme, such a beautiful piece of music. As I let the music soak into my consciousness, I used to ears to focus on the gorgeous tone of the singer, on whom my binoculars were focused and I watched him intently. A single rose petal fell and he caught it in his hand; I was not sure whether this was an instinctive reaction to a minor - very minor - technical hitch or whether it was carefully choreographed; either way, it worked. He delivered much of the aria standing against the wall of the box, his body in the stance of an awkward teenager overcome by the power of first love. Sadly I had one of those 'misread surtitle moments' where I mistakenly misread 'Springfield' instead of 'Springtime', which is what happens as a consequence of a certain Wagnerian tenor guest starring on the Simpsons...

The scenes moves on relentlessly increasingly climatically, with the characters having realised that they are twin brother and sister, with her naming him Siegmund, and proclaiming the sword to be his, the sword he pullsout of the tree in a semi-climax, but we are not finished yet, the climax is yet to come, with the most amazing music creating an erotic and joyful atmosphere, and Siegmund offering Sieglinde the sword as a wedding gift, and declaring that she will be his sister and wife, and that the Walsung bloodline will increase (which is a startling but persuasive Chat-Up Line).

Why am I writing all this, when the synopsis is so readily available on-line? Because I want to relive and remember for ever the strong emotions I experienced whilst enjoying this act. Strong emotions brought on by the opera as written and as performed?

No review is ever fully complete without a run through of singers' performances. Stephen Milling was thoroughly scary as Hunding, his voice resonant and dramatic. A rather two-dimensional character which presents opportunities for acting the 'baddie'. An yet it is important to be restrained, not to over-act. Stephen got over to me that Hunding was not an evil baddie. He was master in his own home, he treated his wife as a chattel, and he sought revenge in tribal (or 'Postcode', as we call in it in Inner City London) conflict. The only overtly religious character, he's a simple product of his environment and lives according to his code of right and wrong - which is quite different from Siegmund's.

I enjoyed Eva Maria Westbroek's performance as Sieglinde. I didn't detect any major problems in singing and I would be more than happy to hear her again in this role or in others. But I did find her voice without much interest, I detected no inherent beauty. And whilst her interpretation of the role was more than satisfactory, I didn't find her stage presence to be especially convincing. Good, but not great.

As for Plácido, I have to say that I have heard him perform this role better than this, on several occasions. He really was not at his best. But Plácido Domingo performing at below his best is still something very special. I have to single out the finishing 'Wälsungen-Blut!' as being underpowered and cut short, especially in relation to the amazing climax if last week. But, as was pointed out to me, it's the overall performance that matters more than any particular note - and I certainly don't want to turn into one of those freakish-idiotic high-note obsessives who appear to ignore 99.99% of what an opera is about in order to focus on a point-scoring contest.

And the overall performance vocally and dramatically was splendid. Like last week,I went through a variety of emotions/thoughts. I do not see there thinking 'ooh, it's Plácido, he's my hero' - absorbed in the opera, I view him as Siegmund. Then I hear a beautiful note or phrase, that familiar way he has of caressing his throat around the notes, astounding low notes, the feeling and expressiveness he puts into how the notes sound, sometimes riding the orchestra like steel, sometimes softly caressing my ears, and I gulp with pleasure. I love the way he throws himself into the character. I can peer at him through my binoculars and reflect on how gorgeous he looks, a handsome man with a fine physique. I can marvel at the way he flings himself lithely round stage. I can even note when he seems to be walking with some stiffness in his left knee (which I suppose is the price one pays for falling to the ground so frequently in a performance). But most of all I see a lonely unhappy young man who has faced many adversities in life, I can see the joy as he tastes the happiness of real love. And I am moved.

And then it's time to go blinking out of the auditorium, emotionally in shock, not fully able to process thoughts, heartbroken that once again it was over so quickly, unaware of any physical discomfort I might be suffering. And a little bit of the magic fades, as one has to negotiate narrow corridors of people who feel it is their duty to block the passage of others. I overhear snippets of conversations, some reflecting my own inability to articulate, some fulsome in praise. Others, who have somewhat missed the point...including one woman saying to her companion "so, the brother, that was Domingo...?" How I wanted to say "So, you've just spent the last 65 minutes listening to the Greatest Singer that has ever been on an operatic stage..." and the 58th Greatest Living Genius "...and you didn't realise...?" But one doesn't, does one...!

Tenorial rolling on the ground...

I have this theory that the ultimate way to judge a tenor is by his ability to fall to, and roll about on the stage floor*. When I watch Plácido on DVD and, of course, on stage, I pay particular attention to his flinging himself around the floor of the stage.

Yesterday, at Die Walküre, I tried eespecially hard not just to notice but also to note. Even so I am not sure that I have a full and comprehensive list. I am assuming that the reader is reasonably familiar with Acts I and II of this opera, and isn't too fussed about me pinpointing exact places in the libretto.

In Act I, when Sieglinde is going on about how this stranger with his hat pulled down over one eye turned up at her wedding and planted this sword in the ash tree - and suddenly - Nothung appears, suspended high above the kitchen table, on the double-helix that dominates the stage, Siegmund falls to his knees to gaze in wonder, knowing - hoping - that this is the sword his father promised him in his hour of need.

Later, after Siegmund's glorious Winterstüre and Sieglinde's beautiful Du bist der Lenz, they are in the ubiquiotous Covent Garden wonky box suspended above the stage, under the aeroplane propeller symbolising repressed female sexuality, and are embracing in the realisation of their new-found love, and he sinks to his knees and buries his head in her thigh. Then, a bit later on, in the thrill of young love she is reclining on the dramatically significant chaise longue. He is on his knees beside her, then he joins her on the chaise longue, and then later, again he is on his knees on the floor.

As Act I reaches a climax he leaps onto a chair and onto the kitchen table in order to pull Nothung out of the ash tree. I did think for a tiniest split of a second that he might lose his footing, but he recovered. But his leap from the table to the chair to the floor was even more precarious, but thankfully, he made it...! (For those that keep score of such things, the chair was knocked over in the process).

In Act II, after Wotan's long monologue, Siegmund and Sieglinde return, her fleeing from him in her shame. By hauling themselves along the red rope strung out across the stage, they find themselves in front of the up-turned chaise longue and somehow, they are on the floor. At the end of that scene Sieglinde finally flees, and Siegmund tries to follow her, but instead flings himself from standing to lying on the floor in one easy move, head first, I think, and then lies motionless throughout the long and beautiful orchestral interlude that precedes Brunnhilde's return to announce his fate. His fate is, of course, to be butchered by Hunding. Obviously, when a man gets an axe in his stomach, it is necessary to collapse onto the helix/ash-tree roots that lie more or less horizontal about a foot above stage, to pause momentarily on the helix, and then roll from that height onto the stage and over and over about twice, rolling down stage to come to a halt at the feet of Hunding.

I was extremely satisfied with these manifestations of tenorial falling-to/rolling-on the ground, as demonstrated by the consummate performer of such moves. In fact, I was utterly thrilled at a perfect display of what I adore. I have to say, though, that in the Sexagenarian Ladder Climbing Contest which forms such an important part of this Saga Ring, he comes a distinct third to Messrs Langridge and Tomlinson.

* obviously, I don't really mean this - it's voice first...!

A Valkyrian Ride

I think my review of Die Walküre is going to take more than one blog entry. I only hope that I can capture everything I have to say without writing great tedious detail.

The day didn't start very well. Keyed up and anxious, struggling with the concept of 'time', I found it difficult to settle to sleep, sitting bolt upright, checking whether I had set my alarm, reacting to sounds outside and starting at the creaking noises of an old house. Awake at 5.30 am, or 4.30 as it now was with the clocks gone back, I slept fitfully until alarm went off, probably getting no more than three hours sleep all night. Which was not a good start to the day.

I had allowed myself plenty of time to do all that I had to do, include make that long and difficult transition from being technically awake and 'up', and actually functioning in a rational state. I left the house in plenty of time; when I got on the bus I thought I would phone Jimmy to tell him I was on my way out, only to realise I didn't have my phone with me. I have done this a few times recently, and I feel naked without it, which is sad...I then realised that the nail varnish on my right thumb had wrinkled and creased, which is my own fault for trying to apply some from a bottle which is old and should have been thrown out (but I do like the colour, a ruddy burnished autumnal old gold). Both these facts upset me, although I told myself that if the worst catastrophes that can befall one are a phone left at home and badly applied nail-varnish, life isn't that bad. My journey went extremely well, but for some reason I started hyperventilating as I waited for the lift at Covent Garden station. Which is pathetic. I'm not in the habit of hyperventilating, perhaps once every couple of years, or less, and there was no reason for this. Deep breaths of air, and some desperate drags on my cigarette helped a little, but by the time I arrived on Floral Street I was still discombobulated and anxious.

There were plenty of people hanging around Floral Street, waiting! I was joined by Mandy, Anne Marie and Mo, and we waited for Plácido, wondering if he would arrive on foot, despite the rain. He did, and, of course, was surrounded by a throng of admirers. Of course, I didn't get anywhere near him and I was disinclined to use my best bus-boarding skills and notorious sharp elbows to push other people out of the way. I did take a couple of photos, but they are far from being anything special. I think I spend too long trying to frame the 'perfect' shot rather than just shooting and hoping...we are talking about moments, here. But it was nice to see him and good to find out that he would be around during the second interval. It's very good of him of to be so approachable; because he is, people wait for him. I really do think that if he decided to play the superstar and sneak into the theatre avoiding the fans, all reasonable people would understand.

No longer feeling anxious, a warming and soothing coffee was in order, and then it was time to go to the Royal Opera House for the First Day of the Ring of the Nibelung (Das Rheingold is merely a preliminary evening). One of the aspects I enjoy most about attending Wagner operas, and I suspect that this is even more in the case of a Ring Cycle is that one can pretty much guarantee that nearly everybody is there because of a love of the music, or, at worst, slavish devotion to a particular singer  - and in my view, if you have slavish devotion to a particular singer, it's probably bet also to have a liking for their repertoire. There appears to be an absence of people dressed up to be seen, an absence of people on an early-date-to-impress, and even though I am aware in my head of being a Wagnerian newbie, I don't feel a need to apologise for my inexperience. And most of all is a sense of excitement and anticipation.

I went to my seat and, as expected, my right hand neighbours were the same as for Das Rheingold. But on my left was a new neighbour, we got chatting and it turns out that she is Stephen "Hunding" Milling's manager. I said he had come up in conversation earlier and we were wondering how tall he was. She said didn't know precisely but 'very tall'. Beyond her was someone I visited a few times years ago for Audit purposes, and I often see in the Royal Opera House etc and sometimes on the bus near work. So I said hello, and then I apologised for my ability to remember faces and names from years ago (I'm not so good at recent faces and names...). She said she was due to be writing a review for Wagner News.

The auditorium lights grew dim, the audience chatter went quiet, very quiet, Tony Pappano was applauded onto the podium, and Die Walküre was due to begin. Following my less than wonderful Rheingold experience I tried to lower my expectations, but I just couldn't do that.

The curtains opened...but that is another blogpost!

Das Rheingold

Oh dear!

That's all about me, that comment. Totally bizarre experience. I have been looking forward to this Ring for..how long? - tickets bought 1 November 2006. Season officially announced Spring 06. Saw Rheingold January 2005. It's been a long time.

Cycle 3 began on Friday 26th with Das Rheingold.

In the morning I played the Solti Rheingold, for maybe only the second time on the stereo I got earlier this year, volume loud. Was I excited or was I excited.

It kicked off late, which only serves to increase the tension and excitement. We had already been told that Philip Langridge was suffering from a throat infection but would sing anyway, so I wasn't expecting any cast changes. And there weren't any.

We started in total darkness - total except for the green 'Emergency Exit' signs, the yellow and red lights of the desk in the cockpit (lights? surtitles?), and one tiny ring of gold through the curtain. Sonorously, those low E flats start. Hold onto your seats, we're in for 16 hours of Der Ring des Nibelungen, a journey into the unknown.

The curtain opens on the Rhine, with the most gorgeous mise en scene. A spiders web effect fades to reveal the naked RhineMaidens, bathed in a tasteful blue/green muted light, gambolling and playing in the Rhine. Yes, in the Rhine. And then Alberich appears. I could have sworn last time he slid down a slide in his dinghy. But maybe I have false memory.

The drama unfolds. The music plays. I am bored rigid. I try listening to the music. I try reading the surtitles. I watch the action on stage. I listen to the singing. And finally, two and a half ours later, it's over.

Absolutely no explanation as to why I felt that way. No nicotine cravings. No desperate need to pee. No indigestion or thirst. Cold almost completely gone. No real discomfort despite the cramped seats. Perfect view of the stage. Acoustics excellent. Orchestra in fine form, an intelligent and sensitive reading by Tony Pappano. A superb performance by Philip Langridge as Loge (throat infection not apparent in his singing) , a masterful performance by Peter Sidhom as Alberich, a compelling dramatic portrayal of Wotan by John Tomlinson, whose vocal weaknesses (lack of top, absence of any real beauty in the voice) are easily forgiven. No real weak links - Frieia and Erda made no impression, Froh was wobbly, but those parts are insignificant. Not a dull moment in a production that I like. (Okay, I don't know why there is a model aeroplane, or lots of red rope, or a giant egg timer, but they don't interrupt or contradict the overall logic of the production).

Some amusing effects, especially down in Nibelheim, the big scary dragon grabbing Wotan with one hand from the wings, and Loge with the other, from the other wing. The toad hopping along the front of the stage. The amazing entrance of the giants, with their unforgettable music and their giantness projected onto the rear of the stage. I kept looking at my watch - when is this going to end? The music that takes us across the Rainbow Bridge into Valhalla should be making me cry. Finally, a chord that gives me goose pimples, makes the (non-existent) hairs on my arms stand up. But I didn't care about the characters, I don't really care what happens to this bunch of self-absorbed manipulative you know whats. And it troubles me that I'm putting the blame squarely at Fricka's door. She wanted the Big House, she persuaded Wotan to go into hock over it. Why should I blame her? He's a free agent, he's the one with a will. He didn't have to succumb weakly. Who's the greedy one, her with her lusts for the big castle, or him, desperate to pay the mortgage and thus greedy for the gold? And those Whinemaidens. Entrusted to guard the gold, they failed. Losers.

This post is all about me, and how a very good performance of a beautiful opera, experienced in pretty good physical and mental state, can somehow just leave one cold. Weird.

I hoped that this was not a harbinger that my enormous expectations would be sorely disappointed.

Die Walküre Cycle 2

I have to confess up front that I did not stay for Act III. I realise that this is heretical and hypocritical, and completely wrong, but, in my defence, I will say I was sitting next to the second smelliest man who has ever walked into the Royal Opera House and by the end of Act II he was deteriorating badly. Also, and more importantly, I have been warned by diverse and numerous people of the need to pace myself and not 'overdo it' for the Ring, and for perhaps the first time in my life I am actually listening to sensible advice. (I am on a warning about sickness absence at work) So my 'review' can only be of Acts I and II.

Die Walküre, the first day of the Tetralogy, following the prelude that is Das Rheingold. The Ring as a whole is among my very favourite operas; Act 1 of Die Walküre is without doubt my single favourite act of any opera, and over the past few days I have played about six different versions, some of them more than once, and each time I am disappointed when it ends - at little over an hour it is way too short. Short, but perfect.

It starts with a storm scene in the orchestra. I was so busy watching the strobe lighting effect that I didn't consciously register the amazing double timpani that comes about halfway through the vorspiel, quite possibly the best few instrumental bars in the whole of the Ring Cycle - except for the first 130+ of Rheingold, obviously. Oh heck, my Ring reviews are going to see me go through a raft of definite absolutes...!

And then the singing starts! At which point I realise that my binoculars, slung round my neck, are still in their case, and I have to, micron by micron, unfasten the velcro and discard the case. Then I realise that through the binoculars the stage looks very far away...yeah, I'm using them upside down. Then I realise that the four pieces of glass are grubby; the lower ones from sticky finger prints, the higher ones from make-up that comes off from around my eyes. So I have to set to and clear them, whilst never taking my eyes off the stage or my ears off the music, especially the singing, especially the singing of Siegmund. The seats in the Amphitheatre at Covent Garden are very closely packed, and any excess arm movements are very annoying to one's neighbours. Fortunately, I am blessed with permanently erect nipples which are very handy for cleaning binoculars. And I'm sure that's way too much information.

I expect the story is familiar to all those who have read thus far but if not, a brief synopsis. Musically, it is very familiar to me. Most of the different recorded versions I possess feature the  same singer as Siegmund. And suddenly, my ears tell me that there he is down there on stage. I can see him, which is wonderful enough. Even better, I can hear him! At this point I get very confused about my feelings. This man, whom I hero-worship and thus think about a lot, and find rather attractive. This very nice person I met briefly an hour and a half previously. This Voice which I hear so frequently on CDs and DVDs and mp3s - he's there. I'm scrutinising him closely through my binoculars, thinking how lovely he looks. Watching as he moves round stage, gazing with lust at his lovely thighs. Then I pull myself together. concentrate on the opera. And I then kind of forget all that meta stuff and sit back to enjoy a splendid performance.

I don't think that where I was sitting (P52 of the Amphi) is at all good acoustically. Sadly, I'm in a similar position for my Complete Cycle; however, I soon adjusted to that. I think if you are far back in the Amphi, the sound gets muffled by the overhang and the distance; if you are going to be far back, you are better off on the sides because - I think, I might be talking total rubbish - the sound reflects off the walls. But when I got this ticket a few weeks ago, it was the only one available on the website. For example, the orchestra sounded relatively muffled, which is not how Wagner should sound. That having been said, it's important to note that much of this Act is not heavily orchestrated - it's a kitchen sink drama.

I have seen the production twice before as well as on the TV, and can't really add much to what I previously wrote, except the noir aspect did not bother me this time around. At the time I wrote that, I was unfamiliar with the term 'Furniture Abuse' although I had seen it plenty of time in action. Hunding is responsible for it all in Act I, I think, the most spectacular being the bit where he comes home and flings his axe into the kitchen table. He also knocked over at least one chair. I thought Stephen Milling was well scary as Hunding, I also liked his voice.

I have ambiguous feelings about Sieglinde. Like Mostly Opera, I am very much a fan of Waltraud Meier in this role (and just to clarify, I posted this fact to a newsgroup on Friday night!). So Eva Maria Westbroek was fine in the role. 'Fine' seems like damning with faint praise and isn't meant to be. Again no specific criticisms, vocally pleasant, convincing acting; she acquitted herself well.

And the main character of Act I is Siegmund. This is the point where I get hyper-critical. Plácido Domingo was not perfect.  I adored his performance, and yet, I felt compelled to dwell on the minor flaws. This might be partly a function of my acoustically poor seat, and a result of absorbing myself in so many recordings in such a short time. So it's like I can spot each note that is less than perfect. Which is an unfair way to write a review. I think his voice does take some time to warm up; the first twenty minutes or so contain a lot of recitative (I know that that isn't the right technical phrase but whatever...). But those minute criticisms aside, I just loved him so much. Such a beautiful voice, I could have happily listened with my eyes shut. I spent a lot of time with my binoculars to eyes, watching him. Watching him move about stage like an impetuous troubled young man, expressing the anguish and loneliness of this young man called Woeful. At one point I did ponder the athleticism of someone who is rumoured to be 66 years old, bounding around stage, and then I thought - don't dwell on it, that's what he does.

If Act I is my favourite part of the entire Ring Cycle, Scene III is probably my 'Desert Island Bleeding Chunk'. The pinnacle of great operatic writing. Everything works so well. The orchestra is gorgeous, the use of the different instruments to make different sounds, to create mood. The libretto is moving, as Siegmund describes his need for the sword and his emerging love for this woman Sieglinde. I felt privileged to be in that place, listening to this very great singer performing one of his greatest roles, and revelling in the gorgeousness of his voice.

The scene builds musically and dramatically to Winterstürme - I read the other day that Wagner knows exactly when an aria is called for - and this becomes the most gorgeous love story between two lovely characters. During  the opening descending arpeggios of Winterstürme, when my heart is racing, I manage noisily to depress the plastic on my water bottle. A depressed water bottle has to un-depress, again noisily, and I was convinced the two 'cracks' rang round the auditorium; certainly interrupted my focus on the aria, requiring a metaphorical self-flagellation. This is I think the sixth time I have heard him sing it live, I can't possibly calculate how many times I have heard him sing it on record, and it surely must be a signature aria

And from Winterstürme, the scene moves on relentlessly, the most amazing music, fantastic interpretation, leading up to the point where Siegmund leaps onto the kitchen table to take down Nothung. I couldn't actually hear the line 'Braut und Schwester bist du dem Bruder' and for a fraction of a nano-second my heart stopped and was in my mouth, and then the most amazing 'So blühe denn, Wälsungen-Blut!' pinned me back in my seat - wow!!! And suddenly Act I was over. Over an hour and it seemed like minutes. Minutes where my attention was focused on what was happening in front of me, and I didn't get the slightest nicotine craving (whereas for, say Boheme, I'm wanting a cigarette after the overture...).  My mind and emotions overwhelmed, intelligent thought not possible.

Half an hour and a stiff gin not sufficient to let me pull myself together for Act II, but soon it was time for it to begin. The confrontation between Wotan and Fricka. I was disappointed in Rosalind Plowright; having thought her glorious in this role two years back, I was not so taken this time. John Tomlinson as Wotan was bloody good. Of course, this was the Cycle he was down to do anyway, so I was not in a position to think 'he's not Bryn'. I don't think John has a particularly beautiful voice, and as everybody said after Cycle 1, it's not what it was, quite a lot of strain at the top. And yet, the dramatic portrayal was so total - not just the fact that he was Wotan in his physical and stage acting, but somehow, despite the vocal flaws arising from age, he was, vocally, Wotan to me, so I'm now seriously looking forward to seeing him in Rheingold, Walküre (again), Siegfried and Parsifal.

We had stand-in Brunnhilde, Susan Bullock, on account of Lisa Gasteen having a severe cold. Susan had flown in from (strike-ridden) Paris, arriving at lunch time, and, obviously not having had time to rehearse (that having been said, I refuse to accept that the ROH has no contingency plan for the indisposition of a singer in a major role. Susan Bullock has - reportedly - made quite a name singing Brunnhilde in lesser houses, so I expect that she was probably officially on standby and had walked through the role). Last minute substitute, saving the show, should always get a bit of leeway (for example, when I saw Das Rheingold in January 2005, the very ageing and wobbly Donald McIntyre sang magnificently from the pit whilst Bryn mimed on stage; Cycle 1 Walküre had Stephen Milling miming whilst Clive Bayley sang with a broken arm from side stage). But I can safely say no leeway was required for Susan Bullock. In the opening of Act II she was splendid as the frisky teenaged Brunnhilde. She did more than enough to impress me in the opening scene with Wotan. In the second scene, she was splendid, an excellent foil to John Tomlinson's excellent Wotan.

And there was more to come!

I can't say I care very much for the staging in Act II. It seems that what I assume is Valhalla is an exact replica of Hunding's House in Act I - how likely is that - even with identical furniture and an identical smashed window at the back. I did fall to pondering about the various props - the red rope is deeply significant, as is the model aeroplane. Significant of what I can't quite remember, but I'm sure it will all become a lot clearer when I do my full cycle. Especially when I manage to identify the 'crashed aeroplane' and 'red string' leitmotifs. In any case, I can usually overloook silly sets (as long as they don't obscure the action) if the personenregie is credible, and if the cast - as well as being good singers - are credible actors. We got all that!

Scene 3 sees the return of the twins, and is incredibly moving, Sieglinde in her delirium, the tenderness between them, as they take rest in front of the upturned sofa in Valhalla. I mock that slightly, but despite the apparent silliness, the sofa acting as a windbreak creates this incredible intimacy as they lie together on the floor, with some rolling.  If you're not crying by now, you've got a heart of steel (or your binoculars pinned close to your eyes).

The music leading into Act 4 is amazing. Quiet, and you can hear a pin drop in the absorbed auditorium, People forget to cough, we all know what is coming. This music moves us onto a different place, a higher plane. With the stage almost in darkness, we hear Brunnhilde sing "Siegmund! Sieh auf mich! Ich bin's, der bald du folgst." At which point I am destroyed emotionally by such poignant beauty. What follows is so imbued with emotion and was for me the highlight of the entire evening - the  Todesverkuendigung, which will be a musical memory that stays with me for ever. Dignity and love vs dignity and duty - extraordinary in every respect. The music is incomparable; it was sung perfectly and portrayed indescribably. It just doesn't get any better than that. And Plácido and Susan were just amazing together. I would pay good money for an illicit in-house recording of that!

And the final scene. Almost an anti-climax after Scene 4, although culminating in a very spectacular death-scene, exemplifying the fine art of tenorial rolling on the ground by its finest exponent, rolling onto the helix-ash tree and rolling off again, and rolling across the stage. Makes it looks so easy! An hour and a half has passed so quickly and I'm wrung out! There had been other instances of tenorial rolling on the ground. (And, for the record, chest hair was also visible), but I can't quite recall sufficiently well to catalogue here.

Fabulous. Bring it on again, I can't wait! I've got Walküre next Sunday, and before that I've got Rheingold, which I love the tone of the entire work. I am so so so excited.

And quite apart from the music and drama, it's great to be with people. As well as Mandy, who I hung round with, I also met Simon, who I often bump into at events, and I was delighted to meet for the first time Mo, with whom I have communicated over the months. Also,  a lady whose name sounds like 'View'. It's nice to go alone to an opera but know you're surrounded by friends!

As a PS, when I got home I watched Have I Got News For You, which had earlier recorded. One of the main stories was the resignation of Ming Campbell as leader of the Lib Dems. On age grounds, apparently. Although the Mirror helpfully rubbished that Who says you're too old at 66?, with a helpful list of people born in 1941

Susannah York and Joan Baez (Jan 9) Faye Dunaway (Jan 14) Placido Domingo (Jan 21) Neil Diamond (Jan 24) Paddy Ashdown (Feb 27) Vivienne Westwood (April 8) Ryan O'Neal (April 20) Bob Dylan (May 24) Delia Smith (June 18) Chubby Checker (Oct 3) and Jesse Jackson (Oct 8)