Gertsamtkunstwerk

Ethical debate

Lying in bed listening to 'Today'. They ran a feature on the 'World's Oldest Mother at 66' story. Not getting into it. Except to say that very many entirely unsuitable people become parents; many suitable people don't. It's always been the way of the world, always be. The world, and human beings, and their lives, don't fit into some neat ideal. Get over it.

Anyway, they decided to debate the ethics, and they had two guests. One was a Professor of some branch of medical science, another was the Bishop of Oxford. Now, this is not an attack on that particular postholder, because I happen to think that Richard Harries is a man of considerable integrity, compassion and humanity. I also know that he was invited because he is a member of the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority.

Nevertheless, the in-general thought struck me. Why did they invite a clergy person? There seems to be a predisposition to involving religious-type people in debates about ethics. It rankles with me.

In general, why is their point of view - and is only a point of view - more valid than, say, a taxi driver? Or a blogger. In the end, they are all more-or-less self appointed opinionators, with little accountability to the wider community. And why is a clergyman on the HFEA anyway?

I can only conclude that the Establishment believe that a religious input is vital to the ethical well-being of our society. Considering the tiny number of people who attend churches, and the even tinier number who live their lives according to religious doctrine, it is at best anachronistic. It is based on a false premise that religious people are, in general, 'moral', and, in my view, plain wrong.

Benefit fraud

The doleful march of benefit fraud and error

Years ago I was told that the accounts on benefit will always be qualified, because of the inherent errors in the system. I suppose much of these errors could be eliminated, but the cost would be high. Not just in the cost of employing tens of thousands of investigators but in the reputational cost of DWP snoopers scutinising every aspect of claimants' lives.

Steve Reich at the Barbican

Interesting. Very interesting.

I'm not really a contemporary music fan, but I kind of vaguely sort of know what I like.

I was introduced to the music of Steve Reich by my percussion teacher over twenty years ago, and I just like it. Can't explain why. Why should I be able to anyway, when music transcends words.

Three pieces, Eight Lines, Tehillim and the UK Premiere of You Are (Variations), performed by Ensemble Modern and Synergy Vocals, conducted by Stefan Asbury.

Steve Reich's music is driven by rhythm, unrelenting repeating rhythm. I overheard someone say that melody doesn't matter to him, I think that's crap actually, but whilst many composers use rhythm to add texture and colour to melody, Reich lets the melody emerge from the rhythm. Percussion is an important component, but not so that it dominates.

It's relentless, it's repeating, it's mesmerising, and somehow, this cacophonoy melds together to become a coherent whole. I adored the Eight Lines; about five minutes into Tehillim, I mentally composed my blog post - 'there's nothing to draw me into this and I don't think I want to be drawn'.  Twenty five minutes later conductor and performers were receiving the enthusiastic applause of the audience, myself included.  Time had passed in an instant as I was utterly absorbed in the compelling driving unrelenting repeating rhythms and their organically created melodies.

You are (Variations) was even better!

He's 70 next year, and there will be a major retrospective of his work at the Barbican, as well as in New York and Los Angeles. I am much looking forward to that already.  EC2, that is, not NY or LA.

And, in a genuine star spot moment I was actually, like, four feet away from him. At the end of the interval he ascended the stairs. I was third seat in, and the man on the aisle seat behind me grabbed his hand to shake it and I was "Oh. My. God. I'm sitting practically next to Steve Reich. Oh. My. God."

I think tomorrow night's Beethoven's 6&7 will be a somewhat different experience.

Journey from hell

Well, the Barbican actually.

There are so many different ways of getting home from the Barbican, none of them exactly convenient, but all adequate.

This evening I chose to get the Circle Line round from Barbican to Kings X and then the Victoria line down to God's Own Country.

It's actually not especially wise at the moment, because all the building work (Channel Tunnel related - what's wrong with keeping the terminus in God's Own Country?) means you have to walk three times round the station just to transfer.

Just before I descended the Escalator to the Victoria Line, I spotted a board and heard an announcement that there were severe delays on the Northbound VL, due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park - which I believe is somewhere in the Badlands of North London. Smugly I thought, it will be plain sailing to God's Own Country and confidently mounted my tube train, poised to take me swiftly to God's Own Country.

It sat there and sat there, and an announcement came that it was delayed due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park. I sighed. Why do the north Londoners' local difficulties have to become our problem?

Two young women opposite me sighed and complained. One reassured the other - it will be okay when we get past Finsbury Park. I was thinking of leaning over and pointing out that it wasn't going through Finsbury Park. They had previously been discussing the cost of renting in Walthamstow.

Five minutes later the train arrived at Highbury and Islington. Oops. For the absolute and utter first time in my life I got a Tube going in the wrong direction.

Due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park affecting the Victoria Line in both it took ages to get back to Kings X where it sat and sat and sat, whilst the heater blasted out extremely hot air and made me feel extremely claustrophobic.

I got off and ascended the escalator surreally bereft of any adverts - I have never seen an Underground escalator without adverts. I paused for a fag on the mainline station and re-descended to the Northern Line, where I got a frequent and fast train that took me direct to Clapham Common where I picked up a bus practically to my door. The sad irony was that this train passed through Moorgate, handy-ish and convenient-ish for the Barbican, and I could probably have been home at least half an hour or more earlier. Well, the concert finished at 9.30, I reached home at eleven.

I've only lived in London for fourteen years, with an extra 18 months as an Essex girl. You'd think I'd know the Tube by now.

Super duper jumbo

New airbus unveiled

According to the Evening Standard - which, in fairness, is probably copying straight from Airbus's Press Release -

The Airbus A380 will carry 550 passengers and offer inflight bars and self-service kitchens.

Um, maybe. Maybe there will be planes, or parts of planes, set aside for Business or First Class customers to sit in lounge-style seats. Meanwhile, it will be business as usual in steerage - pile 'em high, sell 'em cheap. We can complain all we like about being herded like cattle. Simple economics dictate that we will pay more for comfort.

The ES is running a poll - 'will you use the superjumbo'. My response - why not? Are they trying to create a fake but insidious climate of misplaced fear? At the end of the day, it's an aeroplane. they've been around for a hundred years. They are a relatively safe way to travel, and I would be prepared to believe, safer than they ever have been. It's all a bit Daily Mailish, really, like being frightened of foreigners and MMR jabs.

Pointless trivia

Thursday is the first day of that arbitrary 1/12th of the year known as the Age of Aquarius. In an utterly pointless stunt, creating a rod for my own back and adding nothing to the sum of human knowledge, I am going to see if I can list birthday girls and boys for the day, for all of the Aquarian period.

They will include my friends, family and colleagues, and celebrities, mainly living but a few dead geniuses (Mozart, Dickens) spring to mind. It would also be nice to include bloggers as well.

It might even be fun to add a few pictures - hunks and bloggers, mainly.

Hunk alert

Clive Owen in the news, winning a Golden Globe as best supporting actor.

Jimmy was watching The Bourne Identity yesterday, whilst I struggled to unphugger my phlog. To me, it seemed to be mainly Matt Damon. I asked hhim to call me when Clive was on screen. He didn't.

Still, I rather think I must go and see Closer, of which I have read some extraordinarily good reviews from intelligent people.

Of course there's also the infantile reaction

Both Julia Roberts & Natalie Portman are top rate actresses, why would they stoup so slow as to take on this "B" film? The explicit, filthy language of sexual situations coming out of their mouths was shocking. Natalie Portman as a stripper was unbeleivable, though she was not nude in this film, she might as well should of been. She had no self respect left, these scenes of Natalie as a stripper really cheapened her as an actress. I lost respect for both Julia & Natalie. The story line was confusing, it kept going from the past to present, to future. This movie should really hurt their careers. Julia Roberts is the highest paid actress of our time. What was she thinking????? I would not recommend this movie to anyone, it is best forgotten.
Shame on you Julia & Natalie!!!!!!!

Which blogger has or had a 'Beautiful Males' page - I'm tempted to set one up myself...?

Belle of the year-before-last...

Erotic? You're having a laugh

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

Thick or what...

80% of women under 24 will not bother voting at the next election

I could go to the polling station but I think I'll nip into Top Shop instead. Politicians aren't interested in me

If I do, I'll just vote for whoever my mum votes for

Me, me, me. So free, so independent. Happy to be told what to do. Happy for others to make decisions. Infantile, ignorant and stupid.

Not that voting really matters in itself. Very few constituencies change hands at any given election.

But people who don't vote don't engage. They have to accept decisions made by others. They have laws and policies imposed on them. Why should politicians be interested in them? It's a two way thing.

Poor little diddums. But at least they know how many Louis Vuitton wallets are owned by every Z-list loser of every reality TV show, because that really impacts on their real life...

People, again

Then you return to Blighty and have two negative exposures in one day.

At lunchtime, in Eat, the woman in front of me was buying three salads - presumably for her and two colleagues - and was paying with luncheon vouchers. A group of twenty-year old ex-public school boys from the Prince Harry Behaviour School walked in, all wearing pink ties with enormous knots pulled sloppily off their necks, all braying at the top of their artificially accented voices, all being annoyingly over-hormonally ill-brought up arrogantly male upper class twats.

In loud voices they proclaimed "Fucking luncheon vouchers. Giggle giggle snort snort deride condescend fucking luncheon vouchers". I really wanted to give them a pieceof my mind about

a) how rude it is to make loud comments about people in their earshot - poor woman must have felt self-conscious or mortified - and

b) to grow up and start understanding the eonomics of the workplace - presumably her workplace doesn't provide a canteen or sommon room, so issues LVs instead. So what.

On the train home two women. Obviously acquaintances, chance meeting. Both of them really ugly. They may not have been born ugly. It was a mixture of the cheap yellow home-peroxided hair and their utter lack of humour, in all its subtleties and nuances. Some mention made of some 'flu bug that's coming over here. How does it get here? Sideways furtive glance at me (who was looking very foreign with my dark hair and beige complexion) and a whispered 'immigrants'. Made me laugh!

Continued conversation about their journey to/from work. I couldn't quite work it out, but they both go a convoluted route to avoid something or other. One stood up immediately the train left Balham in order to ensure that she was able to get off at Streatham Hill.

Moaning and complaining about the new road layout and how difficut it is to cross (I have to say, it is slightly irritating, but it's all covered by Green Men). Then moaning about the floods in Carlisle. As far as I can tell, it's all Tony Blair's fault, because he wants a plane like Air Force One. My instinct tells me they are the Streatham Vale Chapter of the BNP.

But what struck me most of all was their clear shared belief that everything is conspiring against them. They are depressed about everything, their mouths are turned down in disapproval, and there was no indication whatsoever that either of them had the slightest ability to look on the funny side, or to shrug anything off, to live with it.

The Braying Hoorays and the BNP women both have my pity. Their lack of humanity, of compassion, of love, mars their very existence.

For 2005 I am going to be filled with compassion because it is only through compassion that we find love, through love peace, and, well, it really is the meaning of life...

From now on I am going to be the nicest most beautiful person on the internet

People

The more I study them, the more fascinating they become. I had a sort of Epiphany on holiday, almost by accident. Instead of getting all ranty about the foibles of fellow holiday makers, I somehow managed to compute that maybe it's not an inherent part of their personality. Just a foible.

Eg 1: The woman next to me on the trip to/from Jerusalem* On arrival at the Dead Sea resort and in Eilat, she saw the famous sign and said "Mm, McDonald's" with such desire, relish and grieving it was as if her life depended upon it. Do I judge? no. Doesn't make her a bad person, probably not symbolic of anything. OK, it was an ironic juxtaposition with her later comment "I'm really fussy about what I eat, no fat or gristle"

Eg 2 Chap we shared a table with for New Year. A bit full of himself, and a rather loud voice and irritating voice that carried far whiletal king incesantly about nothing. But actually, a very nice man. And his wife exceptionally nice. So, we have little in common. but nice people.

Eg 3 Chap encountered in bar in Rangers FC t-shirt (generally a warning sign). We chatted about holidays, turns out his wife owns a couple of travel agents. I suspected an hour or two in his company might be too much to bear. But he was asking my opinion about things, and we had an amazingly intelligent conversation, where I was confidently expressing my opinions and he was listening and processing. And we agreed about certain things - not least the crapness JMC (spawn of Satan) reps that, on arrival in holiday destination at 10 pm , direct you to the lovely English bar/restaurant five minutes to the right that might still be open if you're quick, without mentioning the exceptionally lovely and incredibly cheap Spanish restaurant two minutes to the left that will definitely be open well into the night. He said he had found English run bars in Spain charging twice the price for the same beer as nearby Spanish-owned bars. And we agreed that local food is generally cheaper and better quality than that laid on for the Brits in the Brit owned Brit themed pubs.

Eg 4 On the same subject, when I said the drawback of a Taba All-Inclusive is the inability to go and wander round the town and find a small, but perfectly formed local restaurant, and the weird over-fussy woman who said "But that means taking your purse out with you..." I suppose I just felt sorry for what she is missing out on, due to misplaced fear.

* inadvertent mention of pub name there!

Packing

Last Saturday afternoon in the hotel bar, some fifteen minutes after the desert chill had taken over the beach.

What he said "It will only take us ten minutes to pack"

What i should have said but didn't:

It will take you ten minutes to pack your clothes. It will take me fifteen minutes to pack my clothes, being distaff. It will take me ten minutes to collect and pack all those 'in common' things like chargers, guidebooks, beach towels, toiletries, medicines. It will take me twenty minutes to clear out the safe, check we have the tickets, distribute cash, travellers' cheques and cards between us, ensure passports are at hand but hidden. It will take me ten minutes to walk around saying 'you've left some aftershave and a t-shirt in the bathroom', to say three times - 'don't forget your trousers and shorts'

What I did say "I'll have a few drinks after we've packed..."

This is unique to us, right?

Victoria de los Angeles RIP

Spanish soprano de los Angeles dies

A voice I remember from childhood. A beautiful voice. Perhaps someone I was almost tempted to say 'I didn't know she was still alive'.

Nevertheless, sadness, although, IMO, sadnes is tempered by the knowledge that someone dying inhospital aged 81 after a short illness is not tragic.

I imagine there will be obits galore tomorrow and Monday.

The BBC have not yet seen fit to publish. Being more interested in some rapper being charged with violence.

1530 Update: As the BBC have still not published this two and a half hours after Reuters I have tried complaining, but their feeback server is "Temporarily Unavailable".

Weird

The lovely Sarah will soon lose the last of her babay teeth. Sarah is 23 (actually, nearly 24, she shocked me in a pub by saying Shuddup Your Face was number one when she was born - and I had previously seen her as a mature adult. Or maybe I'm just getting old)

Pub Quizzes

BBc article on pub quizzes, suggesting that they are a uniquely British phenomenom. Not sure about that, but my friend Helen and I had an interesting experience when in a bar in Cape Cod.

Actually, going into a bar in Cape Cod was an interesting enough experience. We had flown from Buffalo-Niagara to Boston, hired a car and driven out to the Cape, arriving fairly well into the evening. Tired and hungry, we picked the nearest place to eat, a Friendly's, where we ordered adequate fish-and-chips, and then discovered, to our horror, that alcohol was not avaialable.

Little knowing that we were soon to establish ourselves as the greatest alcoholics on the entire Cape, possibly the whole of Massachussetts, we rushed to the bar over the road. It filled every stereotype of smalltown American bars. Sad, lonely, dorky men sitting on bar stools, nursing, almost crying into their beers, not communicating with each other.

On various screens on the wall played out various sports - baseball, American football, ice hockey. Despite at least one match having some local interest, the sound was down and no one - except us - watched. Music played, but nobody seemed to take any notice. There was no evidence of a jukebox.

We were intrigued by the man next to me and got into conversation with him. It turned out that he was playing an online nationwide pub quiz, and was in heavy competition with a guy from Texas. The next five questions were: two about London, one about Switzerland (where Helen was then resident), one about kd lang, and, unbelievably, one sort of related to audit. This guy knew none of the answers, nor did Mr Texas. But, between us, Helen and I did. Much to the delight of Mr Massachussetts. We got chatting, and it was all very pleasant and congenial, and genuine, no cheesy chat-up. He expressed surprise that we were unfamiliar with this concept of the online pub quiz, opining that it would go down well in Britain.

As it happened, a few months later I encountered the online pub golf game, operating on much the same system. But I still contend what Helen and I concluded. This quiz thing was essentially solitary, lonely; it was only by chance that this guy happened to be sitting alongside two knowledgable sociable women. Whereas, all the pub quizzes I have ever participated in have been esentially about socialising. Yes, bitter competitiveness, physical fights, falling out with close friends. But, essentially social.

One weekend in December.

I'm not sure what happened other than general hecticness and lack of thought clarity. However, in the space of four days I failed to provide considered write-ups of the UK bloggers party, Haitink and the LSO playing Richard Strauss at the Barbican, and Don Pasquale at Covent Garden. I ought to get these covered off before next week when I start two and a half weeks of craziness of seven concerts, one opera, one staged oratorio and a ballet. And I'm kind of back to work fulltime. Well, I am back to work fulltime, except that our leave year ends at the end of February and it's probaly a good idea to reduce the 27 days annual leave I have to carry over!

The UK Bloggers party. Well, I went. It was strange. I expected to get very drunk and take loads of photos. I'm not sure that anyone took any photos, actually. Which is slightly bizarre. Drunkenness. Well, I don't think there was a lot of that, either. Full marks must go to Stroppy Cow, who, somehow, managed to fall sideways as she introduced herself with a hiccup and a glass in each hand. Style!

I did also get drunk, but I don't think it was entirely obvious until I was leaving. I went to the loo in the basement and had rather an argumentative time with the bar maid who was trying to convince me to go up the stairs to leave the premises, whilst I was adamant that I really could get out onto the street from the basement. Fortunately, everyone else had left by then...And, I think, my biggest embarrassment came when I was almost entirely stone-cold sober, and managed to walk totally into the rope that was roping off our section from the general public.

As usual, it was great to see Old Friends, and meet New Friends. From the blogroll were Jack Green Fairy, Anna Little Red Boat and the hiating Bobbie, the ultracool Mark Londonmark, Sasha Sashinka, Mike Troubled Diva, Karen and Pete Uborka dot nu, Vaughan Wherever You Are, Dave Acerbia, Cathy Bent Back Tulips and blogging Kevin, Annie London Underground, Pix Pixeldiva, Adrian 'Superstar' Sevitz, Robin Speaking as a Parent, Will This Isn't London and blogging girlfriend, hiating Dragon, and a few of the other suspects, such as Wild Funjinkie and Darren LinkMachine, who are lovely guys, but for some reason not on the role.

Despite my good intentions, I did not circulate anything like as much as I intended, and there were people I wished I had spent more time with - although I thoroughly enjoyed the people whose time I did have. I especially regret that I inadvertently ignored Cathy all night.

And I've probably offended somebody really obvious by omitting them from this list. If so, many apologies

Hoped for and missed were Meg Me(ish) Lyle DFD, Diamond Diamond Geezer, Graybo Graybo, Stuart Hg and Jag Route 79.

We should do it more often!

Taba and Travel

The resort we visited was Taba, quite possibly the strangest place I have ever visited. It's difficult to determine whether it really is a place at all. Or merely just a collection of hotels. And a disparate collection, at that. In Taba Heights were three; we stayed at the the Radisson Taba Paradise Resort, about twenty minutes from Taba borders, which comprises mainly the Hilton, which is currently closed, as a result of being bombed for Succoth. Oh, and the small matter of a border crossing. Not just any border crossing, but one from an Arab Republic to Israel, and one that is more than a mere international boundary, marking the divide between Africa and Asia.

Despite Camp David, which returned Sinai to Egypt, Taba remained under dispute. It only began to be developed after the Sharm El Sheikh peace talks in 1999. I dare say in ten years it will be entirely unrecognisable.

The airport is undoubtedly the smallest and most boring I have ever been to. That's nice on arrival because the bags are already unloaded once you've been through a painless immigration process. Not so much fun on departure when you realise that the only smoking area is groundside of passport control and the second metal detector, and you find this out after you have passed through an hour before scheduled take-off. It's only when you retire to the loos and find a whole crowd smoking there that you realise that the flight has been delayed two hours. The only food is crisps and chocolate, the only drink water, fizzy pop, Nescafe, or tea with powdered milk, and the only shopping is tat. Such is life!

The Hilton at Taba Borders was bombed in October, and security is very tight. We left the airport in a convoy of buses with police escort. As we passed through the mountains on the open road all the lights on the coach were dimmed - to deter snipers, I suppose. There was a checkpoint at the major junction where passports were subject to examination. The Tourist Police (cushy number, if you ask me...) are well in evidence and, in places, so are the UN Peacekeepers, MFO. Every time we walked into hotel reception we went through a metal detector. Each time a coach or minibus entered the compound, its undercarriage was examined with a mirror on wheels. I suspect that much of this was for reassurance, show, PR, rather than as an effective remedy to an actual threat.

Our hotel, the SAS Radisson Taba Paradise Resort was most fine. Supposedly five star. I think more African five star than European/American/Middle Eastern business centre. It was absolutely scrupulously clean, and the food was more than adequate. Indeed, in some respects it was very good. We went all-inclusive, which kind of goes against our instincts, but actually it only cost £30 more each than halfboard at the nearby Hyatt. That more than covers the price of water, coffee and lunch, let alone local alcohol, which is actually not very cheap.

Part of the problem with All-Inclusive is that it attracts the type of person, or induces the mentality in others, who are determined to get the full whack and will not shift from the place. But we knew that. We went away for R&R, we booked at the last minute, and there you go. Our room was plenty large enough, with sufficient storage space, plenty of cat-swinging room, a separate area to sit, and a sheltered balcony looking out over the garden and the Gulf of Aqaba to Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

Although the main bar was small, there were plenty of places to sit in the lobby and lounge, and on the less cold evenings, outside. During the day, we lay on the private beach attached to the hotel, but whilst many gathered round the pool, plenty more found relative solitude on loungers in the amphitheatre or dotted round the garden.

Joke

As stolen from our in house glossy (ie not to be put in recycling bin magazine)

A young executive was leaving the office late one night when he found his boss standing in front of a shredder.

Listen, said his boss, this is a highly sensitive document. Can you make this thing work?

Certainly, said the young exec. He turned it on, inserted the paper and pressed the start button.

Das Rheingold

So, last night to Covent Garden for the last in the run of the prelude to the tetralogy.

As already posted all over the internet, here is a summary of what happened:

Picture the scene. Parked outside. Not one, not two, but three great big BBC lorries.

Reading the cast list sheet, a note that tonight's performance was being recorded for radio AND TV broadcast (oh, the excitement...). A brief note that one of the minor parts had had a role change.

Taking one's seat, note that the curtain is slightly late to rise. Prolly cos of telly I thought.

The woman who makes announcements walked onto the stage. The woman behind me said "Oh no, don't let it happen, Bryn's going to cancel". Don't be silly I thought like saying, it would have been on the cast sheet...

"Bryn Terfel" begins the announcing woman, to a very audible groan round the auditorium.

Long and short of it - Bryn woke up with a sore throat and headache, no singers could fly in from Germany because of gales causing chaos at airports (I can vouch for that having had to wait for two extra hours Saturday night at the worlds newest and most boring airport, Taba, where we were reduced to smoking in the loos)

But landing at Gatwick was Donald McIntyre. Bryn finally pulled out an hour before curtain, was going to appear and act, whilst Donald McIntyre would sing from the pit, having had no rehearsal. Later, consulting my programme, I saw that he had sung the role in 1974. It seems that he is well into his 70s.

It was really quite strange. As the man next to me said, he was a shadow of his former self but what a heroic effort to pull it off. (And what an enormous cheer he got). As a woman on the stairs said, it must make it doubly difficult for the conductor. If I were being objective, I would mention wobble and weakness, but that would be extremely unfair of me.

Back to the BBC. Random people preceding me were confronting various BBC folk and questioning them, and I dutifully earwigged. One said that Rheingold will be televised live on Good Friday (presumably with no live audience???). Another BBC man said something about using the visuals from tonight and the sound from last Friday. We shall see...

And for good measure I saw Michael Portaloo walking along with an expression on his face that slightly famous people wear when they are conscious that they might be recognised, secretly would love to be, but are pretending to be all self-effacing.

Oh, BTW, I loved the production, enjoyed the music, although I've heard it better, and thought that some of the cast were excellent, especially Philip Langridge as Loge.

I avoided meeting the eye of my Bryn Terfel-loving colleague _all_ day, in order to resist telling her whom I was going to see....Well, I saw him, but I think her main interest is his voice.

As an afterthought, all those arsehole Christian lunatics who protested about the televising of Jerry Springer - the Opera - what will they do about that tale of incest coming up later in the year?

More generally, I thought that the critical panning of the production and staging was misplaced. I think, perhaps, there are different parts of the brain that different people apply. I think also that there are people who are hidebound in tradition and resistant to innovation, to the point of pre-judging. There were a lot of interesting effects in the staging, lots of ladders were used, as was promised.

The opening scene was particularly criticised, but I liked it - the use of lights and shadows gave the definite impression that the Rhinemaidens were In the Rhine. I liked the way Alberich arrived by dinghy.

I was fascinated by some of the props - why did Wotan take a model aeroplane down into Nibelheim? Wasn't that Nothung that Wotan was yielding at the end, a nice look forward to Die Walküre and Siegfried.

Some of the singing was better than others. As well as Phillip Langridge, mentioned above, I also enjoyed Jane Henschel as Erda and Franz-Josef Selig as Fasolt. It was a real shame that Bryn didn't get to sing, because he has tremendous charisma and stage presence.

It is my third Rheingold in a year, in addition to a DVD of the Met a few years back and a a Met broadcast from last year. I think it is my favourite of the four - although I haven't seen Götterdammerung live - I just adore the lushness of the orchestra. So, I was somewhat disappointed by parts last night. I had a distinct feeling of the brass being a bit off at the beginning, and another poster on rmo said much the same thing. I felt the orchestra sounded often more crisp tham lush. That having been said, there were some utterly gorgeous moments, too. There is a belief that Antonio Pappano is showing the potential to be a very great conductor (at 45 he's relatively young), certainly a view I would support. But I would suggest that perhaps Rheingold is a work in progress.

Back

It pissed it down in Jerusalem, I had to be rescued from drowning in the Red Sea, and Petra got cancelled because of...oh it's a long story and I need to get to bed considering I have been travelling for fourteen hours.