Gertsamtkunstwerk

Carmen

Another in my very occasional, alphabetical series of Opera reviews from my collection.

I have already had a go at Aida and La Boheme, the AB of the so-called ABCD of opera. Next up is Bizet's Carmen, the 'C'.

Rest assured, I think it is deserving of its place in the firmament, and it really doesn't surprise me that it is the world's favourite opera. What is very sad is that it was critically panned at its opening and three months later Bizet died, a broken man.

I am going to stick my neck out and say that if you have never seen an opera live, on TV or on DVD,  this is the one I would start with. As far as live performances are concerned, they are not difficult to find in most civilised places. Here is an indicative list of performances in the next few months. I say indicative because, for example,  the database doesn't include the Raymond Gubbay production at the Albert Hall next February.

On the other hand, you could just get a DVD. Being the world's most popular opera, there is no shortage of DVDs available. Most are a film record of a stage production. The one I would recommend, however, is different - it's actually a filmed-on-location  feature film: This stars Julia Migenes as Carmen, Plácido Domingo as Don José and Ruggero Raimondo as Escamillo.

The libretto is based on a novella by Prosper Merimée, which I read during the summer and found it to be an interesting insight into the opera, somewhat darker, and definitely worth a read, but I think I would get to know and love the opera before reading the book.

Firstly, I'll get the criticisms out of the way. It opens with a bullfight, which I know may offend some people. But if you fast forward, you won't miss any plot and very little music. Me, I don't anthromorphosise, and I only see animal rights in the framework of how it reflects society. It certainly isn't stomach-churningly squeam making.

My other criticism is that the audio track was studio recorded and the dubbed onto the film bit, but although it is noticeable to begin with, I soon get used to it and don't notice it for the rest of the film.

You are absolutely guaranteed great music throughout this opera, with very many of the tunes being highly familiar, not least from ringtones... Indeed, you will be amazed at how many of the tunes you don't know; the ones that you don't you will like because they are tuneful and are written to ensure implantation in your brain.

This was filmed in and around Seville, with an extras cast of thousand, in the style of Cecil B DeMille. It is a visual feast of the highest quality, the vibrant colour of the crowd scenes contrasting with the breath-taking beauty of the mountains. It is worth watching merely for the use of colour.

The story is fairly straightforward, and rather than rehashing it here I'll link to the Met's very full synopsis. Suffice to say it fits squarely into the "Stupid Man" category. In the opera, he comes across as a deluded fool; in the book there's a violent unlikeable streak in him, in the opera, well, generally, we have to feel sympathy with the tenor hero, so he is likeable. But stupid.

The traditional analysis goes that Carmen, as the wild, fickle gypsy woman is all to blame, because she led him on. But my analysis is that he knew what he was getting into. He had the option of marrying Micaela, he knew that Carmen was trouble, but he went and fell in love with her. Fair enough, but then she made it quite clear that she no longer had feelings for him, a message he refused to hear, so, in my opinion, he's the architect of his own downfall.

It's difficult to say which bits I like best: In Act One alone, there's the overture, which is wonderful. Then the women have a break from the factory, which is a brilliant mise en scene. This is followed by Parlez moi de ma mere, which is a gorgeous duet. Plácido sounds really fab, but,  I have to say, I think the soprano playing Micaela is the weak link in this film.  I missed the chance to hear him sing this with Angela Gheorghiu and that's my own stupid fault. BTW, I don't really rate the soprano's rendition of "Micaela's Aria" either. 

Then we get one of the most sizzlingly sexy scenes ever in film, where Don José has Carmen under arrest prior to taking her off to jail.  Regular readers know that I totally adore Pláci, and, therefore, you will assume that I am bound to say he is totally wonderful in this. But he is. I was madly in lust with him before this film was ever made. But if I hadn't been, this film would have made me. He is just incredibly sexy throughout, and gets sexier from Act to Act. You know, if I didn't like the music, nor the story, nor the scenery, I'd still watch it just to lust over him. Opera as porn, sort of.

Someone once said "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar". But not in this film. I defy anybody to find an example anywhere where the seemingly simple act of smoking of a cigar is so suggestive of smouldering sexual desire. And even the ash falling from the cigar is redolent of sexual symbolism.

This followed in Act 2 by a scene that is as sexy, or possibly even more so. When I first saw this I finally realised that cinematic representation of sex is far more effective when hinted at rather than explicitly choreographed.  The Flower Song, when merely listened to, is one of the most boring arias in the rep that crops up again and again on compilation CDs. But acted - and acted as smoulderingly as this. I defy any red blooded woman to watch this without feeling damp below...Especially the bit where she runs her toes through his chest hair. OMG.

Act 3 is the least interesting musically, but the most interesting scenery wise, and dramatically equal to the other acts. And Don José is looking sexier by the minute.

Act 4 opens with the most amazing music that would - and does - stand alone as an orchestral piece. Used brilliantly here as the background to the build up to the bullfight. And then breaks into that tune immortalised by ringtones the world over.. I won't reveal the ending, just in case. I read some comment somewhere from Plácido where he said the ending is filmed wrong, because it should focus on Don José, but the final shot is of Carmen surrounded by her female friends. Even if dramatically wrong, it does make a fabulous final shot.

Julia Migenes sings Carmen well, and acts the role brilliantly. Ruggero Raimondi is a good, arrogant Escamillo, the toreador. And generally, the supporting cast is up to scratch. but I am of the view that, despite the name of the opera, the main role is Don José, and I am very much of the view that the star of this film is Plácido Domingo. Which is why I often play it just to stimulate my lust.

You can read about the making of the film, including Pictures

I also have a DVD of the Met version from 1987 with Agnes Baltsa as Carmen and Josep Carreras as Don José. This really isn't chopped liver, and is enjoyable to watch, especially the two leads who are excellent in the roles.

The set is lavish, and the cast of hundreds is spectacular - but this is being compared to the real setting and the cast of thousands in the film version. James Levine conducts wonderfully, really making the orchestra zing at times. If you love Carmen, I would suggest that you also get this DVD, but if you just wanted one, well, I've already done the sales pitch.

Death update

Princess Alice, the forgotten royal, dies aged 102. Utter indifference, I am afraid. Somebody already privileged marries into a supremely privileged family and spends her life doing 'good works' as Lady Bountiful. fine, but shrug

Also in the past week or so Bill Nicholson and Robert Merrill. In their time they excelled. Good innings. Farewell.

We are not worthy

The assaillant

I don't think that I have ever mentioned Eric Cantona on this blog. Which is slightly strange, because, for five exquisitively beautiful and poignantly short years he was the epicentre of my universe. Countless times have I stood on the terraces just...worshipping.

I have to confess I have never seen any of the cinematic efforts.

When the seagulls follow the trawler it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.

John Peel

'We've lost our surrogate dad'

Tributes from the people that matter - the stars he made. And links to a 'Special Report'.

Sun Snippets

Marc Almond is out of intensive care, which is excellent news. I didn't blog his accident. But I did check for regular updates.

Michael Jackson's kids will get to see their mother for the first time in four years. So gratifying to know that another generation of children are being brought up dysfunctional. No doubt for the next fifty years or more we will be reading a catalogue of the whacky weird and downright dangerous behaviour of the Jackson offspring. And I can't really work out who is worse the mother or the father.

Sharon Stone may be 46 but she looks sensational as she hits the town in this stunning white gown yesterday. Good grief, imagine breaking that rule book says that women of 46 have no business looking sensational. I honestly seriously thought that once women pass thirty they all turn magically overnight into wizened hags.

Rebecca Loos is writing a book. Extraordinary really. There's a part of me that says 'yeah love, but will it be any good?' And another part that says. But it will sell, because for whatever reason, her name will attract just enough recognition in station and airport booksellers for it toddle off the shelves regardless of quality...

Bloody Halloween

Give up the ghosts

I can't stand it. All this Trick or Treat nonsense. Extraordinary really that for 364 days of the year, parents tell their brats to be rude to strangers, and then on one day, they send them round begging like vagrants. Field day for paedophiles, if you ask me.

In Junior 3 we had a whole week of lessons built around Hallowe'en. We learnt all about the Lancashire Witches, especially of Pendle Hill, and about the significance of witch trials; we learnt about Celtic festivities, and being a Catholic school, we also did All Saints and All Souls. We painted pictures of witches. And then we bobbed for apples.

That's the way it should be.

I have found on the odd occasion when I've been Trick or Treated that the kids don't have a clue what they're doing or why. So I send them away with a flea in the ear, and a promise of an enormous treat if they come back with evidence of scholarly research. I don't see them again.

Penny for the Guy, anybody?

John Peel RIP

Legendary radio DJ John Peel dies

Occasionally, a news story hits you right in the solar plexus and brings tears to the eyes.

Sadly, the death of legends and heroes seem to be happening too frequently at the moment. John Peel was bigger than most.

Another one who never got the knighthood he deserved. I guess it was presumed he had years left in him. I was surprised to read he was 65.

I can't begin to measure the influence he has had on music, all the great and good and okay bands he discovered.

I'm sure tomorrow's newspapers will be full.

A true legend; I feel there ought to be a National Day of Mourning.

Vaughan has found exactly the right words.

United 2 Arsenal 0

Scaryduck, Diamond Geezer, Burnt Toast, Arseblog...your boys took one helluva beating.

49 games wasn't it?

Oh, the exquisite poetry

I do feel sorry for Van Nistelrooy. First he gets snogged by Rooney, then he gets snogged by Fergie...

Do You Know Who I Am?

Joan anger at frisk strip

Actress Joan Collins spoke last night of her �humiliation� after Heathrow airport security staff ordered her to strip off items of clothing in front of other passengers.

That's awful. She's not a young woman, and it must be humiliating - certainly an invasion of privacy - to be forced to strip in front of random strangers.

The ex-Dynasty soap queen had to remove her hat, sunglasses, jacket and shoes

Hat, sunglasses, jacket and shoes. How humiliating!

I went through airport security once and set off the metal detector. I was humiliated. In front of other passengers. Turns out I had a cigarette lighter in my pocket. Would you believe that those b*stards then frisked me? They even gave me the right to have a woman doing it?

Another time I had to have my walking boots scanned and swabbed. The sheer utter humiliation. I did yell out very loudly "Don't you know who I am?" But they were not impressed by my claim to be one of Brixton Hill's top bloggers.

Spoilt bitch. If I were the security woman I would have her for assault.

The bloke sat next to me

On Tuesday night we stayed in the bar until the last possible opportunity. I commented to Jimmy that Sod's Law dictates that if I arrive early to the auditorium I have an aisle seat; if I'm late, I am in the middle of the row. Guess what - middle of the row. My first thought was - oh no, I'm next to a large person.

Not extraordinarily large, but big frame more than amply filled with excess flesh. I had only spent thirty or so seconds faffing when I detected a distinct and proximate odour of body.

The Crickets came on stage and Sonny Curtis struck a chord, part warm-up, part check the guitar is plugged in, part, perhaps, unconscious pre-performance ritual. The people in the row behind were just finishing their conversation so the man next to me, who shall henceforth be known as Smelly Man, went "Sherrup". Effective, I thought.

He was the sort who cheered the opening bar of each song, and as the rest of the Albert Hall applauded, he was the one shouting "Howay that man". Only, not loudly. My feeling is that if you're going to shout out your appreciation of a performance you might as well project.

He didn't seem that enthused about Nanci coming on stage, and indeed, he got fidgety during the second half. But even before the second half began, I had decided he was well creepy. As we made our way back to our seats, I did the 'excuse me, thank you' routine, and he said 'No Sweat'. Pleasant enough, but, unfortunate in the circumstances. Let's just say that I had to suppress my giggles.

I had a further route through my bag- I had just stuffed my purse and change in at the bar, my camera was lurking precariously, and I was on a search for my binoculars. Loudly, Smelly Man commented to his neighbour "She has glasses just like you." I wasn't sure whether he meant my spectacles or binoculars; I thought it slightly ill-mannered. Not that it annoyed me. Jimmy said that the man was staring intently into my bag as I rootled. Possibly he doesn't have ready access to women's handbags and was hoping to get a cheap thrill at the sight of condoms or tampons or something.

The guy fidgeted all through the second half. This fidgeting included absent-minded arhythmic key rattling, and moving repeatedly in his seat. I had already arranged myself so I was touching legs with Jimmy, rather than have Smelly Man impose his leg onto mine - in fairness, not entirely avoidably. Unfortunately, the fidgeting led to a barely perceptible movement of air. I say barely, but it was sufficient to cause a renewal of Fragrance de Corps every few moments.

He didn't really approve of what Nanci was saying - I don't think he especially liked the music, either. When she introduced a song by saying "This is about, how if you just open your heart up to it, you can find love - Love Conquers Everything" he said "Oh shit" in a really derogatory manner. I felt that he probably didn't have a clue what she was talking about - although, as I commented to Jimmy, "If you just take a bath, you too can find love." I wondered whether he lived with his mother.

I seem to have so many encounters with people who don't know how to behave. I wonder is it:

a) there is a conspiracy between all of London's venues to annoy me
b) I just have bad luck; or
c) there is too high a proportion of people who are simply unaware of how to behave in public

A question of sex education

There was a girl in my class at school, X. She came from a respectable family - pillars of the church, mother was a nurse; father, I think, was in the building game. She had two brothers a couple of years older and younger, and a sister five or six years younger. Comfortable, even affluent, without being filthy rich. I think she went on to be a nurse.

When we were maybe twelve or thirteen, we were chatting, at Break, or maybe just as likely in a lesson. Casually she mentioned that the previous evening her mother had called her upstairs, where her father was in the bath, and told her that it was about time she knew what men's bodies looked like. And while her father was in the bath, she learnt a lot more about men's bodies.

She then casually mentioned that her mother had bought her a sweatshirt at the weekend, and it was really nice wearing a sweatshirt round the house because of the softness of the lining.

Then the conversation moved on to something trivial.

I didn't think it was weird at the time. Unusual, but not creepy. I don't think I think it weird now. But I'm not sure.

What do you think?

Queen

Their Greatest Hits 1 in Tape and I will get round to blogging that eventually. For the moment, I shall concentrate on Greatest Hits II, which I have on CD. This is, basically their hits from about 1981 onwards.

I always have mixed feelings  about Queen.  Andrew a friend from twenty years ago contended that there were only two geniuses, Beethoven and Freddie Mercury. I would dispute the 'only two'. I'm not even sure that I would include Queen.

They were always strange - some really truly glorious stuff, genuine claims to greatness. And then some indifferent stuff.

I put the CD on random play.

• Headlong - starts off so unpromisingly it is tempting to dismiss this. but listen - as it progresses and moves through tempi and styles and I'm thinking, hey this is seriously under-rated;
• Under Pressure - oh my! A definite contender for my Top Whatever to be defined in February 2008;
• Breakthrough - again, seemingly unpromising, but listen to it;
• Radio Ga-Ga - another great classic, musically and lyrically, evocative twice over of a time and place, another Contender; 
• One Vision - too much 70s Glam Rock - and then a fabulous choral excerpt;
• Show Must Go On - beautifully poignant;
• Who Wants To Live For Ever? - a very clever, and poignantly moving, reworking of "Somewhere" from West Side Story;
• I Want to Break Free - fabulously accessible poppy singalong;
• I'm Going Slightly Mad - very strange, and very haunting;
• Innuendo - very ordinary for the first half, but then listen as the mood , style and tempi vary, and again, and again.

Queen are the epitome of the 70s Glam Rock that normally leaves me cold, yet, somehow they transcend the genre. Perhaps Andrew was right about genius. Listening through this afternoon, I'm thinking, someone responsible for writing this is classically trained; a bit of googling reveals that Freddie was.

I will never forget the day Freddie died. I was at home in Streatham on study leave, revising Management Accounting. To this day I can picture where my chair was, picture the gloriously sunny day outside. I was listening to Capital Radio (it was a long time ago) and the news came on. Freddie Mercury has died. For a  few moments the world stood still.

Fairly standard packaging with a 24 page booklet containing many pictures - covers and credits for each of the tracks - no lyrics - and some additional pictures.

I also have CD single with Bohemian Rhapsody b/w These are the Days of Our Lives.

Leif Ove Andsnes

I recently blogged his Schumann piano concerto. The Grieg is excellent, too. It was deservedly, a finalist in the Gramophone Awards. James Cracknell failed to do it justice with his celebrity endorsement.

The packaging is bland and unremarkable.

Knobs and loos and peeing

Scary Duck is looking for instances of celebrity knob-spotting.

This is where most girlies are at a distinct disadvantage. I have never seen any famous woman anywhere near a Ladies loo, which leads me to conclude, perhpas incorrectly, that celebrities don't, in fact, pee.

Someone on my local Labour Party was next to Tony Blair two days before the '97 election but swears he didn't look.

My other half says that men never look at other men in the loos.

I find it one of the great paradoxes in life that men are competitively obsessed - paranoid - by the size of their todger, yet frequently get it out in full view of colleagues, friends and random strangers, yet women who couldn't care less about comparatives are always private and discrete. Well, except on the way home from a session in the pub, obviously.

We are moving to a spanking brand new office in February. I have been told that there are no urinals in the Gents. It's for maximum flexibility, reportedly.

In my last job, on every floor we had male, female and unisex (and this was at the height of Ally McBeal's popularity). I never saw anybody, male, female or indeterminate, entering or leaving the unisex.

What Thatch did for women

Zoe Williams asks - Did Thatcher improve women's lives without meaning to?

Absolutely bang on the nail article.

About five years ago I was at a friend's house, along with about half a dozen other guests. Andrew and I, both broadly aligned with the Campaign Group, were the most right wing. I think two of the others were paid-up members of the SWP.

Conversation got onto the subject of Thatch, as it does, and we had this amazing male-female split. One of the Trot women commented that, growing up in the Eighties, much as one detested and condemned Thatcher's politics, nevertheless, she was an icon and role model.

Some of the men spoke of class betrayal. Some of the women, myself included, suggested that gender transcends class (my favourite way of baiting SWP-ers, who do not recognise gender politics and are probably the most patriarchal political party - well, except for UKIP).

All these women born in the second half of the Sixties knew that having Thatch as PM was a signal that women can do anything. The men came up with the litaniy of betrayals. We said we knew. We were not endorsing her policies. We never had done. But in the 1980s, it was no longer good enough for careers teachers (pah! I spit on your ignorance) to say "But women can't do that job" because hordes of teenagers would reply "If Margaret Thatcher can become Prime Minister..."

You youngsters probably never experienced that. The sad thing is that careers guidance, in many cases, is given by teachers who have gone from school to University to school and have less than no idea about life in any other environment.

Zoe Williams' last line is the clincher.

Nanci Griffith and the Crickets

Jimmy and I went off to the Albert Hall last night to see Nanci Griffith in concert.

The ticket just said "with guests", and there didn't seem to be any programmes on sale, so I had no idea who the support act was.

Oh. my. god.

It was the Crickets. Not Buddy Holly, unfortunately: he was indisposed. And obviously, it wasn't entirely the original Crickets, but they did include Sonny Curtis (no relation, unfortunately), and for a couple of songs, Robbie Vee, son of Bobby 'Night Has a Thousand Eyes 'Vee'. A quick google today showed that Sonny Curtis is 67. I wouldn't have thought that to hear him. This is the guy who wrote I Fought The Law and Walk Right Back, both of which were performed last night. Other songs performed included That'll Be The Day, Peggy Sue, Rave On, Real Wild Child and Heartbeat. It never ever crossed mind ever that I would ever hear the Crickets play Peggy Sue. they were pretty good and we were bopping in our seats like real wild child(ren).

Nanci joined them for a couple of songs, then, afterr the interval it was Nanci Griffith and the Blue Moon Orchestra.

Am I allowed to say I was a little disappointed. I have been a fan of Nanci for a good few years and have a good few of her CDs, so I was terribly excited about hearing her live. Jimmy, who has learned to enjoy her music and thinks she has a fantastic voice was mightily disappointed. I think it was something to do with the sound system. I think the balance was all wrong. Let's just say that when she came on to sing with the Crickets, I simply didn't recognise her voice. Jimmy couldn't tell a word she was saying

It was a shame because overall the performance was excellent. Highlights being the ones I expect to be highlights - Gulf Coast Highway, Speed of the Sound of Loneliness and From A Distance. She told a lovely story of when she was performing in Houston, a real live astronaut came up to give her a photo of her CD of 'From A Distance' in Space, with Earth in the far distance. Wow!

I always think people ought to sound better live than on CD. I think I'll stick to my CDs. But I am glad that I went.

Last night

Sonny Curtis The Crickets Nanci Griffith and the Crickets Nanci - with her Nixon/Agnew campaign buttons (there's no difference....!) Nanci Griffith and the Blue Moon Orchestra

Dying in threes

Very remiss of me not to have got round to mentioning the passing of two remarkable people, Christopher Reeve and (Earl) Conrad Russell.

I am not sure whether I actually watched any Superman films, but, of course, they are part of the cultural ether. More importantly, and I think what Christopher Reeve will be remembered for, was his determination in turning a devastating calamity into something positive. Not least his campaigning for stem-cell research. To me, the issue of stem-cell research is a no-brainer. So it rather stuck in my gullet to hear that that awful Dubya Bush person had used Reeves's name in cynical electioneering. Bush has opposed stem-cell research in the USA, on the grounds of his crackpot version of religion.

Conrad Russell was someone with whose thought processes it was impossible to disagree. I am not saying that we always came to the same conclusion on issues, but I will always respect the views of somebody who has thought through an issue from first principles. And Earl Russell had a fine mind, finer than more or less any other.

Lynda Lee-Potter has also died. I am merely recording this as part of an ongoing series noting the deaths of famous people.

Celebrity Crushes

I think we all have them. At some stage of our life. When you're a teenager, it's an important part of growing up - learning about the intensity of one's own feelings without fear of STIs, pregnancy, or even that awful self-conscious blushing, which has to be the worst of the three evils for teenagers.

When my friend was dumped by a boyfriend-(ish) with whom she was disproportionately infatuated, I suggested she should focus on Sean Connery - I don't recall now whether that was before or after I said "Pull yourself together, woman..."

For a rational mature adult, a Celebrity Crush can provide hours of harmless entertainment. (I have just finished watching my numero uno Celebrity Crush conduct La Traviata on Artsworld). Used sensibly, Celebrity Crushes can open the door to a whole world of opportunities and, er, other minor celebrity crushes. Fall madly in lust with opera singer Christmas 1980, get into opera. Maintain that lust throughout 80s and 90s and remain into opera. Fall madly passionately in lust again with said opera singer in Autumn 2002 and, well...

When I was a teenager, we (about half my school) had a Collective Celebrity Crush on a team. That team being Manchester United. It was a wonderful shared community experience, transcending age, class and even geographical location. What was the best thing that these were real, accessible people, living, shopping worshipping and, er, drinking in our locality.

We often used to go The Cliff training ground. Armed with camera and autograph book, it was a helluva way to pass a boring day in half term. Or, even better, a Holy Day of Obligation, or Speech Day Holiday (don't ask...!).

"Hi Mark, that was a great goal you scored Saturday. Bryan, will you autograph this picture I took last time, Clayton, can I have a kiss please, Gordon, d'you remember us from Question of Sport?" All a bit teenagery and girlie, but we had a good laugh with some of them. Stand up Steve Pears, the coolest goalie, ever!

Then there was Dot and Jackie. If you ever went near Old Trafford, let alone the Cliff, in the 1980s you must have encountered Dot and Jackie and friends. Oh dear! They weren't exactly young: in fact one of them was the mother of another one. The youngest were surely in their twenties. Oh boy, did they do Celebrity Crushes Big Style. The players were terrified of them.

They would go all screechy and hysteric whenever the most minor reserve player emerged from the building. Their catch phrase was "Start panicking" As in "Start Panicking, Deiniol's coming..." I was once in the loos at OT, and saw on the wall "Dot luvs Deiniol; Jackie luvs Clayton", and I actually got a dizzy spell. I met someone called Diane at The Cliff, who was friends with someone in my class but also friends with Graeme Hogg through someone she was at college with.

At the time Graeme, and Mark Hughes and a couple other of the young players were in digs in a house a few doors from the Cliff. We all knew it. My mates and most sensible people would walk past and say "Sparky and Hedger's house". Not Dot and Jackie. One night they sat on the wall into the small hours of the morning calling "Mark! Graeme! We're waiting for you. Mark! Graeme!" Diane was quite disgusted as she told this story. And Graeme, bless him, came out to chat to them and ask them to leave...

Once I was at OT for a Reserves match. I was with my brother and a couple of friends. We were sitting happily watching the match when Dot, Jackie and friends came and sat near us. "Start panicking, Deiniol's got the ball..." ad nauseam. So we moved to the next block of seats. About fifteen minutes later, Dot Jackie etc came and sat near us again, and we moved, again, along with a handful of other people who were sat in the vicinity.

After half time, a few of us decided to sit at the other side of the tunnel, and soon Dot, Jackie etc joined us. A dozen people moved to the next block of seats. By the time the players were leaving the field, there was a mass movement of a hundred or more people changing seats to get away from Dot Jackie etc.

I think the Carrington training ground is guarded by SAS Ghurkas.

Usenet - oh Usenet. There us somebody who uses a variety of aliases and is obsessed by Cheryl Studer - a perfectly pleasant second- or third-rate retired soprano.

He uses every opportunity to post about Cheryl Studer. In German.

When the Rene Jacobs Le nozze di figaro won the Gramophone award, he posted details and a review of a Cheryl Studer Figaro. When somebody wanted advice on Beethoven's Ninth, he posted details and a review of Studer's Beethoven's Ninth. There are currently sensible intelligent threads titled "La Forza del Destino first night at the ROH, Covent Garden", "Forza: Defending the Indefensible" and "der rosenkavalier (vancouver opera)". There are multiple posts from this person advertising Cheryl Studer's Der Rosenkavalier and, presumably because Cheryl never recorded Forza, there are threads called "Aida first night at the ROH, Covent Garden" and "Aida: Defending the Indefensible"

To quote a respected rmc person:

This is just garbage from a person on rec.music.opera known variously as "Gabriel Bocanegra" or "Pineiro." He is an asshole, a troll, an antisemite, and apparently a stalker of the soprano Ch*r*l St*d*r, with whom he is obsessed. Some believe that he once worked at the Harvard School of Health, and that he has since been fired from that position.

Pinheid's obsessions appear essentially to be as follows:

1. St*d*r is the greatest.
2. Any other soprano who dares to sing a role championed by St*d*r must be
brought down by gossip and innuendo.
3. James Levine is the most evil person in the world because he is Jewish,
because he leads the Metropolitan Opera, because he causes the advancement
of sopranos other than St*d*r, and because he is supposedly a sexual
deviant (at least, according to gossip and innuendo).
4. Zubin Mehta is evil because he supports the Great Satan of Zionism, but
most of all because he once fired St*d*r from a production in Munich.
5. The newsgroup rec.music.opera is a haven for Jews, homosexuals, and
people who like sopranos other than St*d*r, so it is necessary to increase
the noise level to the point where the newsgroup is essentially useless.

Please, if you should see a useless post from Pinheid in the future (they are easy to recognize, and often consist of the same tiresome reprinted review or anti-Semitic rant, over and over and over), just ignore it and don't respond to it. If you *must* respond, there is no need whatsoever to quote the entire text of it in your response. It is a waste of bandwidth and it is an irritation to those of us who believe that the world would be a much better place if Pinheid were to walk in front of an MBTA trolley.

A very good friend once suggested that I had stalker tendencies. But I have seen the real thing, and I am so many million miles removed from that...

Viennese Music

Morning, Noon and Night in Vienna features overtures and waltzes from Suppé, Waldteufel, and Lehár. Pleasant, light, untaxing music. Can't really knock 'em. Some people wouldn't class them as classical - in my crude classification I think they are. Not really a great deal to say. They were always intended to be light pieces to entertain and to dance to. Mission fulfilled.

Accident of birth

Everything he does is a cheat and Queen Maud of Norway may have been impregnated by her doctor, possibly without her knowledge, to cover up for her husband's infertility

I find the Norway story absolutely fascinating, and I am really surprised the British tabloids haven't picked it up. Perhaps because it makes uncomfortable reading.

I am absolutely no expert on the Norwegian Constitution, but I do know that their monarch is hereditary. If this story is true, it makes a total mockery of the hereditary principle. That, of course, is the main point of the news coverage. The other point, and to my mind, the more important, is that this woman was, allegedly, impregnated against her knowledge. I cannot see this as anything other than a grave assault. One of the privileges of being a woman is either knowing for absolute certain who the father of your child is, or, alternatively, knowing that you don't know.

I have read that their were rumours that the Queen and Princess and Margaret were also conceived by artificial insemination. Obviously, I don't know - doubt -if this is true, but my understanding is that there isn't a question about their paternity.

If I were Norwegian, I would view this information as evidence of an utterly corrupt system. I believe it has repercussions outside of Norway, because all the Royal Families of Europe act in concert. And we know the importance of selecting a brood mare for an heir to the throne.

I'm not even in rant mode, but I simply cannot understand the logic of assuming that the ability to be Head of State is something that is passed down in the genes. Perhaps the illegitimate king managed to be king because he was trained for it from birth.

If you look at areas of endeavour, such as politics, sport or arts/entertainment you do not find many examples of a parent and a child both being exemplary in the same field. Three current examples spring to mind. But Frank Lampard Senior was never as respected and as achieving a footballer as Junior; Shaun Wright-Phillips perhaps demonstrates that nurture trounces nature; and George W Bush demonstrates that neither can guarantee ability.

We - all the nations of Europe with monarchs - accept these Royals as Heads of State based upon their genetic inheritance yet not only does the evidence suggest genetics to be unimportant, it also suggests they are irrelevant. Oh, and we're supposed to respect them, as well.

Do me a favour...

Clothes advice

Real Fashion: Tips for real body shapes - I'm blogging this mainly for personal reference. I'm developing an urge to splurge. Suddenly, deep plums and greens seem attractive.

I am never sure what shops to shop at, and always end up at M&S by default. Default, to avoid the shoddiness of the high street stores aimed at the youth market; I look around places like House of Fraser, but find them either hideously frumpy or hideously expensive.

I used to like Next but it's years since I've found anything worthwhile there and Richards, but they shut down.

Hennes, BHS and Gap are okay for some things, but Hennes and Gap tend to be a bit casual, and the best of BHS can look good initially but doesn't have the robustness of M&S.

Whenever I buy a suit from BHS people say "Hey, I really like your suit, where did you get it from?" I always feel slightly embarrassed and say, "You're not going to believe it, but BHS..." I got a navy suit from Debenhams, which is really nice, but is getting a bit old and worn now. I have never really spotted anything else there.

I long ago discovered suits are just perfect. Excellent for work, and for eight years I spent manyyears in a work-like environment on the council. In central London, suits are perfect for going out to pubs, restaurants and concert-halls/theatres: apart from anything else, anybody who looks and cares will asume you've come straight from work. The same applies in Brixton and Streatham. ButI feel awkward wearing a suit at the weekend except for weddings, christenings etc.

La vendetta continua

Alan Titchmarsh came up in conversation today.

A colleague, who has very different tastes from me - including reading of the Daily Mail - pulled A Face. So I went into rant mode and she nodded vigorously. She had also spotted him in the crowd during the England-West Indies Final at the Oval; when I said that we had reflected that he'll be doing cricket commentary next, her even more vigorous nodding indicated she hand her husband had had that same discussion. With distaste.

Robbery thwarted

I opened the back door to go out to the lean-to utility room when I heard a noise. It was either the clumsiest clodhopping urban fox in history or it was a startled burglar.

I say 'burglar'. I mean 'next door neighbour'. Moving the panels in the dividing fence to sneak into our garden to nick some buds off the cannabis plant.

I actually don't give a frigging shit about the cannabis plant. I give it away to invited guests (ssssh, don't tell Him Indoors...!). What I do object to is some scummy neighbour breaking in to nick it.

I hope the imminent fixing of a padlock to the gate will send out an even clearer message than the piece of wood with protruding nails that lies in front of the plant.

If they had knocked on the door, and offered a bottle of piss-poor vinho di tavolha, we would have said, "Come in, help yourselves. BTW, WTF does one do with it?" but as they have taken to prowling round my property under cover of darkness, you can be fairly certain that it won't be long until shot guns are procured...

One of those days

I've not been back at work long. But...

It off with little things - the man selling me an Oyster card insisted on explaining what he was doing, even though I couldn't hear a word, and I just wanted him to do what he had to do without giving me a ball-by-ball commentary with the microphone turned off...

Going into NatWest and asking whether as a NatWest customer I can pay a NatWest cheque into an HSBC account without charge - the answer is no, but I wondered what was the point of having a young man stationed on the door if all he did was lead to me a cashier who said 'five pound charge'. And what was the point of the young woman who said, as I was leaving "Thank you for choosing to bank with NatWest"? I mean they were nice and friendly and cheerful and lightened my step. But why...?

Walking round and round Dixons looking for binoculars and then realising I didn't have a clue about the difference between a £14 pair and £200 pair. Queueing for ages at HSBC. (And they had no friendly meeters/greeters on their door - I'm so happy I bank with NatWest)

They've rearranged M&S Simply Food so it took ages to find puddings. I emerged and realised that my train was on the verge of leaving. I dashed into WH Smith and bought three magazines. (Two with CDs). Classic FM's cover describes Bryn Terfel as the World's Greatest Opera singer. Well, I like Bryn as much as the next person, but... I also bought a Lonely Planet Guide for the purpose of holiday-planning.

They were giving out free magazines - a quick glance suggested they were fluffy celeb lifestyle magazines. One woman said "Well, if they're absolutely free, I might as well." I pondered and pondered, and decided that there is a catch. If you have it, you feel obliged to flick through it. Is that the best use of my time? (Says the woman who spends way too much blogging and on Usenet...!)

I got the 1622 train. Three small girls got on at Battersea Park. I think they were with their Nanny - or at least, someone who didn't understand the driver's announcement.

Oh, I'm pre-empting there.

The train sat at Battersea Park for an age. One of the little girls announced it had broken down. 'Sweet,' I thought 'but she doesn't know what she's talking about...'. And indeed, the train chugged-chugged into movement. Halfway to Clapham Junction the driver announced that due to a mechanical fault it was terminating at Clapham Junction. He told us to mind the gap between the train and the platform edge.

That set someone off - in a loud voice "How dare they do to this to me? I want to go to West Norwood. Why isn't the train going to West Norwood? And don't tell me to mind the gap. Who do you think you are, telling me to mind the gap?" I remembered someone, an acquaintance, a guy from the local pubs. He fell down the gap between the train and the platform edge.

Dead.

Instantly.

Admittedly, it was a slam door train. And it was moving. And he was blind drunk. That's when they started making the announcements at Clapham Junction. And when we got there I had to stretch and jump. Okay, I have short legs. but many people have shorter - the three little girls and the raving teenager, for a start.

As I stood on the over-crowded platform, I chunnered and muttered to myself "typical British Rail" (I know, I know, I'm just an old-fashioned kinda gal). Then I thought: never in my entire life, in all the thousands - hundreds of thousands, surely - of miles I have travelled by train have I ever had to get off a train prematurely. Sometimes they've been cancelled - after I have boarded - sometimes they've been delayed. But never have I been foreshortened. Tube yes, bus yes, taxi yes, private car yes, bicycle yes, boat yes, but train - never ever.

The next train came along pretty much on time - within five minutes, and I even got a seat. Halfway to Wandsworth Common, we stopped, and the driver announced that there had been a robbery on the train in front, the police were in attendance, and we would not move until the train in front moved, which was down to the police.

I had visions of being there all night, but actually, in the end, only five minutes. And I was home at 1720.

In time for a dreary but valuable England 2-0 victory over Azerbaijan.

I have a genuine Azeri doll. She's 30 years old. My late cousin (and godfather) used to teach English in Baku. He couldn't work out why he was able to seduce so many beautiful women. It took him years to realise they were KGB agents.

Tension of ticket ordering/Neighbourhood Gossip

Last Thursday I sat down and ordered myself a shed-load of tickets. Mainly for the Barbican and the Royal Festival Hall, although a rather expensive one for Josep Carreras at the Royal Albert Hall . I said to Jimmy "It's midweek, I know you don't like Spanish Tenors, and, as it costs rather a lot of English tenners, I've ordered one just for myself..." (I'm now anxious, because I understand he's not that great these days, and I have forked out rather a lot of undodgy English tenners to be satisfied with a dodgy Spanish Catalonian tenor).

None of the tickets had arrived by this morning, admittedly in line with the published policy of all venues, but the RFH and Barbican tend, in my experience, to send them out by return of post. I also hadn't received my New Statesman last Friday, and had no post whatsoever on Saturday.

I rang up the RFH today and explained the situation, adding that I realise it is premature, but with the Barbican and New Statesman also going astray I was a bit worried. She said that they are due to be posted, but as the first one isn't for a few weeks, they will have gone out second class, and if they don't turn up to get in touch.

I wondered if I should go and knock on the neighbours. We have two sets of new neighbours, both renting. The Aussies are really sweet and invited us to their barbie, which we didn't attend, but appreciated their maners. Plus the fact that it was entirely non-intrusive - just a waft of conversation and a murmur of music that quietened by dark. The Portuguese are pleasant, and I am now used to their occasional passionate door-bangy differences of opinion at od hours of day and night. Jimmy has them a prime suspects for nicking the most succulent buds from our his cannabis plant.

Nevertheless I am nervous of door-banging and asking in a non-confrontational way "Do you have my post?" In a perfect world, we would redistribute post with alacrity; in the Real World, Round Tuit intrudes.

A few minutes ago, my New Statesman and my Barbican tickets appeared through the door. I opened the front door and called out 'Thank You'* I saw the charming but volatile Bulgarian landlord of next door (the Japanese guy claimed he beat him and denied him access to the house, in which were his clothes, credit cards, passport etc, so he slept in the car - Jimmy took him to the cafe for breakfast - he returned a few days later to settle up, which Jimmy hadn't expected). He was acknowledging my thanks. Perhaps H&M the Portuguese are away: I haven't heard them for a few days - he's a Musician, but as I explained to my middle-aged Irish neighbour, not in the sense we would say 'musician'. I'm now anxious, because maybe H&M aren't very good at Round Tuit on the postal front.

* remember, despite evidence to the contrary, I am a Nice Person

Faust at Covent Garden

I'm feeling lazy, so why write the same review twice - I previously posted this to rec.music.opera...

An early revival of the production from June of this year, then starring Meatloaf and the Lasagnes, and with tickets unavailable for love nor money, this time not starring stellar names, and tickets easy to come by.

The cast was: Piotr Beczala (Faust), John Tomlinson (Mephistopheles), Elena Kelessidi (Marguerite), Dalibor Jenis (Valentin) and Katija Dragojevic (Siebel); c/d Maurizio Benini.

Having watched the original on the TV - which was discussed at some length back in June - I knew what to expect from the production, but felt it looked far more impressive in real life. My absolutely favourite bit was the ballet, but I'm allowed to say that, because I'm a girly.

The music throughout was glorious and I've just elevated it into my Top Ten.

I really liked the rapid switch in emotions. There were moments when I was halfway through a giggle and felt a lump in my throat; or a tear was about to fall, when I just had to laugh.

Performances. Well, Piotr Beczala was...interesting. For the first two and a half acts, I was not much taken with his voice. Nothing wrong per se, but it sounded to me very forced at the top, a bit like those old singers on old 78s that my father used to play ;-) Not my taste. I can't really explain how the Salut Demeure sounded - predominantly almost falsetto, but not, and certainly not like a counter-tenor.

And then, his voice seemed to change, and I found myself really getting to like it through the remaining two-and-a-half acts. Far more resonance and colour and depth. And he moved well round stage, looked fine in body and face (not celebrity crush material but aesthetically acceptable)

He's back in Rigoletto (alongside Paolo Gavanelli and Anna Netrebko) next July, alternating with Rolando Villazon. Rolando (with Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Ekaterina Siurina) would still be my first choice, but any disappointment in seeing Piotr would be because it would probably mean I hadn't been able to get tickets for Rolando.

I couldn't find fault with John Tomlinson, but I found him rather
disappointing. The only newspaper review I read highly praised him. A good performance, singing and acting, solid, but without, IMO, bringing anything remarkable to it.

Elena Kelessidi was forgettable. At times there was some beauty in her voice but there were far more times when notes seemed to be missing, like somebody's handled a dodgy cassette, which I found unsettling. I didn't really feel that there was much going on in the acting department.

Dalibor Jenis was a non-event, and even received a boo from someone a couple of rows behind. I think that was uncalled for, but he just sang the songs fair-to-middling and made the moves.

I really liked Katija Dragojevic. Singing, good, acting better.

And just to add a few observations.

I walked into the amphitheatre bar and the barman greeted me. When he took my interval order, he didn't ask my name - just wrote it down. slinks away in embarrasment

I'm not sure what was going onto the left of me but we seemed to have been invaded by the Incredible Talking Person, who obviously misunderstood the relative quiet of the opening prelude as a good opportunity to finish her conversation without being drowned out by the pesky orchestra. Until a very sharp and penetrating "sshh-ssshh' from an ex-Sergeant Major/minor public school master caused the relief of all around.

She turned into the Incredible Paper Rustling Person at the start of Act 5, leaving the right hand end of the central bank of Rows of S and T in convulsions of silent giggles, giggles increased when she shone her torch (or phone?) to aid in her paper rustling.

After the performance I walked along Long Acre. Well, apart from the bit where I entirely failed to spot a lurking kerb-stone, which sent me arse over tit crashing head first to the ground. Mainly wounded pride, but a grazy hurty knee which was stiff this morning, and a general jarred-feeling. the couple walking to my right and slightly behind checked I was okay. I thanked them. As my cheeks burned red with humiliation...

I really really like the music and story of Faust.

Moron TV

I have finally sussed it.

The reason for downmarket TV programmes on downmarket TV channels.

It's to laugh hysterically at people.

Particularly the smug self-satisfied 'I'm significantly richer than you are' small-minded middle Englanders.

Package Holiday Undercover. A couple, late forties to early fifties, booked a holiday to some tropical resort. To their horror they discovered they were right in the flight path to the airport. As soon as I saw it, I said "That's the one Joseph found on the plane-spotters photography website. And it soon proved to be correct. It was indeed St. Maarten - or St. Martin, as ITV called it.

Mr and Mrs Smug clearly felt that the objective of a holiday was to sit on the balcony of their all-exclusive bland hotel run by Global Capitalists. So they didn't bother checking their guide book; they didn't do their homework. They never bothered to venture out of their hotel. And they stated that this hotel was only suitable for the deaf or for plane-spotters. I bet you a pound to a penny that a Rough Guide or Lonely Planet would have said it was a mecca for plane-spotting photographers, and why. But Mr and Mrs "I'm smugger and richer than you are" knew better.

Ya boo sucks. I laugh at them.

The other side to this programme is nasty. A resort, don't know where, but I'm guessing Spain or a Spanish-speaking country. Go to three down-market ice-cream outlets and take samples, to be tested in the lab. The lab results come back - surprise surprise 55% of samples are riddled with unpleasant-nasty-lethal bacteria.

Sub-text - it's those nasty dirty foreigners taking our money and poisoning us. Without considering that, almost without a doubt, at least 55% of ice-cream samples taken from downmarket outlets in this country would also contain said bacteria. So ITV's target demographic would conclude that all 'foreign' is 'foreign muck' and not to be trusted, without giving a second thought to the British-American fast food crap with which they force feed their precious brats.

The 'reporter' returned to these outlets to report the findings. Rather than speaking in Spanish, or in plain, well-enunciated English, he put on a stupid accent and decided to chop random words out of his sentences. Because foreigners understand pidgin-English so much better than grammatically and syntactically correct English, right?

What an arsehole!

But I suppose ITV's intelligence-challenged demographic lap it all up and increase their ignorant, ill-informed, unconsidered xenophobia to the detriment of all.

Jacques Derrida RIP

Deconstruction icon Derrida dies

The last four months or so have seen the passing of very many people so great and legendary that one generally assumed they were already dead.

Marcelo Alvarez

The smarter amongst you may have noticed that having done Vaughan-Williams and Walton, I have reached the end of the alphabet of composers.

The even smarter will ask - what of Verdi and Wagner? The answer to that is they are operating in a different thread, because much as I like them, I learnt from my blogging Mozart that having days and weeks of the same composer unremittingly is not conducive to imaginative blogging.

So I now move onto Artist Albums. In strict alphabetical order. So I start with Marcelo Álvarez's "The Tenor's Passion". I am becoming rather a fan of Señor Álvarez. In the summer I got of video of Rigoletto with him as the Duke of Mantua , and having no previously really noticed him, I just went crazy. Then seeing him in Werther the other week, I went even crazier. And ordered this CD.

It contains many of the showcase tenor arias for compilation CD, but also some less frequent ones.  What a voice!  Big and sweet, with nuance and volume. A rich tone at the bottom and squillo to spare at the top. I can't wait until March when I see him in Ballo, one of my very favourite operas. His upcoming release of Massanet's Manon is Album of the Week next week on Classic FM

My especial favourites are Donna non vidi mai (From Puccini's Manon Lescaut); O Paradis (from Meyerbeer's L'Africaine); and Vainement ma bien aimée; he even does a bearable version of Nessun Dorma, which is not my favourite tenor aria by a long chalk. In fact there is a not a weak link on this album. Special praise should go to the Staatskapelle Dresden under Marcello Viotti.

All I can say is run don't walk. Get this album and bin your Bocellis.