Gertsamtkunstwerk

Stalk me!

Tonight I shall be at Westminster Cathedral (boo! hiss!) for a Brahms Requiem featuring Carolyn Sampson. On Sunday I shall be at the Barbican for a Vaughan-Williams Sea Symphony featuring Gerald Finley.

If you're there, say hello! (at the Cathedral I'll be the one in the Confessional Box, atoning for all my impure thoughts in May...)

I suppose there are worse ways to spend the week I am sorely missing my favourite tenor than by seeing my favourite soprano and my favourite baritone.

And after that nothing good will ever happen again - just some shabby little shocky with some Romanian soprano, some Welsh bass-baritone and some Argentinian tenor.

I was supposed to go to hear Jonas Kaufmann in recital this evening but I got a phone call this afternoon to say he would be standing me up :-(

Cold Turkey , Failed...

I decided I had spent too much of the past month obsessing over Plácido; I do intend to get back to proper blogging at some stage. I thought I would go cold turkey and I was very good for two and a half days. Then I put a CD on...

Two tracks in particular - one from Siegfried
There's a particular note 41 seconds into the track that has an effect upon me that I am too coy to explain here; although its impact is even more if you listen to the previous seven tracks, too.

And then there's the Tristan und Isolde climax. Oh dear, oh dear.

Files are available here

If you want to hear sound files, I need to approve you as a member of the mmofm Yahoo Group. I will.

Bank Holiday

I'm sititng on the sofa catching up on blogreading, eating chocolate and watching The Sound of Music. As Jimmy is out, this is The Official Gert Cottage Singalonga Sound of Music. With added chocolate. Of course.

And, thanks to Queen Victoria having a birthday in May, I'm also off work tomorrow. But there's no special Bank Holiday film on tomorrow afternoon, which is discrimination against people who have the Queen's Birthday off.

Small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me

Must go, chocolate rations are depleting. It's a long walk to the kitchen.

Saying goodbye

After the final performance of Cyrano de Bergerac, I found myself irresistibly drawn to Floral Street for one last chance to say hello to Plácido...and bye - for now. He'll be back, in the autumn of next year, singing Siegmund in Die Walküre, as part of the Ring Cycle,  for which Ticket Acquisition Stress Syndrome (TASS) is already developing. I was not alone on Floral Street; to test out the setting on my camera, I took random shot into the crowd (which I have made deliberately fuzzy)

As you can see I didn't have a great view of the Stage Door, but at one point a woman emerged who looked remarkably like Angela Gheorghiu, and was greeted warmly by those of the crowd nearer to the door. She responded with friendly greetings in  a heavy accent that sounded like Angela Gheorghiu. So I expect it was her, as she opens as Tosca shortly, but I can't be certain.

Raffe was with me and has a different tale to tell, which she may care to share in the comments box once she is returned to and settled in the Frozen North (no pressure...!)

I did have to wait a long time, but, thankfully, the weather was remarkably dry. Eventually, it became clear that Plácido was doing what he did on Wednesday - sit behind the desk inside the Stage Door to sign autographs and so on, which is eminently sensible, as I said in regard to Wednesday. The security chap told us firmly to form an orderly queue on one side of the Stage Door, and because that was at the other side from where I was standing, I ended up near the back of the queue. Which is no bad thing, especially considering that the security man had emphasised that there was plenty of time, we would all get to see him.

Eventually my turn arrived, and I just asked him if I could take one last photo, and I thanked him for everything. What a wonderful performer! What a wonderful man! What a wonderful past few weeks! And I do rather like this photo!

That was not my only meeting with him yesterday.

Jimmy and I had gone into town fairly early and had braved the inclement weather to trudge up and down Neal Street searching for a new pair of shoes for me*. We then treated ourselves with a rather delicious and superbly Value For Money meal at Porters on Henrietta Street. I had white onion and cider soup, and the luxury seafood pie,  both  served attractively and hot in filling portions, and tasty, obviously made with excellent quality ingredients, in a pleasant and relaxed environment.

We made our way over to Floral Street; Jimmy decided that he would retire to the Nag's Head whilst I waited outside the Stage Door. I had calculated that as Plácido had previously arrived at ten past six for a half past seven performance, he would probably arrive at about twenty to six for a seven o'clock curtain. It was just about half past five when I took my position along Floral Street, closer to the Nag's Head than the Stage Door, hoping that the unexpected break in the unrelenting rain would last long enough.

And suddenly, there he was, magically appearing on Floral Street, looking as gorgeous as ever and greeting his fans as he walked along. He walked over to me, smiled at me and gazed into my eyes with a slight look of "You - again!" (but definitely not - oh no, not you again!) and shook my hand.

Having spent the previous two hours in a restaurant I was totally sloshed and thus I flung myself uncontrollably into his arms screaming "Take me,  I'm yours." 

Just kidding!

I was far from falling-over-slurring-my-words drunk, merely slightly lubricated to the point of shyness-and-inhibitions-slightly-relaxed.

As he turned away, tenderly I caressed his shoulder. He turned back to me;  in my best-disappointed-little-girl voice I said longingly "I'm going to miss you..." Once again, he gazed into my eyes and said "Me, too!", making my heart go boom-boom-boom. Of course he is a total  flirt, and also a total professional who treats all his fans with respect, but even knowing that,  it was such a delightful encounter, and I can safely say with no hesitation that he most certainly did not glare at me! Oh no! I will remember that moment for the rest of my life...although all I really remember is once again being startled at how gorgeous he is up close.

When he was inside the Stage Door I rushed to join Jimmy in the pub, simultaneously tossing a red wine down my throat, gabbling incoherently to Jimmy and frantically texting Faye, whose initial response was "What are you doing getting drunk at this time of day?"

At the very end of the day, when Plácido was seeing the last few fans inside the Stage Door,  a crowd was assembling outside Bertorelli's, probably to wave him goodbye. However, I had received a call from a somewhat angry Jimmy who had been forced to drink copious quantities of Hoegaarden in the White Lion - this time I had gone too far! (Diplomatically, I didn't do the 'oh, I held a gun to your head' gambit).  So I had to dash away to pacify him, and we had a tense journey back to Brixton. On the escalators at Brixton, I said "So, if he had walked past the pub when you were in there, or coming out, you would have assaulted him?"

To which Jimmy replied "Of course not. I wouldn't do that - and especially not to him. I respect him too much."

But I still had to pay! Later on, when Jimmy offered to go downstairs and get a replacement bulb for the bedside lamp, I vampishly said "When you return, how do you want me?" His reply "Preferably not snoring." And when he did return, and had replaced the light-bulb, I seductively said "Please undress me!" His response "If you can't even undress yourself, you're too far gone!" Ah, domestic bliss in Gert Cottage...

* I use to be a a great buyer and collector of shoes, but nowadays I almost need dragging into a shop to get some

Final performance of Cyrano de Bergerac

Something inside suggests that I shall never see this opera live again. So the past three weeks have been tremendous fun - or month if you go back to the Insight Evening just over a month ago. Before then I had never heard a note from the opera, last night I found myself, somewhat alarmingly, humming a tune from it.

Dress rehearsal included, yesterday was my fifth attendance, but my new acquaintances from Switzerland were there, too, so they're outdoing me!

I think I can conclude that I won't really be bothered if I never hear it again. And yet - that Final Act really is something special. It would be sad to think I may never hear it again, and, perhaps, to fully appreciate it, one has to accept the previous acts. I am very much of the view - which seems to be widespread - that it was worth going to Cyrano de Bergerac for Plácido Domingo's extraordinary portrayal. And I would certainly pay good money to hear him in this role again - but I wouldn't travel. And yet, I would pay better money to hear him in a host of other roles.

This evening I attended with Jimmy and we were sitting in the Lower Slips - the side extension of the Amphitheatre. Although this affords a Restricted View of the Stage and is not a prime location acoustically, it has certain benefits, not least being close to the stage. Additionally, I had lost my binoculars on the day of the Dress Rehearsal - possibly at Plácido's hotel - and Jimmy found me a superdouper replacement pair this week. Although they took a little getting used to, they are astonishingly powerful, and I took tremendous pleasure in keeping them focused on Plácido for an extended time, sometimes when he was singing and sometimes when he was just part of the scene, not directly participating.

That was a special treat, better than DVD. At times I could see the outline of the words he was writing in his letters to Roxanna - although, frustratingly, not the words. I could even see his finger nails. But much of the time I gazed on his face. Partly, of course, to gaze into his gorgeous eyes, despite the distortion of the presposterous prosthetic proboscis, but mainly to watch the subtle nuance of his facial expression, the way he reacts to what his happening around him even when ostensibly the focus isn't on him. I do so like the way he uses to face to act. This is visible as an overall effect from the amphitheatre but in the SuperZoom of splendid new binoculars it is fantastic to watch.

Sadly, the Lower Slips Right were not the best position from which to see that wonderful Final Act, but nevertheless, I was sobbing and sniffing at the raw emotion. I particularly observed his dying fall to the ground and I can't work out he does it. My ten-year old Nephew #1 attempted to demonstrate a couple of weeks ago and despite the impromptu unrehearsed nature was fairly impressive except for the tell-tale knee bend as he fell. I observed Plácido closely and could detect no bending of the knee. And it's fair to say that ten year olds are more natural at falling to the ground than adults with a stage career spanning nearly fifty years...

I originally wrote this post a few hours ago, but the my site was playing up and not saving changes, so I went away and did other things. As I lay in the bath I pondered the opening paragraph and realised that if I was given a choice - cast unknown - to see just one out of Cyrano de Bergerac, La Boheme, Turandot, and a few other mainstays of the repertoire, I think I would have to toss a coin between Cyrano and Aida.

...to the sublime

It seems wrong to categorise Beethoven under "Other Composers" but despite being arguably the greatest composer of all time, Ludwig only wrote the one opera, Fidelio.

On Thursday night I found myself at the Barbican for a concert performance of this: the massed ranks of the splendid London Symphony Orchestra and the possibly even more splendid London Symphony Chorus under the baton of the incomparable Sir Colin Davis.

On paper the soloists were not especially 'draws' and in an unrelenting diary I did question my judgement in having booked this, albeit a mid-price ticket.

But I was glad that I did. I am not as familiar with this opera as I ought to be. I saw it live staged many moons ago, by Opera North in Nottingham, and although I have it on my mp3 player, I feel I have listened to it on shuffle far more often than I have ever played the CD set from start to finish.

As soon as the band launched into the overture I had a feeling it was going to be a good night. Opening salvos from Marzelline (Sally Matthews) and Jaquino (Andrew Kennedy) only served to confirm that hunch. Sally's voice did not seem huge and struggled to be heard over the orchestra (an occupational hazard of concert opera when the orchestra are expose don stage rather than concealed in the pit) but it was a voice I could get to like a lot. I am still undecided about Andrew Kennedy - his strengths are noteworthy but I find him less than the finished article.

Part of my reason for booking was Christine Brewer. So many people rave about her but my previous experiences with her have left me unimpressed. This night was a different matter. That is some voice! And a voice I would pay good money to hear again, and again. My reservations are that I find her demeanour when not singing to be off-putting, and I am not sure how this translate into acting, and I did notice some signs of tiring, although this is no insignificant role.

Kristinn Sigmundsson, a late replacement as Rocco, was also pleasing to the ear. John Mac Master was Florestan. I do not think that he will ever rate amongst my favourite tenors and his voice does not hit my 'T'-spot, yet I found his performance to be satisfying, and that he got over well the torment of being held on starvation rations in solitary confinement both vocally and in body-language and facial expression. I found the remaining roles: Juha Uusitalo as Don Pizarro; Daniel Borowski as Don Fernando; and Andrew Tortise and Darren Jeffery as the Prisoners to be at least adequate.

But for me the stars were the London Symphony Chorus, who sang as well as I have heard them this season (and my previous outings - Gerontius and Beethoven 9 were laden with praise). One of the reviews I read suggested that the opera was well-served by being concert-only, because it allowed one to luxuriate in the glories of the orchestration and the orchestra playing. Which isn't wrong, except that...opera was intended to be staged.

The Prisoners Chorus is one of the great choruses of operas; and it gave me goosepimples. At the precise moment they exclaimed Freiheit, the hairs on my arm stood. Although my German is non-existent, Freiheit is one of those words that needs no surtitle, but I think the physical reaction was as much to the music, and I conclude that that was the work of sheer genius to make the music have that effect at that point. And the overwhelming message of Freedom, victory against oppression, triumph of the will and the determination of the human character is not a message to be taken lightly.

I felt the spoken dialogue was the weak link, but I'm not sure what the solution is. For a start, this is how it was written, so to meddle with it would be contrary to the composers intentions. My German is next to non-existent, so I do not gain anything from having the declamations in a language I don't understand. To have them in English would be perverse when the characters are singing in German, to sing it in English would be a mistake (notwithstanding my enjoyment of Opera North's 'in English' production - this was despite the translation).

An overwhelmingly youngish audience applauded loudly, even raucously, and it would be fair to say that the applause was richly deserved.

And in the interval, I met up with Raffe who had also survived and recovered from her Floral Street soaking.

The Guardian

Colin Davis's concert performance of Beethoven's Fidelio turned this operatic ode to freedom into a shattering celebration of the human spirit, and a revelation of the visionary qualities of this astonishing score.

Financial Times

Music OMH

FitCrit

I think they were all at the Tuesday performance, so their mileage may differ from mine.

From the ridiculous...

I have not spent May operatically only in seeing Cyrano de Bergerac: life is not that straightforward. So the merry month of May also involved a so-so operetta at English National Opera...

A week and a half ago, I joined the Sossled Night Out at ENO's La Belle Helene, an Offenbach Operetta, with libretto translated by Kit Hesketh-Harvey.  I think the main purpose for the night was to ogle

It was a pretty good cast, the highlights being Toby as well as Felicity Lott and Bonaventura Bottone. It was performed rather splendidly, and it was clear that they were all having a great deal of fun in this light-hearted satire on Ancient Greek Legends. It was a colourful production, with lots of semi-nudity, some soprano-rolling on the floor, some inappropriate running over sun-loungers (although not quite furniture abuse) but very little in the way of a gay subtext. And sheep. Do not underestimate the importance of dancing sheep in opera.

But, when all is said and done, musically it was an inconsequential pastiche of different styles and eminently forgettable. Definitely an opera for a girls' night out rather than to be taken seriously as a solo visitor. I suppose the trouble with operetta is that there is a great deal of spoken word, and however adequately these may be declaimed, very few singers have the ability to speak convincingly in the theatre in the way we would expect actors in a top West End theatre (and remember that the Colisseum is the largest theatre in the West End). The humour was quite forced, and we groaned along in good spirit rather than laughing out loud. Very much one to enter in the "Entertainment" rather than "Art" column of the ledger.

Afterwards we stood outside the Stage Door, but Toby Spence had slipped off and escaped being SOSSLED. We found Flott to be delightful, and also had a lovely chat with Bonaventura Bottone, who we found to be really nice.

Other bloggers also attended at various stages in the run: Simon left at half-time; Barbara and Robert enjoyed themselves; as did the previously-unknown-to-mmofm Tamaranth.

More stalking!

There I was sitting minding my own business on the terrace at Covent Garden in the interval of Cyrano de Bergerac, when I was approached by a woman. I was going to say, who introduced herself, but she didn't! So I said, "So, who are you?" and she replied "I'm your correspondent from the Frozen North" - it was Raffe, who had arrived unannounced in London to see the King of LatinoPop in Cyrano. So we chatted and I said "If it's not raining after, maybe I'll see you at the Stage Door",  my logic being that if it was to be as raining heavily as it was during the interval, he wouldn't want to be lingering in the heavy rain.

But as I left the Opera House at the end, it was barely raining at all, and it occurred to me that the rain has been characterised by heavy downpour followed by extended, well, dampness. And as I walked down Floral Street (which is the quickest route to the Tube) I saw that there was quite a crowd outside the Stage Door - and inside, too. So I decided to linger. I then made a decision which was probably not the wisest decision I ever made - no umbrella. I had one in my bag, but I really don't like umbrellas. The trouble is, once they are wet, you are lumbered with them, wet and dripping over everything. I actually prefer kagoules, but I draw the line at wearing a kagoule in town. I'm digressing, aren't I...

I was joined by Raffe (who sensibly used an umbrella) and we proceeded to stand outside the Stage Door  for a very long time. Well, curtain down is officially 22.40 and it was after midnight when we got away. Much of the intervening time was spent chatting with some and observing other Domingo-fanatics. And believe me, I am not a fanatic. Not in comparison, anyway!

Part of the conversation was focused on whether Plácido would even come out through the Stage Door. Considering there was goodness knows how many people waiting, and it was cold, wet and windy, was it really fair to expect him to, and the last thing anybody wants is to force singers expose themselves to conditions that are harmful to the voice.

And then, somehow, we found ourselves inside the Stage Door and realised that he was behind the desk, signing autographs and so on. Which is far more sensible than being mobbed in the street in the rain. I took one photograph (another in the series of useless photos I have taken of Pláci...)

I was going to get another one when I got to the desk, but on the spur of the moment I decided I would ask him for his autograph. I am not a collector of autographs as a habit, and I have a belief that the only justifiable reason for asking for autographs is because it's a way of creating a conversation, somewhat less sycophantic than saying "I'm a massive fan I think you're wonderful." I'm not bothered by signed CDs or books, because the pleasure I get from them is the inherent product - the "intellectual property" or "intangible asset" rather than the actual object. And I don't need an autograph to prove to me that I have met a famous person. What matters are my memories. But I know I'm in a minority, and just because my view is right-ish for me, it doesn't mean it's right for other people. And it's not even a view I stick to dogmatically.

So I asked him to sign my programme;well, I don't think I even asked, I just presented it to him and he signed. I said "This was the fourth time I have been to Cyrano and I think it's growing on me." He looked at me as if he didn't have a clue what  I was saying, and I cursed my fondness for colloquial English, hastily rephrasing to something like "I'm getting to like it more. And the final act is wonderful!" As I emphasised 'wonderful', I looked into his eyes with passion - it wasn't an act it was the natural thing to do - and he looked into mine, with the most gorgeous look on his face, in his eyes, and with tenderness and passion, he said "I agree". And my heart was going boom-boom-boom, but you know, I wasn't trembly or stammering or blushing or anything like that which I am liable to. I will treasure my signed programme for ever, but even more will I treasure the memory of my brief chat with Plácido.

We paused for a few moments outside the Stage Door. I wanted to make sure that I had my camera safely back into my bag, having nursed it carefully under my jacket for the best part of an hour. And Plácido left, by car this time, and as he left, he waved to the group of people still on Floral Street.

Raffe and I walked down to the Strand and parted; I squelched along to Charing Cross, realising that I could deny no longer that my left shoe has a massive split across the sole, and my girlie Doc Martens desperately need replacing. I also realised that the flares of my over-long trousers were soaked through. I was cold, and physically miserable, although  inside I was warm and happy. By the time I got to Charing Cross, I decided that I was going to get a cab home. The driver asked me where I had been for the evening, so I explained that I had been to the Royal Opera House. As an afterthought I said "And I waited outside the Stage Door for an hour in the rain." (Taxi-drivers see all of human life, they're unlikely to be surprised by just moderately crazy behaviour).

"Who were you waiting for?" he asked.

"Plácido Domingo," I said.

"It must be good to hear a really great voice!" he said enthusiastically. "Have you heard him before?"

"Well, it was the fifth time this month!"

"So, you're his number one fan?"

I laughed. "I'd like to think so but there are people who travel all over the world to see him!"

"He's the best, isn't he?"  asked the driver.

"Oh yes!" I replied.

I should have gone straight to bed when I got home, but of course, I didn't. And when  I did I lay there shivering for about two hours. I decided that I had hypothermia, then remembered I don't have a clue about hypothermia, but suspecting I was actually suffering from 'devotion beyond the call of duty' - but it was worth it.  He's worth it!

Tenor (and bass-baritone) Stalking

Once again, on Wednesday evening, I found myself miraculously*  transported to Floral Street and I took my position outside the Stage Door of the Royal Opera House. Sometime next week I shall reflect at length at the stupidity of people who hang around Stage Doors for a fleeting glimpse of their heroes. I am of course top of the stupid list!

I knew I had quite a wait and I did go through all this "What am I doing here," and a feeling of self-consciousness, or perhaps a glint of self-awareness that such waiting is not the most constructive or sensible use of time.

The next passage has previously been sent by email...

I couldn't actually see the Stage Door as such, but obviously there was *someone* there. I say obviously, because people were calling out 'hello' and so on, but I didn't make the analytical leap that if other people are saying 'hello' there was a chance I might want to. Then I was conscious of two people walking along the pavement, and a vague thought of "I'm in the way" followed by "that man is tall!" followed by "I know him from somewhere" followed by "it's Bryn" and by the time my jaw had fallen open he had moved on. (Bear in mind that he was so close to me I think I actually damaged my neck muscles in looking up - the angle was acute!). And the woman next to me and I just turned to each other and said "That was Bryn! and she started saying how she liked him but she really doesn't like his crossover stuff, and I have this word association thing that goes Bryn - Crossover - Faye and I phoned Faye but her phone was on voicemail, and then about five minutes later she turned up, which was sort of excellent comic timing.

But although I admire Bryn Terfel, I wouldn't leave work early and cross the city just to see him walk down Floral Street. Whereas I would do that for Plácido Domingo. Who duly obliged by walking down Floral Street...! Needless to say, Faye spotted him first. He strolled over to where we were and asked us how we were, and I took a photo

I was just about to step forward and talk to him when Faye leapt in front of me (I should have had her arrested for obstruction) and asked him to sign her CD cover. So, that was another chance gone. Sigh...

The woman next to us had been saying - based perhaps on her TV viewing of the Classical Brits that he's not looking good - gaunt in the face -  but Faye and I politely demurred. Then a few minutes later this woman agreed that he  most definitely is looking good.

* in truth, the 77A bus helped with this miracle

Cyrano de Bergerac review

I was in attendance last night, an excellent seat in the Amphitheatre. Including the Dress Rehearsal, this was my fourth time, but the chap sitting next to me was on his fifth performance - having flown in from Switzerland especially. I wouldn't bet against him being there on Saturday, either, bearing flowers...yes, I have discovered the Bringer of Flowers!.

And, as I said to Plácido afterwards, as one does, it's growing on me. I am still of the view that without such a wonderful performer in the title role it would probably fall a bit flat. There are longeurs; there are passages which are necessary to move the drama on but have no intrinsic value, and are not redeemed by wonderful music in the way that the Big Three* composers would do. There are passages that drag - notably the exchange between Roxanna and Monsieur Le Quiche. And seeing it so many times in such a short period it's easy to find bits that seem less well performed than on previous occasions - what springs most to mind is the chorus of the Gazzas at the Siege of Arras which somehow seemed less testosterone-driven than on previous occasions. But I am still unsure whether I would recognise any excerpts out of context - so it will be interesting to hear the second part of the New York Metropolitan Opera Gala broadcast on Sunday to hear Roberto Alagna sing something from Cyrano de Bergerac - conducted by Plácido Domingo!

And I remain to be convinced that the first half is at all remarkable. The Siege of Arras is good, with some almost memorable music.

But what makes the whole thing worthwhile, is the Final Act, which, as I remarked to Plácido, is wonderful. He agreed. And I suppose, in order to have the impact of the final act it is necessary to have the previous acts. The Final Act is wonderful partly because of the poignancy of the story, especially in its dignified melancholy understatedness and partly because of the sensitive convincing portrayal by all principals.

And yet this is opera. What is opera without music? Yet I am struggling to remember any of the music for the final act, except the Nuns' Chorus. And there's a wonderful passage where the piano is playing with the orchestra. But the overall effect, of reducing me to tears...again...would not be achieved without the music. Sondra Radvanovsky said at the Insight Evening - and her husband repeated to a blogger - that it is like film music; and I suppose when you see a film with proper  music you don't necessarily come away humming the tunes, but the music is vital for conveying the mood of the film.

There was a change of cast, with Anthony Michaels-Moore substituting for an indisposed Roman Trekel. I see he was also indisposed last week, and Carmelo Corrado Caruso stepped in for De Guiche, with a (very) distant relation of mine covering Raguenea - I was not at that performance.

It's interesting to see a different portrayal of a fairly minor role. Trekel's portrayal is an arrogant cocksure man, whereas Michaels-Moore is more vulnerable, of someone who is all bravado but inside is a bit lost. Vocally I prefer Trekel, but M-M was more than satisfactory. Indeed, the cast is vocally strong right across-the board. And Sondra Radvanovsky sounded better than on previous outings. I don't think I'd ever go to hear her in recital, nor go to an opera especially for her, but perhaps her presence would be weighed in as a plus factor. Although I find Raymond Very to be perfectly adequate I can't say I have warmed to him. The opera is unusual in having two tenors as Love Rivals and that is deliberately to assist the suspension of belief that Roxanna could not distinguish the voices of Cyrano and Christian. And it suddenly hit me - wouldn't be ace to have Rolando in that role, or even in just an excerpt, the Balcony Scene!

And then there was Plácido. I'm not sure that I can really add anything to what I have previously written, except that  I especially noticed his exquisitely placed piano/pianissimo notes; also, the opening declamation sounded especially bright and clarion-like. I have commented previously that he seemed to take a while to warm up on previous occasions, and I didn't notice that last night. On the other hand there was one bar where I could swear that his voice sounded under strain. But, you know, just one bar, in a relatively long role. I am being hyper-picky here!

The man to my left had got his ticket at late notice. He wasn't that much taken with the first act, and in the pause, I commented that people have made the mistake of leaving at the interval, but it gets so much better after that. It did not entirely surprise me that he did  not reappear after the interval, and the chap to his left found it highly amusing that I had specifically warned him not to make that mistake!

* Verdi, Wagner and Puccini, IMO

Assault?

I am not sure what the precise legal position is but it is an issue I have blogged before. Sometimes, I have to concede it's at least partly my fault - one day last week three people apologised for walking into me, which was nice, but three in one day makes me think I was in klutz-mode, and I was to blame.

Yesterday had not started well. Running late anyway, I could find neither my Oyster Card nor my office pass, which eventually turned up in totally the wrong place, which is senseless on a weekday. As I left the house, I wondered if I had my phone with me, and a cursory glance in my bag was fruitless, so I had to go back inside to see if it was in an obvious place - it wasn't. I used the house phone to call it and discovered it to be in the special phone pocket in my handbag.

I was fortunate that the moment I sat down on the bus on Brixton Hill the rain began to lash down. And I mean lash - poor visibility, the works. And yet when I alighted at Brixton for the Tube, it had stopped!

As I walked from platform to escalators at Vauxhall a man ran into me. He was running - not trotting, not jogging, not that sort of awkward walk-run hybrid that people like me do, but running. Fast. Straight into me. Banging against my left shoulder and chest area, bouncing off and continuing his frantic headlong pelt to the Victoria Line. Note, Victoria Line , the line that runs at intervals of a minute or two, and seldom more than five, in the daytime.

I was shocked, winded, thrown off balance, and about five people gave me looks of "WTF was that about?" I got to the escalator and realised that my shoulder, upper arm and chest hurt. And I was shaking. And suddenly I burst into tears and thought "I've been assaulted." I'll grant that it was not the man's deliberate intention directly to maim, but, surely, there comes a point that one's behaviour is so reckless that a reasonable person would conclude there was a high probability of it leading to injury. If one is so arrogantly and ignorantly self-centred so as to not understand, or not care about, the consequences of one's action it must amount to intent, at least in common sense. Whether that would stand up in court is another matter.

In tears and shaking, I approached the LUL chap in charge of opening the Assistance Gate and said what had happened. He led me into the control room and sat me down, and got me a cup of water. Another LUL chap asked if I needed to go to hospital. I would say full marks to Tom and the other chap for being sweet and supportive and understanding.

It was still hurting when I got to work and got into the daily farce of furniture removing (more of, later), which was impossible to do with one arm, so when I dropped a monitor crash bang I burst into tears again.

Eventually, the arm stopped hurting, and the shock and indignity wore off, and I concluded that it was a minor incident. I am adamant that it was not an accident; if the circumstances had led to a death (far-fetched but for the sake of argument), the victim's family could reasonably press for manslaughter.

But another important lesson I learnt was that - in the initial moments and hours after something unpleasant happens to someone, their reaction is not proportional to the severity of the incident. More than a day later, I am able to conclude that it was of minor consequence, but when shocked and upset, reactions are not logical. They can be a product of a culmination of other things, too - sometimes when I drop or walk into something, I laugh at my own expense; sometimes I curse; and other times I conclude that everything's going wrong. And for anybody who's dealing with someone in such circumstances, it is wise to pay no heed to the objective facts. So, thanks to Yim who was sweet and supportive and told me to sit down, have a coffee, and suggested that I went home, or called Jimmy.

Diary type thing

Yesterday was one of those days. How to sum up a day where I get assaulted on the Tube, enter into a grievance procedure at work, meet my hero twice, meet one of mmofm's top commenters, get soaked to the skin and end up shivering in bed for two hours unable to sleep.

Having said to my line manager some weeks ago that I intend taking a day's leave sometime in May just to recover from over-doing it, and having realised that I am owed a day in lieu of the Bank Holidays I don't take because they are on Mondays, I decided that today will be my day off. Still have to set the alarm in order to phone in so as not to be AWOL, and still have the Bastard Builders' noise - a combination of the electric blade that cuts what they call 'bricks' and I call 'breeze-blocks'; a vehicle that keeps reversing so has to go 'beep beep beep' and some other equipment that makes my house shake. I see that the warm words bullshit of Damian from Como have come to nothing and there has been no gesture of goodwill from Stuart Fanti of MacNiven and Cameron. Such foolishness...!

London Life

On my bus this morning there was one remaining seat upside, inside of a man. I said "Excuse me" and he stood up to let me sit on the inside. I'd rather people didn't, but he was a good bit over six foot, so I can understand the legroom issue, although I dismiss it as a minor matter. What was bizarre was that he continued to stand for the journey from Vauxhall Bus Station over a slow moving Vauxhall Bridge (I'd hate to be on a fast-moving bridge) and along Millbank to the Tate Gallery. It has entirely flummoxed me why he was unable to sit down. Or chose not to. Let alone that he shouldn't have been standing upstairs.

In the Early Nineties, I was in a conversation with a former Lambeth Councillor (one of Ted Knight's surcharged/disqualified brigade, but that's a whole different story!) and I was, of course, a future Lambeth councillor. He was reflecting on how the Lambeth Work Ethic permeated all levels of society. He likened service in Brixton McDonalds to that in Communist Eastern Germany. I had to laugh; McDonalds in Brixton - Customer? Service?

In a total non-sequitur, there is a Tesco in the next building along from my workplace which is spectacularly bad at doing what they exist to do - take money. I have been long-changed at least twice and I am not alone. A colleague sought my advice on a dilemma today - despite buying a sandwich, a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar, he was charged for two chocolate bars and the crisps and no sandwich. He's among the most honest people I know and he was feeling guilty.

I said if Tesco paid decent wages they would get a better quality of staff; if it were a small private business of course he should go back, but he should strike a blow of civil disobedience and chip away at the edifice of Global Capitalism "But I would say that, wouldn't I?" This chap is a little hard of hearing, so my voice was raised, and about five people looked at me startled. To my consternation, I realised that I did not look like the sort of person who would be attacking the edifice of global capitalism.

On my journey home, something very unusual, especially for peak time, happened - there were no red or amber signals between Stockwell and Brixton, so the train sped the journey. The slight slope down into Brixton and the slithering to a rapid halt was the most exciting ride on public transport since I used to stand on the platform of Routemasters speeding round Trafalgar Square - before it was reconfigured and Routemasters abolished - almost as good as Chessington World of Adventures!

The woman in front of me stuck a card in the frame of each alternative advert on the escalator. I've never seen anyone do that before, despite the proliferation of stickers, cards etc I see frequently. And I've never seen anyone graffiti, or at least, not since some friends acquaintances decided to deface the back of a bus seat in about 1980, in a typically suburban-girlie way, with biros...

I waited at the bus stop for a "Round The Corner" bus, but it never came, so I got on a 'straight-to-Streatham' one instead. When I got off it was lashing it down, but bizarrely, before I got home, the sun was bright and almost warm. Yesterday, I waited in the rain for "Round the Corner" and by the time it got almost to my door, the rain had stopped.

Guinea Pig

I thought I would keep an online diary of this clinical trial, should it come to pass.

BTW, I had to laugh, shouldn't really, when walking up the road leading to the hospital. On the roadside is a Sexual Health clinic. You know it's a Sexual Health Clinic because it says so in BIG LETTERS on the signpost outside. Of course, on mmofm we're terribly grown up and know that everyone is affected by issues of Sexual Health, so when we walk past and see the queues forming outside it would never cross our minds to think "Clap Clinic" and snigger, as we make our way to the stigma-free Rheumatology. Oh no, not at all.

A doctor came and inflicted pain on me. I had to respond if it hurt (rather than just tender). Eight times it hurt, but to get the boxes ticked, I had to have eleven howls of pain. I'm sure if she had squeezed my feet, she would have found twice eleven on each, let alone my calves, but she didn't go below my knees. I felt all day that I was walking on sharp loose chippings barefoot. sigh

So I go back at the end of next week. If I pass the eleven points of pain, I will undergo certain examinations such as an MRI - which will last about fifty minutes. No smoking allowed, I suppose. And I don't suppose I'll be able to take my mp3 player in with me. But they'll find out if I have a brain. I'll have an ECG - I've never had one of those, but I guess they'll find out if I have a heart. And I will give lots of blood samples, so they'll find out if I have courage. I suppose if I have a brain, a heart and courage that proves I'm not the wicked witch of SW2.

And then I shall have a prescription for thirteen weeks, with monitoring and whatnots at frequent intervals. For this I get paid travel expenses. Double sigh

Met Opera Gala

The Metropolitan Opera in New York held a gala on Saturday. Reports from around the internet suggest it was a bit of a curate's egg.

There are newspaper reports in the Washington Post, the New York Post, the New York Times, which has a picture show. A couple of nice pictures on yahoo.

Update: Playbill Arts has a photojournal, including a picture of TooMuch, especially for Jane...

It's been broadcast on various radio stations, check local listings. In the UK, Radio 3 broadcasts and webcasts it Tuesday night and Sunday lunchtime.

Oh, heck, why not throw in a gratuitous photo...

Going nuclear

Being that this is a weblog, I ought to provide links, but frankly the net is so full of links, it would be quicker to Google or to search your favourite news source.

Last week Tony Blair reiterated his support for nuclear power stations and I believe it stinks. Actually the one thing that nuclear power stations don't do is stink.

The issue has been reopened because we have squandered our natural gas and North Sea oil reserves and all but closed our coal industry; in addition, a sizeable and vocal minority of people are increasingly concerned about carbon emissions and Climate Change - I for one, not normally an Attenborough-watcher, will be recording Are We changing Planet Earth? on Wednesday.

As far as I know, nuclear generation does not directly increase carbon emissions and thus superficially does not contribute to Climate Change. So, it's alright then?

Only, it's not.

It's an issue I have felt strongly about since I was in Sixth Form. I recall an article in the New Socialist that I read and re-read, about nuclear energy. Also about renewable energy. And I have read and read on the subject in the intervening twenty-odd years.

Renewable energy has never been given a chance in this country. At that time, the amount being invested in research for renewables was a fraction of a percent of what had been invested in nuclear. I daresay it has increased since but it is still a skeleton. We have never given renewables a go. In the 50s, nuclear was hailed as The Future, zero cost. We were supposed to get free electricity as a result...have you seen your electricity bill recently? And yet we are an island surrounded by sea, the furthest you can get from the sea in Britain is a little over fifty miles. We have wind in abundance and we don't lack sunshine, especially on south facing slopes (although we could do with a bit more...!)

Development of wind farms have been stymied by protests. I can't say that I would care for a wind farm on my doorstep (although, frankly preferable to jerry-built concrete System Built Yuppie flats) but the options are viewed as being windfarms or nothing, whereas the reality is windfarms or fossil-fuelled power stations, but, hopefully, on someone else's doorstep.

Uranium needs to be mined. CAFOD has recently launched a campaign to combat the destruction of gold-mining; it would be naive to assume that uranium mining is somehow miraculously humane. It then has to be transported, by ship across the globe and by train or lorry locally. We don't know fully the long-term effects of depleted uranium, which we are just tossing out to sea, but we know enough for alarm bells to be ringing - for example, the cluster of cancers in people born in Bray Co. Wicklow whose gestation coincided with a massive (covered-up) leak in 1956 from what is now called Sellafield.

I became even more agitated about nuclear power when Chernobyl happened. This coincided with the US/UK bombing of Libya and there were a few people reflecting on the consequences if someone like Gaddafi decided to bomb nuclear installations. It seems so obvious, although the fact that it hasn't yet been done makes it fanciful. Although it was seemingly a big issue in Jersey last week. the splendid Coast programme shown a few months ago demonstrated how reactive the beach around Dounreay is, and to be frank, that worried me.

I think it's a cop-out and an abrogation of responsibility to endorse an increase in our nuclear capability. Yes, there is progress in alternative power sources and in energy conservation, but too little, too slowly. I would have thought that the biggest challenges for political leadership are the 3 Ps: Peace, Poverty and the Planet*. All the rest is administrative detail, best left to administrators. Politicians must address the 3Ps and lead the people in doing so, not amke themselves vulnerable to attacks of being in the pockets and pay of the Nuclear Power lobby

* I've just invented that: due credit, please

Built environment

I have moaned on occasion about the monstrous carbuncle that is being built on my doorstep. I objected to the plans; our objections were only partly successful in that we succeeded in having some of the bulk reduced. We are currently experiencing stress as a result of the building works - having left the bedroom window a centimetre open last night I was duly awoken at three minutes past eight by intolerable noise coming from the building site. But I know that will pass eventually.

I accept that I am particularly resentful because this is an inappropriate building in an inappropriate setting. It fronts onto Streatham Place, the South Circular, but it backs onto an enclave of cottages - mine is from the 1830s, a neighbour's is from the 1780s, and there is no indication that the developers gave a stuff about respecting a rare gem in the cityscape.

I also recognise that there is a desperate need for more housing, and I do believe that where possible, it should be built on brownfield sites. Nor am I so naive that I don't understand the basics of capitalism and the economic system.

The whole process so far has been illuminating. The derisory consultation they undertook only after their initial plans had been rejected, and they realised that they were dealing with articulate educated people rather than what they had no doubt assumed, apathetic thickos. The absolute lack of communication from the company involved in developing the site, NacNiven and Cameron, and their disgrace of a project manager, Stuart Fanti, whose response to any suggestion that they act as Considerate Builders and Good Neighbours has been met with a standard response of "We are working within the law". Yes, of course, Stuart, actually you're not. Noise from the site starts at 7.15 am. A suggestion from me that the company should offer some gesture of Goodwill has been stonewalled - perhaps an offer to clean the house once a month, including the windows, the car, and the soft furnishings has been ignored.

There has never been an attempt to communicate with the local residents - all approaches have been made by us, searching on the net for their details. Naturally, they fail to respond on Saturdays, because that's not a working day, despite the fact they are happy to have noisy machinery working on site. They have deliberately positioned their noisy machinery at the rear of the site, with some lame excuse about deliveries,  demonstrating utter contempt for their neighbours.

They really do not care about the neighbourhood; once the ugly box is built, they will leave the site and move on, and it doesn't matter. They have an "artist's impression" of what the site will look like when finished, complete with twee pictures of people strolling happily on the street. All white. It's only a small point, but this is Brixton. Of no consequence but clearly indicative of the contempt in which they hold the local area. But they don't even know that they're in Brixton, choosing to describe it as Streatham. I also love the way they fail to represent the reality of the traffic congestion that creates bumper-to-bumper gridlock for two hours in the morning and evening, right outside the development. Not much point having car parking if you can't get in or out at school-run/travel-to-work time.

But that is all transitory. They describe the development as

Built, designed and finished to a high specification, Thirty Streatham Place's range of apartments will exceed your expectations

Well, I have been watching these flats being jerry-built over the past few months and even without any specialist expertise I can see that they are shonky. Since when has metal girders surrounded by breeze blocks, with a thin veneer of brickwork been high specification? As for the concrete...! Further along the South Circular the NDC is embarking on a £100 million plus scheme to demolish many blocks of flats because of the fundamental structural and safety problems presented by spalling concrete - this site from "The Concrete Centre -  the central development organisation for the UK cement and concrete industry" suggests strongly that the prevention of spalling is work in progress.

And yet they are marketing these as luxury apartments. I really can't see how they differ from the damp uninhabitable council flats that will be demolished further along the road, except that they will be selling for a third of a million. And some suckers are going to be suckered into buying them. They'll probably get 99-year leases, which won't be worth the paper they're written on, because they will have to be demolished about the time  my brick-built  freehold cottage reaches its bicentenary.  I cannot see the attraction of living in a steel-framed  concrete sarcophagus, but then I live in a properly built house.

And their website doesn't even mention the problems with the water table in the area, caused by the local underground river, the cessation of heavy water-intensive industry (the tannery and brewery) and the Artesian wells, nor the fact that rain water from, for example, my property, drains onto their site.

Hello Google.

Dropping

I had one of those days yesterday. I knew it would happen, and I wasn't sure when. It was probably a good thing it happened on a non-working day. I had intended to spend the day sleeping, but was violently awakened by the postman's knock at quarter to ten. I can't complain - it was the tickets I bought off eBay being Recorded Delivered. But I had managed to sleep through the Bastard Builders' noise until then, so I needed sleep.

I spent the entire day on the sofa, conscious of tiredness, ache, lack of energy and so on. Singularly unable to write, and even my feeble attempts to edit a few photos from the weekend fizzled out. Besides, I might as well give up on the photography - the best two photos of the entire weekend were taken by Nephew #1 (of Nephew #2) and Favourite Niece (of Nephew #1). Admittedly, their 'miss rate' is higher than mine, but they can use my excuse (of small hands) more effectively than I can. Still, Nephew #2's contribution is to point his fingers at the camera lens...touching the camera lens. Still, probably preferable to dismantling Auntie #1's coal-effect fire...

I spent the time on the sofa deleting a lot of the pictures from this site. I haven't finished yet... Most of the ones I took are alternatively available on Under Developed, many more were originally nicked from the internet anyway, and the remainder are available from me by email on request, although whether I will comply depends on the source and nature of the request - ie family and friends photos are likely only to be supplied to f&f.

I was quite pleased with myself when I awoke from a troubled sleep at about 3am. I was dreaming that I had become President of the USA, which is my own fault for watching four episodes of West Wing and Commander in chief in twenty four hours....it was a shame I awoke because I was in the process of bringing about World Peace. But more importantly, I realised that all my low-level niggling symptoms were playing up, and rather than fret about them individually, I just decided - it's a result of the tired/achy/lack-of-energy feeling, which results from CFS/ fibromyalgia, and I just have to live with them, and accept that bad days will be bad all over. And I predicted a slump, resulting from a combination of relative visiting, tenor stalking and applying myself with enthusiasm(!) at work.

And next week, I have my initial appointment for the clinical trial in which I am participating. In due course I shall have an brain MRI and then take some anti-depressants (or a placebo) for three months...which might make me manic! Ha! It might be quite interesting to blog my mood.

Celebrity spotting...

Funny who one bumps into in the street.

Not that I had tickets for Cyrano (it was a SOSSLED evening at ENO's La Belle Helene - more of, later)

Still, I also saw him later on outside the Stage Door, and he didn't even glare at me. So when I got to the Northern Line, I just burst into tears and cried my way home.

Update: Helen sent me this:

She says "I think he is actually looking to the side slightly to where geraldine was standing."

Very nice Helen, but I'm not convinced!

Last Thursday's Cyrano de Bergerac

I went to another performance of Cyrano de Bergerac last Thursday, but because I was then away over the weekend I haven't had time to write it up. I suppose I ought to have come home and written in large, bold capitals I MET PLÁCIDO THIS EVENING

But I didn't write it, in bold capitals or otherwise. In fact I'm not sure Thursday evening even counted as 'meeting' him. I touched him, but I think 'meet' is too definite a word.

I won't write a detailed considered review of Cyrano, because I still have another performance to see.

I met up with Faye and Helen, and we were joined by Simon - that discussion of third rate but nearly second rate was very important, although as I walked...hobbled...through the market halls in Covent Garden at pumpkin time, I think I did scream rather loudly "It's a crap opera!"

It's a fabulous story full of sentimental schmaltz - and I love sentimental schmaltz. The music isn't bad, and it does have its moments. Act IV is worthwhile in itself and I wouldn't be entirely surprised to see it emerge as a standalone act at some gala somewhere in the next few years. But much of the music is verging on the tedious: the first two acts, at 87 minutes, seem to take a great deal longer than all of Gotterdammerung's six and a half (including intervals). In fact, towards the end of Act II I was thinking, this is longer than an entire Ring Cycle...

Most of the supporting characters are barely two dimensional, although praise must be given where due. I have stated that I don't care for Sondra Radvonovsky's voice, but everyone else seems to, and I can't really fault her technique and acting. Carmelo Corrado Caruso and Roman Trekel coped splendidly with indifferent material and it was nice to see Iain Paterson, a name that hopefully will crop up with more frequency on this blog.

But let's be honest, there's only one reason for going and he was splendid! I felt that he didn't sound as good on Thursday as he did on Monday but I think that was due to the difference in where I was positioned. My feet were aching - I was in a standing 'seat' and being a hot day I decided to wear summer shoes that had not yet been worn outside the house, rather than my trusty girlie Doc Martens. /stupid.

What can I say about Plácido that I haven't said already? He has an extraordinary and beautiful voice that I don't think I could ever tire of.  And it's so wonderful to hear him live, because I'm standing there enjoying this good, very good,  singer and suddenly I hear this exquisite sound that transports me to a different plane. I would be quite happy if he just 'stood and delivered' but he doesn't. When I'm watching, I don't think, even subconsciously, "That's Plácido Domingo, my hero, down there" - it's Cyrano de Bergerac. And I do so like that final act, when he hobbles in to Roxanna's convent, the shock of seeing him as a feeble old man, and that exquisitely poignant scene where he reads the court circular, and then he reads Christian's last letter (which, of course, was written by Cyrano), and then finally, he announces his own death, stands under the tree and dies a dramatic death (albeit with less tenorial rolling on the ground than I witnessed on Monday...). The balcony scene with the love duet is noteworthy too, and I'm rather fond of the bit where he meets Roxanna in the bakery and issues exclamations of delight when he thinks she is declaring her love for him, which turn to heartbreak when he realises that it isn't him she loves. Oh, and I like the fighting, too...!

After the performance Helen, Faye and I assembled outside the Stage Door. Quite a little crowd out there, as we expected, including some of the usual suspects - some people who are always outside Stage Doors, and some people I always see whenever I see Plácido. There was one woman whom I had seen at the Dress Rehearsal and on Monday night, and she was back again on Thursday...she must be obsessed...!

We waited for ages and I was getting increasingly jittery. I'm not like that with ordinary everyday singers, or, indeed ordinary everyday other celebrities that I encounter from day to day. But he's different.

And this is the bit where I get very teenagery (with apologies to teenagers who are far more mature than I am...). Imagine the scene: there's a fair crowd inside the lobby to the Stage Door, there's a fair crowd blocking  the pavement outside, crowded round the street door, there's a crowd milling outside Bertorelli's and there's more of us standing randomly in the middle of Floral Street. Not quite the queue round the block that there was at Die Walküre but more than the handful that usually assemble post-performance.

And we see him; he pauses for a while in the lobby, signing autographs and I get a fairly good view of him side on, until I lose him in the scrum of people mobbing him. Then he emerges through the scrum and I feast my eyes on him, and I am startled at how beautiful, handsome, lovely he looks. This is a man of whom I have over a thousand photos on my PC and goodness knows how many more elsewhere; a man I have in 34 different opera videos/DVDs and others of performances and documentaries; a man whose looks I fell for moments before I fell for his voice (come on, I was twelve at the time, it's allowed!). And yet...I looked at him and I could not help mouthing -  or perhaps saying "He's so fucking gorgeous...!"

And although he was mobbed, I did get pretty close to him:

Thanks to Helen for the photo! That's me in the beige suit - note how my camera precedes me by fifteen minutes, actually note how the lens is actually retracted, indicating it is switched off.../stupid

The photos I took were spectacularly unbelievably bad  - camera shake...but Helen and Faye managed some reasonable ones...

Thanks Faye

Thanks Helen

How can a man so gorgeous photograph so badly...sigh

I did speak to Plácido, but what I said was really stupid.  I do stupid well. Someone said that he looked good with a beard, and he said that he used to have a beard quite often, and he felt that it was right for the role of Cyrano, so I said something like "Oh, but please get rid of it after the end of the run..." and he gave me this look of "what is this stupid woman going on about...?".  Then a few minutes later, I asked if my friend could take a photo of me with him, and Faye was just about to press the button, when someone distracted him and he looked the other way.

So I was really upset in a childish way. Look, I was tired, achy, and wanted nothing more to go home for a long soak in the bath followed by a long sleep in bed, and yet I was stressing at all the things I still needed to do before going out to Euston eleven hours later. So I threw a complete tantrum in Floral Street "Am I bothered, do I look bothered, does my face look bothered, I'm going to sell my remaining ticket for this crap opera on eBay, see if I care..." I was overtired, overwrought, and should really have been told to grow up, behave myself and be sent to bed without any supper. Fortunately my friends gave me lots of support - pointing out that he was being mobbed, people from all angles wanting his autograph, or take a photo, or to flirt with him. And also that it's perfectly normal to feel deflated and...rejected...when one almost sort of meets one's hero.

Oh, he was in mild panic mode when he thought he had lost his scarf. I was wondering whether he was concerned at the thought of walking in the London air in a river-wards direction without his scarf (singers are like that, unsurprisingly), or whether it had sentimental value, or whether he was concerned someone might have nicked it to sell on eBay. Happily, someone found it.

He was also carrying the Official ITV Sport guide to Grand Prix 2006 - shame that he had to be onstage on Sunday when the Barcelona Grand Prix was happening...

I expect I shall return to the Royal Opera House Stage Door on some future unspecified occasion.

There are other singers, too...

Carolyn Sampson: The bare-all diva - please stop releasing so many CDs...!

Deep Baritone: Dmitri Hvorostovsky

For tenor, bel canto comes naturally - about Juan Diego Florez

And Bloggers' Favourite, Gerald Finley, also gets stalked in Italy

Lots of links

I've been away since Friday morning, and although I have had some internet access, it would have been v. rude to sit at someone else's PC posting lots of links.

The Evening sub-Standard had a photo-documentary* on how the nose is installed: Placido's one-hour nose job and a review Domingo redeems lost work

Domingo, in his mid-sixties, still has artistic generosity, nobility and control, and a capacity to spin gold from straw. Had he not been singing, I would have needed padlocking to my seat. Instead, he made the evening remarkable.

The Sunday Times says: Another Feather in His Cap - a bit acerbic, but I do like the "ladies’ hairdos apparently modelled on the heads of poodles after a dip in the pond" - the review namechecks a few of the smaller roles, including Iain Paterson as Le Bret.

Domingo dominates says the Observer, and the IoS weighs in with Sadly this opera is just a one-man show (but another positive namecheck for Iain Paterson).

And for those of you who don't read the comments, you absolutely have to check out the fantastic Cyrano de Mexico video that Raffe has unearthed - guaranteed to become a favourite with those connoisseurs of video, Faye and Favourite Niece...

* contains gratuitous chest hair

Five World Cups

I feel a caption competition coming on. There might be a prize...

I have a new illness!

Called confusion!

Or guinea-pig syndrome...

Scuse me for being sceptical. Cynical, even...

I went to the hospital today to see the Consultant Homeopathic Rheumatologist, about my Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and it turns out he's left, so I was seeing the Professor and a team of his students. As I walked in the door He announced,

"You've had a vague diagnosis of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but it's obvious that you have fibromyalgia (which I diagnosed off the internet years ago...). Where do you work?" I told him and braced myself for the inevitable cracks...which did not fail to materialise...and then he asked whether I would be interested in participating in a clinical trial - "but only if you meet certain criteria..."

Apparently, this will be about having MRIs (presumably of the brain - I had one of those really years ago but they didn't find anything...!) and taking anti-depressants, which is a bit weird because I'm not depressed, but apparently it's a theory they have. Well, of course I said yes, although I haven't spoken to the co-ordinator yet. I mean, me being a laboratory experiment! Cool or what! It's all about ME.

After all, it is ME Awareness week. Honest. I'd love a badge that says "Be Aware of ME".

But apparently, I haven't got ME...

Cyrano Reviews

The Independent and Times have rushed out reviews of Last Night's Cyrano. Update: Further reviews have been added to this post.

Domingo pushes back the years to keep his nose ahead of the field

But the little-known opera in which Domingo has chosen to star at Covent Garden showcases him in cruelly sharp focus: not only is his voice exposed, but also the state of his physique. Fencing at full tilt while simultaneously singing your heart out is not the kindest way to treat yourself at the ripe old age of 65...

...When Domingo comes on he's unrecognisable - straggly locks, sunken cheeks, drooping beak, a drowned-rat version of the swashbuckling musketeers who throng the stage in the pullulating opening tableau of Francesca Zambello's production. But as soon as he opens his mouth you know it's him: his voice still has that marvellous freshness and focus. And when he starts to fence and declaim, he seems deft and nimble: a theatrical illusion fostered by the deftness going on all round him...

...His little gasps of dismay as his beloved Roxane reveals her love for Christian are oddly moving; when he takes the young stumblebum she loves in hand (nicely incarnated by Raymond Very), his magnanimity becomes heart-rending. But the triangular love-scene which concludes the first half of the evening takes off like a rocket, as Cyrano's promptings are transmuted from conventional platitudes to words from the heart: for a few magical minutes...

...When the denouement came, it rose once more to the occasion - as did Domingo. All the mildly risible Les Mis moments elsewhere were forgotten, as, bleeding from his mortal wound, his voice, gestures and body language all bespoke the suppressed passion of a lifetime. This was high tragedy, conveyed with total conviction.

Domingo recently told this newspaper that he didn't expect to be treading the boards at 70. I would put money on him doing just that.

Cyrano de Bergerac

If the poet with the prodigious proboscis does turn out to be the 65-year-old Plácido Domingo’s last new role with the Royal Opera, the tenor will have signed out with grace, lyrical ardour and even a modest flourish of swashbuckling swordsmanship.

Domingo’s acting has always been several cuts above the norm for operatic superstars (admittedly not a very testing benchmark). Here he is mesmerising as the ugly-mugged but noble-hearted hero who concocts impassioned letters to the lovely Roxanne  not on his own behalf, but to plead the cause of his friend — handsome but dim Christian.

The tenor gets a wonderfully wry love duet by proxy, and a great death-scene — exhaustingly prolonged in best operatic tradition. Domingo delivers it all with understated pathos and, at the end, a touching, autumnal vulnerability. The voice may have lost power, but not its dark lustre. The artistry is undimmed.

Without Domingo it would be a supremely silly night. With him, it’s just about worthwhile. By a nose, you might say.

The Financial Times absolutely hates the opera but says:

Domingo was marvellous in (the death scene), capturing the autumnal resignation of poor, unloved Cyrano to perfection. But then he had given his all throughout. A tenor half his age might balk at having to engage in a sword- fight through his opening aria, but Domingo husbands his top notes and swashbuckles with the best of them, holding his own against the searingly strong soprano of Sondra Radvanovsky’s Roxane and trumping his rival, Raymond Very’s cleanly sung Christian, in the personality stakes.

Guardian Review

From the moment Domingo makes his first entrance - preceded by a gigantic prosthetic proboscis - he commands the stage with his usual magnetic presence, duelling his way through the first act, and composing artful, poetic ballads as he cuts a swathe through 17th-century Parisian aristocracy. His voice may not have the same consistent power that it used to but he reserves his most intoxicating, ringing tone for Alfano's most lyrical vocal lines: his first declaration of his love for his cousin, Roxane, or his paean to the Gascon cadets in the second.

The fourth act is the most impressive of all, both from Alfano and Domingo. The music, with its echoes of Debussy and Ravel, is full of elusive harmony and is scored with real finesse, an atmosphere superbly caught by conductor Mark Elder and the Royal Opera House Orchestra. Domingo's portrayal of the older, dying Cyrano has tremendous dignity; his voice captures Cyrano's vulnerability as he confesses to Roxane that it was he who wrote the letters that she fell in love with. It may not be a masterpiece, but Alfano could not be better served than by this production.

Domingo Triumphs in `Cyrano de Bergerac' at Royal Opera House

The opera stands or falls on the performance of the tenor singing Cyrano, and in this respect Domingo is the production's greatest asset. His voice is as beautiful as ever, full-bodied and shining, and he captures the heroic swagger and painful vulnerability of a man tormented by his own ugliness. He even handles the sword fighting with a swing.

The production has sold out, and the lines for returns stretch around the block. If you have an arm and a leg to spare, you could try the ticket touts. Otherwise, if you get up early and want to brave the crowds there are 67 seats available from 10 a.m. on the day. Set the alarm. It's worth it.

At 65, Domingo in no mood for swan song

Although the tenor recently said he had two to three years left of singing, after a rousing reception at London's Covent Garden late on Monday he avoided naming a date.

"Nobody knows," Domingo told Reuters in a backstage interview after the performance.

"When I feel like I feel tonight, I don't have to worry for the time being," he said, removing his giant stage nose for which the character of Cyrano is famous.

Cyrano de Bergerac

I have just come back from the UK Premiere of Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac and I just loved it. I know that I am suspending critical judgement with that statement; it isn't a great opera, but it was a great performance where it mattered - the title role! I have had a stressful day one way and the other and I got a sudden panic attack that I'd hate the opera, or that I would find Plácido disappointing.

Yeah, right, as if that was going to happen! He was wonderful!

He is fantastic as an actor, the little nuances that were perfectly clear to me despite having lost my binoculars. I could just watch him moving around stage, so elegant so lithe. And then there's the singing! About ten minutes in, he produced this sound that was pure beauty to my ears. And there was much more where that came from. I kept pinching myself to make sure I was not in a dream. Here was this man that I adore, who dominates my CD and DVD collection, who I hear on my mp3 player many times a day, who, with the Cyrano costume...well, the nose, really...was hardly recognisable. But to hear him singing is just a tremendous experience. I've had a number of good, some extremely good singers, in the past few months, and even though I know I am privileged to have heard them, to hear Plácido is something extremely special. People say to me "You should have heard him at his prime", and all I can think is "So, this isn't his prime...?"

I was going to write a review, try and be first on the internet, but I can't get first-to-post now, so I shall hand you over to Dominic who pretty much reflects my thoughts: Cyrano de Bergerac @ Royal Opera House, London: opera review

I shall post a considered review after I attend again on Thursday.

I didn't hang around the Stage Door. There was a security guy there pointing out that as it was first night, there would be a party, which I already assumed, anyway, so I wasn't going to hang around on the off-chance and decided instead to head home and savour the memory of the performance.

I cried a lot. Wonderfully cathartic!

BTW, there were some further key operatic moments in addition to what I spotted at the Dress Rehearsal. There was furniture abuse - when Cyrano angrily struck a table in the bakery with his sword, when Christian kept mentioning the nose. And joy, there was more tenorial falling-to-the-ground, at the end of the balcony scene when Cyrano slumped to the floor in despair at the bottom of the ladder.

Sadly, no chest hair was fondled...

Afternoon tea

After the Cyrano Dress Rehearsal I went to join Faye at the Stage Door; she had been joined by Canterbella, and it was lovely to meet her for the first time.

We hung around the Stage Door for a while but then a security chap told us that Mr Domingo would not be coming out of the Stage Door: he had private guests, and he was tired, and would be leaving by another door. Of course we were disappointed but that's totally his right, and I am absolutely not complaining.

There was some joking amongst a few people, myself included, that between us we could cover all doors, and with mobile phones we could let others know. But I would not contemplate actually doing such a thing.

So, instead Faye and I went to lunch, and then shopping in the Royal Opera House shop : I bought a book that is newly published Plácido Domingo and The Royal Opera:

Plácido Domingo, one of the legendary opera singers of our time, is the subject of the first opera book in the "Royal Opera House Heritage" series. Plácido Domingo and The Royal Opera focuses on the special relationship he has enjoyed with the Company and with the Royal Opera House since his debut in 1971.

This book illustrates all aspects of Domingo's work with The Royal Opera: in rehearsal, in performance, on the Big Screen and backstage after galas. It also includes a selection of family photographs lent by the Domingos.

We also perused the delightful display of photos of Plácido in the corridor outside the shop and ticket office.

After lunch, we realised what we really needed was a good cup of tea. I know it sounds stupid but where in central London can you get a nice cup o' tea and a sit down? So we thought we would head for the Tube and see if we passed anything on the way. (At this point, I become mysteriously vague about our precise location in the Greater London area for reasons that will become apparent)

Then, one or other of us had a blinding flash of inspiration, and the other duly egged on: the best place to get a nice cup of tea and sit down in comfort is a hotel. This flash of inspiration happened as we were passing a nice hotel, and we went in, but realised that the lounge was full of people having full afternoon tea, which we didn't want, considering we had just eaten. In my case a Fiorentina Pizza and a chocolate fudge cake...

However, tables in the hotel lobby had bar menus on them, so we sat there. We sort of expected the waiter to come over to us, but when he didn't we didn't have the energy to attract his attention. And we were so busy having a nice sit down and a chat, that the need for a cup of tea disappeared.

I decided it was time that I checked out the reshuffle latest via WAP on my phone (I am far more of a political junkie than is apparent on this blog). I was busy faffing with my phone, when Faye said "Look who's just walked in...!" "Who?" I said. "Plácido!" she said. At which point I dropped my phone and she ordered me to put out my cigarette. I waved to him...I was so cool and nonchalant, you wouldn't believe! And he said "Hi there!" causing my heart to go boom-boom-boom-boom. And he smiled and waved at us both!

He is just so unbelievably cool, just strolling around. You know you get these pop stars that no one's ever heard of who have all these minders, which only serve to draw attention to themselves anyway, and he's so completely different, even though he knows full well he could be followed or approached by crazy fan women at any time.

We very quickly agreed that we would not go rushing over to him or anything silly like that - we wouldn't want him to think we were stalking him, now, would we. I'd be lying if I said it didn't even cross my mind, that I wasn't tempted. But it would have been extreme bad manners, and an intrusion of his privacy, and I wouldn't do that.

It was the perfect ending to a rather fantastic twenty four hours.

And, you know, I adore Plácido now even more than I did before. He is unbelievably wonderful in every possible way.

Cyrano de Bergerac Dress Rehearsal

It did feel a bit like the morning after the night before. It's inhumane for the audience to have to attend at 11am; it must be exponentially worse for all those involved in actually putting on the show!

I have not heard a single note of the opera, except what was performed at the Insight evening. I am really rather pleased I went to that (and not just for the obvious reason that Plácido was there) because it was pretty cool to have a few insights into the score.

As I took my seat in the Slips (restricted view but close to the Stage...) I was filled with growing excitement. I accepted that Plácido was not going to sing - he'd said so less than an hour earlier! But I was still looking forward at least to seeing him!

Oh, he's such a tease! He sang!

I am going to break the rules of discussing Dress Rehearsals but only because it's him...! I think it's probably fair to say that he took a bit to warm up (which all things considered is no surprise) but after about, I dunno, quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, he was sounding just wonderful...to my ears better than he had sounded at the Crossover Brits on Thursday night. Although that might be an acoustic thing!

I am not sure what to think about the actual opera, but I am sure I will have a better idea in three weeks time. It was written by Alfano, most famous for finishing off Turandot, and it's based on the novel by Rostand. I am not sure about the music overall, it's not exactly full of pretty tunes in the style of Verdi or Puccini, but there is some splendid music in it. The orchestra is definitely worth listening to. In the insight evening Mark Elder made special reference to the music of the Gascons, the band of brothers, the musketeers. It would be quite quite wrong to refer to them as the Gazzas...The music for the Siege of Arras is atmospheric, and I started sniffing ominously at that point.

At the start of the final act I burst into tears. It might have been because I knew how the storyline was going, or it might have been something in the music, but it didn't take me long until I was a blubbering wreck, and had to take my glasses off as they were being salted up (and when I inspected my appearance in the Ladies afterwards, I had a shiny red nose).

The production is visibly appealing and doesn't seem to do anything inconsistent with the story. I didn't see any obvious stupidities in the blockings. The production is shared with the New York Metropolitan Opera, and their database is choc full of photos, although they don't do full justice.

In the nose, Plácido is almost unrecognisable, although the twinkle in his eye is unmistakable! It was fun watching him fence, although I missed some of the fencing because of being in a Restricted View seat. He moved around stage with ease and elegance, and, of course, panache, and I must confess to spending a great deal of time gazing at his lovely thighs.

I won't comment at this point on other cast members; to be honest, other than the main parts I had a bit of trouble working out who was who, but I will say that I think I am going to enjoy it and I suspect my overall conclusion on my proper performance reviews will be positive. The orchestra as ever were wonderful.

I have no recollection of there being any furniture abuse as such, although the Gazzas were leaping around tables at one point. And I couldn't swear there wasn't furniture abuse. Lots of sword fighting, cannon fire, and a special operatic bonus, lots of PIES!!! But most importantly of all we had a splendid tenorial death with dramatic falling to the floor and dying slowly in prone agony, which is guaranteed to make me happy - especially when it's this particular tenor. And I blubbed my eyes out!

I did find it thought provoking. I found Roxanne to be a shallow person. She only fell in love with Christian for his looks; the fact that he seemed to be able to write beautiful letters did cause her to fall in love with what she believed to be his soul, although, of course, the letters were written by Cyrano.

Perhaps I shall be accused of being Eurotrashy but it did seem to have resonance for the internet age. I think that when we meet strangers in the flesh we are wont to judge them within seconds purely on their physical appearance. Poor Cyrano, with that nose, was always going to repulse women. His words were beauty, and his words were more representative of the real Cyrano than the nose, but Roxanne couldn't love him.

He then visited her for an hour every Saturday in her Convent, showing total love and devotion, which she was never able to return - presumably because of the nose. Until, she discovered, just as he was dying, that it was actually his soul that she loved...I'm welling up writing this...

Part of me thinks "Ha, serves her right for being so shallow..." but could I honestly say I would be any different. And it's easy to think of him as the romantic hero, noble and good, but I then feel frustrated at the wasted years, the unhappiness - if only he had said, if only he had seized the day. I shall ponder this one some more.

Incidentally, at the insight evening Francesca Zambello explained that in New York there had been a pantomime played at the start of the final act to show the passage of time, but she has decided it didn't really work, so she's removed it, and the Act begins with the Surtitle "Fifteen Years Later". It is rather fun to see how Cyrano and Roxanne had aged in that time. Except that it was heartbreakingly sad.

Success or failure?

BBC SPORT | Football | Premiership | Man Utd 4-0 Charlton

I watched (on TV) the glorious end to a Curate's Egg of a season. A season where we did pick up silverware, something that should never be taken for granted, even when it is only the League Cup. A season when we were always second best, always playing Catch-Up. And yet a season where we qualified for the League phase of the European Champions League, and won enough points to have won the League in most years.

We have some exciting young players and have bought some interesting new players in, too. It was heartbreaking when Wayne Rooney broke his foot last week, but heartbreaking more for England than for United. It seems we have seen the last of Ruud van Nistelroy. It's been brewing for a while but he bolted out of Old Trafford with a flick of the tail and a whinny. But it was great to see Paul Scholes back in action and the wonderful Ole Gunnar Solskjaer making yet another comeback. And of course, great to see Giuseppe Rossi on the pitch.

Bring on the World Cup!

Breakfast

I have to say I was feeling rough on Friday morning. I had had insufficient liquid all day Thursday ( not of the correct variety, anyway) and I was so full of adrenaline when I went to bed at 2.15 I still couldn't sleep. And yet when the alarm went off I leaped out of bed and not even the dismal depressing Today programme could dampen my enthusiasm. Especially when the internet told me that Lambeth was now a Brighter Borough. And it certainly felt like a brighter borough as I bounced my way to the Tube station. New Labour New Lambeth a new era has dawned...

But I still felt rough and remembered I had eaten barely anything on Thursday, so I got myself a sandwich from Boots. I stuck my earphones back on, lit a cigarette and sauntered down Floral Street, with my mind only on the houmous, carrot and alfafa bean sandwich I was about to enjoy (the contents of my sandwich seem to have taken on disproportion in the telling of this anecdote, people have questioned me about the contents of my sandwich, it really isn't germane to the anecdote). Zerlina's on shuffle and I'm listening to a nice dose of Billy Bragg through my headphones (oh, the treachery, I hear you exclaim! That's what shuffle does!)

I notice a crowd hanging around outside the Stage Door, and I thought, how silly, Plácido will be in by now, I'm just going to go the terrace and eat my houmous, carrot and alfafa bean sandwich. Then I realised that the crowd were all excitedly looking past me down Floral Street, so I glanced behind me and would you believe who was walking directly behind me! Yes, Plácido. You know, I suddenly forgot about my sandwich, and I have never ripped headphones from my ears so adroitly or quickly*

My darling Pláci was looking rougher than I was feeling, which is quite an achievement, I have to say! He looked as if he had just stepped out of the shower and had only just woken up. I lingered by the Stage Door, and listened in. A few people were wanting autographs and so on, but he said "Afterwards: I'm late..." Someone asked whether he would be singing; he said no, he wasn't warmed up. I thought 10.15, he's due on stage at eleven and in between he's got to put on that nose! I shouted out,

"Plácido, you were fabulous last night..." It has been suggested to me that maybe I shouldn't have!

But you know, at that point, I stopped feeling rough, and I was better able to enjoy my houmous, carrot and alfafa bean sandwich. Organic and vegan. Washed down with water.

* I am actually very rubbish with earphones; in fact I shouldn't be allowed out in public with an mp3 player. Once, just as I was getting off the District Line, I caused amusement if not down right hilarity at having managed to wrap the chord round the pole, and, of course, in trying to extricate myself I only wrapped it round more.