Gertsamtkunstwerk

Agrippina @ENO

Music by Handel; production by David McVicar. Not an insignificant fact. David McVicar said in an interview the other week that no one would choose to go to an opera on account of him directing it, and I daresay he is strictly accurate, but, in my opinion, if one is teetering on the brink of indecision, I would say a McVicar production is enough to tip the balance to 'Buy Your Ticket and Go'.

Agrippina: Sarah Connolly
Poppea: Lucy Crowe
Nero: Christine Rice
Narcissus: Stephen Wallace
Otho: Reno Troilus
Claudius: Brindley Sherratt
Pallas: Henry Waddington
Lesbo: Richard Suart
Conductor: Daniel Reuss

I have an ambiguity about Handel's operas. I have not yet seen or heard a Handel opera I have failed to enjoy; on my occasions I have enjoyed tremendously; and the latter was certainly the case here. And yet, I can't really sit here and say what I like about the music, except that I like the tunes. I can't in all honestly rave about the orchestral tones or how they set and portray mood. One could easily point out the samey-samey nature of the music, da capo arias separated by lots of recitative, most of it secco. And I have to be honest and say that I can't really distinguish the music of one Handel opera from another. And I've heard less than a quarter of what he wrote.

So, I suppose the two main elements of Handel's operas are the quality of the singing and the entertainment value of the production. Which is perhaps how it should be. No need for intellectual analysis of the dramaturgy. Sit back and enjoy.

It's difficult to decide which of the women was the best. And even if I did, it would be difficult to separate out the beautiful voices from the dramatic interpretations. Sarah Connolly has a cult following and I can't say I am a paid-up member of the cult. Nevertheless she was very satisfying. I thought that Lucy Crowe was lovely, and Christine Rice was compelling. All three of them great stage animals.

I was not so impressed by the men. Brindley Sherratt was competent as Claudius. But didn't rock my boat.

The downside of Handel is the necessity of enduring counter-tenors. I think there is a major divide amongst opera lovers between those who love counter-tenors and those that don't. Because I enjoy Baroque opera, I have to accept the presence of counter-tenors. Some of the best I can find exquisitively beautiful for almost a whole aria, but my attention soon wavers. Unlike many anti-counter-tenorists, I don't have an issue with the volume of their singing, but I find the lack of variety in tone, colour and volume to be tedious. At worst, I find the falsettist approach to be bizarre to the point of almost frightening. My companions, neither of them counter-tenorists, tried to convince me that, actually, Reno Troilus's Voi che udite, coming immediately before the interval (a break that seemed to work, halfway through Act 2 out of 3), was a thing of beauty. I daresay they are correct, but I preferred the oboe, and I would have much preferred to have had it delivered by a mezzo or a contralto with lots of chest! I can only endorse the description given to Stephen Wallace as one of the Monty Python men pretending to be women.

As for the production. There had been a lot of descriptions of the production in the media, and I won't repeat the descriptions. There were a couple of moments that were flagged up repeatedly. A very free translation had Nero singing "Fuck fuck fuckety fuck" and later, snorting enormous quantities of cocaine. I think in both cases the slight shock - or more, dislocation - value was diluted because of this. Alternatively, a casual reader might think that either incident was the sum total of the drama, suggesting a laziness and a desire to shock for its own sake. they were just aspects of the characterisation of Nero as a spoilt teenage boy. Much comment has been made of the scene in a bar,with the harpsichordist brought on stage to represent a pub pianist.

Scenery wise, there wasn't much to applause. There was a throne at the top of a high staircase. At various stages there was furniture, useful for a bedroom scene, or for a bar scene. I thought it was all rather lovely. I suppose there are people who would like to see a Handel opera played all po-faced and serious, with Roman Empire characters wearing togas and laurel wreaths in order to stand at the front of stage and belt out their arias with no need for dramatic coherence. I don't. I liked the modern dress, I liked the interaction between the characters, the main ones of which were believably three dimensional. Obviously, I don't know how Handel would view it, but I suspect that someone who wrote opera after opera for entertaining an audience would approve of this entertainment. It may not be true to the eighteenth century, but nor am I.

As others have commented, it's a shame that this hasn't been filmed for DVD. I hope it gets revived in due course, and assuming a good cast, I would definitely go again.

Marriage of Figaro @ ENO

I saw this on 6 February, but, for some reason, never published this.

Approached with some trepidation. My favourite opera - the first one I ever saw live. Performed by a second rate company (with all due respect to ENO, they are not a Grade A house). Coming a year and two days after the brilliant performance I saw at Covent Garden, seven months to the day after the excellent revival there. In English. And subject to mediocre reviews in the media.

Marriage of Figaro is a problematic opera for me. One of the greatest pieces of art, and certainly one of the greatest operas ever produced. And yet, not really a tenor vehicle. Except for Don Curzio who barely figures at all, and Don Basilio, who, when luxury-cast with someone like Philip Langridge as last year at ROH is a wonderful role, but is usually an entirely forgettable comprimario. So, really, an opera without tenors is barely an opera at all!

My favourite opera, and one which I have three times on audio-only and seven times on DVD/video. But I could barely tell you a brief synopsis, let alone sit there and say what's coming in the next ten or fifteen minutes. Not a note of music unfamiliar, to the extent that play me a bar or two and I'll sing the next few bars without hesitation, yet every time I hear it I hear something new in the music, some previously un-noticed embellishment from the orchestra or key change in the score.  The opera I would recommend in general to newbies and one that reveals something new with every new interpretation and subsequent re-listen.

Cast: The Count: Scott Hendricks
Figaro: Iain Paterson
Susanna: Sarah Tynan
The Countess: Susan Gritton
Cherubino: Stephanie Marshall
Dr Bartolo: Graeme Danby
Marcellina: Yvonne Howard
Barbarina: Claire Mitcher
Don Basilio: Alan Oke
Don Curzio: Christopher Gillett
Antonio: Nicholas Folwell
Conductor: André de Ridder
Director: Olivia Fuchs

The production has been described as 'Gosford Park', which I suppose it means it was set somewhere between the two World Wars.  It was fine, nothing that really stood out as being either inspired or a mistake. For the opening scene in Figaro/Susanna's bedroom, a box tactic is employed, but rather than a stage-within-a-stage, it is isolated by clever lighting. Much of the action takes place in front of a bell pull device like all the best houses have. To be honest, apart from the opening box, and the characteristic ENO device of a sideways-sliding set not being wheeled completely off the stage, I remember very little of the set. Which is not necessarily a criticism: simply that it does not compare to the wonderful set at ROH last year. Although I do especially recall the Countess's wardrobe, perhaps especially because Cherubino knocked over the clothes rail and spent most of her/his time reassembling it. I am not sure whether it was accidental or part of the production.

And, generally, the production was not as memorable as the fabulous McVicar production. But it was still good enough. My bottom line is personenregie. I do not like productions that leave the singers floundering or statically facing forward regardless of whether or not they are singing.

Orchestra and stick waving. I had read others report criticisms of some tempi, but I didn't find that a major problem specifically. However, the ensemble did fall apart in that great sextet - all that sua madre, sua padre - which I think must be fiendishly difficult to hold together. Also, I was disappointed in Non piu andrai by the lack of oomph, it seemed to lack that triumphant martial quality I think the number deserves. In general, I felt the conducting/playing was technically adequate but without memorable highlights.

All the other set pieces were at least adequate and in some cases better. Of the main characters I found the Count and Cherubino to be generic, which is not especially a criticism, but they could not compare with the splendid performers I have heard in these roles live and on record. Sarah Tynan was an attractive Susanna, and I thought Susan Gritton gorgeous as the Countess. If not up to the standard yet of some of the best I have heard, I think she could be soon.

For me the highlight was Iain Paterson.  As soon as the season was announced I knew that I had to see him in this role, and it was just lack of organisation that meant I didn't book a ticket for 6 February until 2 February. I love his voice, and I think he is wasted at ENO. He was Le Bret in Cyrano de Bergerac at Covent Garden and is due to be the First Nazarene in Salome. I hope he will soon be given more substantial roles there; in the meantime, he is a delight at ENO, although even his luxury-cast Schaunard is not sufficient to drag me to ENO for La Bohème, an opera I find dreary and requiring a superstar in at least one of Mimi and Rodolfo. And from where I was sitting in the balcony I felt that a reduction in weight by about a stone would be no bad thing. He reminds me a lot of former sort-of boyfriend of mine; I think that's a positive rather than a negative!

I could write reams about the  genius that is demonstrated by Mozart's music. I could wax lyrical about Da Ponte's superb libretto. I could talk about the narrative and dramaturgy that I assume is Beaumarchais. I could also examine the subversive revolutionary element. But I won't. Just yet. Just say that I enjoyed a lovely evening's entertainment.

Comedy of Life

I have recently made some allusions to relative impecuniousness. I haven't made a big thing about it because it's not a problem. Or at least it wouldn't be a problem if I didn't have Big Eyes and an I Want I Want I Want mentality. Not starving nor on queer street.

The root of the problem lies in me not being eligible for Statutory Sick Pay when I am off sick. I won't go into all the details of stuff because of the 'not blogging about work' rule.

I got an in principle agreement before Christmas for a cash advance on my mortgage; based on a) my salary b) my equity and c) my lack of any other debts. But on reflection, they turned me down because a couple of direct debits had been rejected, for reasons connected to 'not blogging about work'. I am not in arrears and have never been behind to the point of it being referable to a credit reference agency.

Appealing in writing against what was clearly a bad business decision was on my unending list of things to do ignore. On Tuesday I went into the bank to pay in a cheque, and the cashier said "Anything else I can help with you today Ms C?" and just jokingly I said "Not unless you can lend me some money..." Turns out I was already pre-approved for a loan; this was in my account by yesterday morning.

By the time I returned to my desk from the bank, things had really started to move on the 'not blogging about work' front, impressively so.

This evening, expecting a phone call from Jimmy, I answered the phone. It wasn't him, and it wasn't a cold call, but it was Mortgage Brokers I had dealt with in the past. So I sat down and had a chat, and I explained the part-time stuff, being turned down by my existing lender (he reckons they were mad), and the brand new loan. He reckons I'm paying far too much on my mortgage and an advisor is coming round next week.

Tomorrow I do EuroMillions and Saturday I do the Lottery (yes, I know, it's a tax-on-the-stupid, but I reckon I can afford to waste a fiver; I do that most weeks on buying coffee when I have coffee grinds and a cafetiere in my desk...)

The Joyce Hatto Fraud

Fascinating

Piano ‘genius’ is branded a fake

Masterpieces Or Fakes? The Joyce Hatto Scandal

Some help and understanding needed

Joyce Hatto: compelling evidence of an elaborate musical hoax

The Fly

Horror flick 'The Fly' to mutate into an opera

Los Angeles Opera and the Théâtre du Châtelet of Paris will co-produce "The Fly," a new opera based on director David Cronenberg's 1986 horror film about a scientist who mutates into a human-fly hybrid.

The opera, to be directed by Cronenberg with music by Academy Award-winning film composer Howard Shore and a libretto by playwright and Los Angeles native David Henry Hwang, is scheduled to have its world premiere in Paris on July 1, 2008.

Plácido will conduct.

I never saw that film. Just after I started at University a friend went on and on about it, and put me right off it...

Swan Lake

I am not a massive ballet fan, although actually, I have been attending ballet for thirty years, off and on. I have nothing against ballet, but like straight drama, most times I think of going, I think again, knowing that the time, energy and money would be better spent (for me) on an opera or vocal concert. Or orchestral concerts.

Once in a while, though, it's nice to go. Once a year is more than enough for me. Jimmy had never been before, so last night we went to Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House.

Not knowing much about ballet I can't really volunteer much in the form of an opinion. Especially when, only half in jest, I kept wondering when they were going to start singing. I could not help feeling that for a lot of the time the orchestra was "phoning-it in". Or perhaps I am being unfair; I would have preferred the orchestra up on stage, not sunk in the pit. I sensed that the orchestra was not very big - a symphony orchestra would have piled on the strings and rung out lush and rich round the auditorium. I had not heard of the conductor, but I think that's par for the course with ballet. I might be wrong. I also got the impression, quite possibly erroneously, that for many ballet fans, the music is secondary or of even less importance; a good recording or an excellent synthesiser would probably be almost as effective.

Being not a ballet fan, the only name I recognise was Carlos Acosta as Prince Siegfried. I suppose he must be my favourite dancer, on the basis that every time I go to the Royal Ballet, he dances. Odette/Odile was danced by Tamara Rojo. I had not heard of her, but the man sat next to me was a massive fan. Whenever she came on stage he applauded, earlier and longer than anyone else, had his binoculars trained on her. At the start of the second interval he turned to me and gushed "Isn't she marvellous!". I could only agree. At the end of the second interval, he announced that Carlos had risen literally from his death bed, someone had been flown in from Denmark to cover and Tamara might have had to dance with an unrehearsed partner. And, joy of joys, he, my seat-neighbour, had managed to arrange to join Tamara in her dressing room afterwards. Absolutely made his day!

And yeah, I enjoyed it. Some of the music is sublime, and the dancing was wonderful to watch. I couldn't find fault with Tamara and Carlos. I particularly enjoyed the four cygnets at the end of the Act II and the various national dances in Act III, especially the Neapolitan Dance.

It was a good opportunity for people-watching. Quite a different crowd from an opera crowd, even on a Saturday night. Somewhat more female than male. And a larger number of people dressed up. I got the sense that a good many were former, or possibly current amateur, dancers. All these women in cheap fancy dresses unwisely chosen, dresses designed to accentuate bust and cleavage and looking out of place on androgynous bodies. Men in black polo neck jumpers standing in the bar in third position. And the barely articulate excruciatingly posh strangulating their vowels in lieu of anything of substance to stay whilst blocking the corridors and walkways blithely oblivious to the existence of two thousand other people. At the bus stop, two women complained about those in front of them standing for applause. "We couldn't see; it's the problem with modern society, but you know they weren't the usual ballet crowd..."

Leave me alone...!

Half-witted interfering neighbour called round while I was in the bath and spoke to Jimmy.

She's come up with this idea to change the name of "Gert Cottage Boulevard" (not its real name), our little private drive to four cottages, to Laundry Road.

Over my dead, or at least inert, body.

Laundry Road - where the scrubbers live. Laundry Road - why not go further and call it Gas Works Street. Or go the whole hog and call it "Red Light Brothel Lane where you can buy your slap'n'tickle."

Yes, I am going to say, it will affect property prices to be saddled with such a crap address.

But I've come up immediately with a list of fifty organisations - excluding friends and family - who will need notifying of a change of address. Am I going to have pay for that? In cash and time? Not on your nelly.

And that doesn't include Fire, Ambulance, and Police. Sorry, if there is the slightest risk of any of those being delayed looking for somewhere that isn't on the map, due to some ridiculous notion of changing a perfectly good road name, well, that makes it an idiot idea.

Frankly, if people have nothing better to do with their time than fart around on ridiculous half-witted notions, well there's a Youth Club across the road that would probably welcome a bit of extra help. Although they would probably prefer people with some semblance of reality; not just interfering busybodies living on another planet.

Tax cuts will stop gun crime

says David Cameron.

He said he backed tax breaks to help families stay together

Fathers 'must fight gang culture'

Ironic that the boy that got shot this week in Clapham was living with both parents; this didn't seem to have prevented him from being excluded from Ernest Bevin or being under a supervision order.

Of course, in an ideal world, all other things being equal, the best way to bring up a child is by both legal - biological? - parents. In an imperfect world, where so many different factors are involved that isn't always the best option, or even a possible option. And it's so obvious that teenage boys who lack a positive male role model are at a disadvantage to those who do. But the majority of boys raised solely by their mother, or with a father more absent than present, or by a mother and step-father, are not gun-toting gangsters. And 25% of men have a criminal record, almost all for petty one-off offences, the exuberance or misjudgement of youth; most of them haven't been lacking a father or father-figure.

There is no simple solution to the cesspit of problems that culminates in three teenagers being shot dead in two weeks, within a few miles of each other (and my home). If there was a simple solution, it would have been applied years ago.

I don't see a problem in principle in encouraging fathers to take more responsibility for the upbringing of their children. How to enforce it, and how to enforce it in a way that isn't counter-productive is another issue. I'm not sure of the proportion of children who have a genuinely unidentifiable father, but that can be eradicated by having all men's DNA compulsorily stored on a database (gay? vasectomised? lifelong monogamous? Catholic priest? Nope, you're a man, guilty of breeding random children until proved innocent). Although I am not quite sure who would pick up the pieces when it is revealed that the legal father, the mother's husband, isn't after all, the father.

We could release all fathers from prison so that they can take care of their children. Yes, even those jailed for abusing their own children. We can cancel all the restraining orders resulting from domestic violence. We can compel mothers to hand over their children to their drug-using gun-toting gangster fathers. We could compel widows to marry their late husband's brother. Failing that, we could make abortion compulsory for all unmarried pregnant women. Or perhaps sterilisation, female and male, for all those who fail the criteria for a 'licence to breed'. There could be exceptions on religious grounds ( a note from your Parish Priest/Imam/Rabbi should suffice), and those resulting bastards can be placed in large specially built institutions where their basic subsistence needs will be covered by non-English speaking temporary labour from Eastern Europe - not EU countries, obviously, because they'll demand at least minimum wage, and we can't afford that.

And we can ban the sale of rap music. All rap music. In shops. And request the BBC to stop playing rap music on Radio 2.

And a tax cut for David and Sam Cameron will, presumably, make all the difference between the junior Camerons becoming gun-toting gangsters. Even though, as far as anyone knows, neither the junior Blairs nor the junior Majors have turned into gun-toting gangsters, despite their parents not having that preventive tax cut.

David Cameron: never a coherent policy where a photo-opportunity will suffice.

I really should join the Tory Party; I could make their policies up for them as I go along.

Cirano di Valencia

Plácido Domingo estrena la nueva producción de Cirano di Bergerac - supposedly a video onthis page but I can't get it to work.

Un Cyrano moderno y seductor

Plácido Domingo recibe el aplauso unánime del público en el estreno de ‘Cyrano’ en el Palau de les Arts

«Chapeau» para Plácido

Pero claro, Plácido era la referencia inicial. Con los setenta a la vuelta de la esquina es incomprensible, casi un milagro, que conserve el entusiasmo de la juventud para embarcarse en nuevos retos, que elija personajes que no dejan de cantar ni un momento y que su voz no muestre la menor sensación de fatiga.

Plácido Bergerac

Plácido Domingo convenció plenamente con un Cyrano impulsivo, tierno y cálido; sus primeras intervenciones mostraron tirantez en el agudo y cierta precipitación ante el podio, redondeando con absoluta maestría una entrega con «marca de la casa» tanto en el aspecto musical como en el escénico, bordando, por ejemplo, sus escenas de espadachín.

Domingo de Bergerac

Lo que hace Plácido Domingo sobre un escenario a estas alturas es realmente extraordinario. Vocalmente sigue poseyendo ese timbre, único, que parece que nunca se apagará así como ese centro seguro y aterciopelado. Dramáticamente ¡que les voy a contar!..., poner el corazón en un puño a todo un teatro lo hace muy poca gente. Domingo crea la mágica ilusión de que Alfano escribió el papel para él: Domingo de Bergerac. Un papel que sin ser un hueso, exige dramáticamente y precisa de una resistencia de corredor de fondo que el gran tenor mantiene incólume.

And how cool is this - on a scale of 1-10 where 10 is seriously cool, I think Marta Domingo is about 11: Plácido Domingo dona 200.000 euros para ayudar a las mujeres víctimas de explotación

El tenor Plácido Domingo entregó este martes 200.000 euros al proyecto Esperanza de las Religiosas Adoratrices, que desde 1999 ayudan a mujeres extranjeras de 18 a 40 años que han sido objeto de explotación sexual, tráfico de drogas u otras situaciones de exclusión social...

...Domingo explicó que la elección del proyecto Esperanza para donar este dinero fue idea suya y de su esposa Marta, que le acompañaba en el acto de este martes, quien le había expresado en varias ocasiones su "preocupación por las mujeres maltratadas y por las familias de los bomberos", un colectivo por el que dijo que sienten especial cariño. Al final, ambos optaron por entregar el dinero al Proyecto Esperanza porque, según explicó el tenor "ayudan a mujeres jóvenes a cambiar una vida en la que no podría haber más que un final, y no precisamente feliz".

My man is cheating on me

You see the headline and you jump to conclusions.

You think this is going to be one of those angst-ridden blogposts about how my fiancé has been playing away behind my back, got himself a floozy for a bit on the side. Already, one third of you are turning away: we don't do angst. Another third has put the kettle on already, poised to make tea and offer biscuits sympathy. The final third are rubbing their hands in glee, knowing that for all the political blogging and cooking blogging and opera blogging and knitting blogging and walks-in-the-country blogging and erotic blogging, the best blogging is relationship strife blogging.

We don't do Valentine's Day. Numerous reasons, the main one being: we're not sheep, nobody tells us what to do, least of all when it comes to lurving. And not at that price. Flowers have tripled in price from last week to this. And in case you think we're miserable bastards. No, we're not. We love each 364 days a year (365 in Olympic Years).

But you know what that Miserable Bastard did before he went to bed? Gave me an entire bag of Rolos.

I'm in a lose-lose situation here, aren't I? If I eat them all*, it's proof that today I don't love him enough. Leaving one is proof that I am an incurable Romantic.

And he calls me manipulative.

How do I hate him? Let me count the ways...

* eating half the pack is not an option. Eating half of anything is never an option

Il Trovatore @ ROH

It's taken me a week to write this, despite making promises on the Marcelo group...

Trovatore is one of the most popular/well-known of Verdi's operas, from the middle period that also produced inter alia La Traviata and Rigoletto. And despite me having two CD sets - one on my mp3 player -  and two DVDs, it doesn't have quite that seize-me-and-leave-me-reeling effect. Off the top of my head I would say I prefer Otello, Ballo, Rigoletto, Don Carlos, and probably Forza, and I'm not sure I would rate it above Traviata, Boccanegra, Ernani. But more than Aida!

Partly, that's a lack of familiarity, but that's a bit chicken-and-egg. And it's not like it's short of over-familiar music, most famously the Anvil Chorus and Di Quella Pira, both staples of appropriate compilation CDs and 'numbers' concerts. Also, Ah! si ben mio (the aria that precedes Di Quella Pira), Stride la vampa!, and Deserto sulla terra.

There is a Creative Commons download from 1951, libretto, synopsis, and summary

Cast:
Count di Luna: Anthony Michaels-Moore
Leonora: Catherine Naglestad
Azucena: Stephanie Blythe
Manrico: Marcelo Álvarez
Ferrando: Raymond Aceto
Ines: Kishani Jayasinghe
Ruiz: Haoyin Xue

Stick-waver: Nicola Luisotti
Director: Elijah Moshinsky

First, briefly, the production. Rubbish. Or, strictly speaking, semi-rubbish. In that it did nothing to interrupt the music. But, for all the impact the personenregie had it might as well have been a concert performance. The sets were imposing, but with all the inspiration of backdrops yet so dominating the stage they left little room for the cast to do what it had to do. Act I was the façade of a house that, hung with banners of red, reminded me of a Fascist display put on by Franco or Mussolini. Act II was dominated by giant columns which I think were supposed to be Industrial, representative of the forge perhaps where the Anvil Chorus took place, but seemed to me to be like the bases of over-ornate lamp-posts from toddler's eye view. Act III has been said to resemble a railway station, but brought to my mind firstly and incorrectly Blackpool's Winter Garden, then some building in Douglas, which was half derelict when I last visited a dozen years (my inability to find it on the net suggests it may have been razed), and finally Paxton's Crystal Palace. But certainly not a convent. And Act IV took place in front of an expanse of wire fence such as is used on building sites to protect deep excavations

I couldn't decide whether or not the costumes were modern dress. I have been assured they were not, but, for example, Marcelo as Manrico wore a shirt, jodhpurs and boots that would not be out of place on today's polo field; Catherine Naglestad's dresses, as Leonora, could be worn on the concert platform; Stephanie Blythe as Azucena was dressed in the sort of gypsy garb that many women wear to work. And the soldiers were amorphous any era. No furniture was abused, and there was very little opportunity for any characters to roll around on the floor, or indeed, do anything particularly exciting. Although in the final act the moving duet-scene between Azucena and Manrico was conducted at floor level.

Music, band, bloke-waving stick. Excellent! I can't explain why, and perhaps my judgement was influenced by the consensus of those that had attended previous performances. I am particularly disposed to baton-twirlers who understand the Hippocratic Oath - First Do No Harm. Beyond that I cannot explain what makes me sure it was more than competent. Except that years of experience and a reasonable familiarity with the music told me that it was more than competent.

As for the cast. I think I got them on a better night than the majority of the critics who attended the first night. I also think I was sitting in a special seat acoustically. I've been in that or adjacent seats before and have adored the crystal pure sound emanating from below. It's in the Amphitheatre, but I'm not saying more than that, or else everyone will be clamouring for it!

As always,  I adored Marcelo Álvarez . Vocally, he can do no wrong for me. I can't fault his interpretation, and I think he has a gorgeous timbre to his voice. Next time I need someone to sing a telephone directory for me, he would definitely be on my short-list. Although even his most fervent fans couldn't call him slender, he moves with ease and grace. Nor could anyone could really describe him as a consummate actor, and yet he practically epitomises the expression 'stage presence'. I would love him to put on a concert of arias etc at somewhere like the Barbican, because his gorgeous voice and amazing ability to reach beyond the footlights would make it a winning combination.

I really really liked his Deserto sulla terra, which was imbued with meaning and emotion, and the final act duet with Azucena was moving. The Di Quella Pira was staged so that he strode down stage with purpose and from the front of the stage stood-and-delivered, full in  the spotlight - an unimaginative Director's way of saying "This is a show-stopper". Which of course means that every note and nuance is in sharp focus. So no pressure there, then!  Di Quella traditionally ends with an interpolated C*, even though there is nothing actually written above an A, and many tenors settle for a B or B flat. I don't think that Marcelo did the C; there are differences of opinion on this. not being a high-note fetish, I was happy, but I would like to have heard the 'Da Capo'. Ah well, apparently, this is not very common.

The other star was Stephanie Blythe. Her Stride la vampa was one of the best renditions of an individual aria I have ever heard. In general her performance was sure-footed and convincing. Oh, what a wonderful voice. Consistently, over the interweb, she is described as a mezzo-soprano, but to my ears she is a contralto, with gloriously velvet tones in the lowest part of the range. I enjoyed her tremendously as Ulrica in Ballo fourteen months ago, and I enjoyed her even more in this role.

Catherine Naglestad and Anthony Michaels-Moore were essentially and ultimately provincial in their interpretations. Both have the bases of good voices. But Anthony seemed to get breathy at inopportune moments, and lacked any stage presence whatsoever. Catherine also came over as two-dimensional, which surprised me, having seen her in Cosí and specifically in the wonderful Stuttgart Alcina on video. Which perhaps merely underlines the poor quality of direction. If her entire part had been transposed down a third, it would have been a quite quite different performance. But she was struggling consistently on the highest notes. They were best when merely breathed and verging on the unpleasant when squawked.

I return on Thursday to a cheaper seat but one from where, hopefully, I shall have a superb view of percussion on the Anvil Chorus.

*The cabaletta is in the key of C, properly, so an untransposed-but-with-interpolations performance offers a high C** (or two or three, depending).  Untransposed-without-interpolations would feature Gs where Cs are often added. 

**Verdi said he didn't mind the C, but it had better be good***

*** But I don't give a damn about High Cs: indeed it is only within the past two or three years that I have learned that tenors are supposed to have them, even though many of the best don't, and many who do are otherwise forgettable

Just a photo

Taken from a riverside park in Gravesend looking over to Tilbury about 18 months ago. Gravesend and Tilbury are on the southern and northern side respectively of the Thames Estuary east of London. Pocohontas is buried in Gravesend;  Tilbury used to be a very major port - Queen Elizabeth I made her most famous speech there.

Another reason to hate the Observer

Especially the "Women" magazine:

The 50 men who really understand women

I select my words carefully:

BOLLOCKS

José Mourinho, 41: For giving women an entrée to football. Partly on account of his cashmere-clad silver foxiness, partly on account of his ultra-arrogant, crowd-taunting theatricals. Mourinho's a one-man soap opera on the sidelines.

Don't be so patronising*. I got into football when Jose Mourinho was about 6 or 7 years old. Guess what, just because women find totty in football, it's hardly a reason to be into football. Totty is not enough reason to sustain an interest over decades. Just an added bonus, as it is with many passive interests. Sure, Jose is an exceptionally good-looking man, but I suspect I'm not alone in not caring for his personality.

And, in any case, I don't watch football to ogle managers. Yeah, I will accept that over the years various footballers have been amongst my pin-ups, but I will argue vociferously that there is little point in fancying a footballer who can't deliver the goods on the pitch. If there are any managers I fancy, they would be Mark Hughes and Bryan Robson. And why would that be?

Because they were the stars of my team when I was at the height of my football watching years. And having met both of them on numerous occasions, I can vouch to them being model celebrities in the be-nice-to-fans stakes. But why do I fancy them? Imagine if you will, Robbo on a surging run through midfield, ball at his feet, leaving the opposition foundering, passing the ball to Sparky who thunders in a stunning half-volley. Goal! And I can personally vouch that Mark is a lovely kisser. But why did I find out in the first place? Because of his innate goal-scoring skills.

And some of the rest of the list include men whose credits include designing shoes, inventing Botox, or running a restaurant that serves food that is "Low-fat, high-protein, lowcarb, terribly fashionable, elegant, ostensibly elitist." Er, no, I like my 'culinary experience' (is that the same as a meal?) to be made with the finest fresh ingredients, cooked to perfection, with an enticing combination of complimenting and contrasting flavours, served in a relaxed atmosphere by knowledgeable and polite, but not subservient, waiting staff, accompanied by good wine and with a barely noticeable background of relaxing melodic music.

Not to mention David Cameron, who opposes the minimum wage, and wants to curtail abortion rights, and introduce tax relief for heterosexual marriage rather than for dependent care. (Oh and while we're on the subject, I don't give a damn politically what he did or didn't do as a teenager,although I suspect that most state schools in the Eighties would have expelled anyone caught smoking pot on the premises).

Can you imagine an article entitled "The 50 Women Who Understand Men"

Thank you for denying and removing my 'gender identity'. How dare you generalise about 50%+ of the population?

* the ultimate etymology of this word is the Latin 'pater', and derives from a sense of a father guiding and instructing the young. Which, of course, in itself, is no bad thing. But when developed and evolved, it is a very sinister notion that some wise man can tell women, not especially young, what's best for them.

Update: and then some whingeing airhead I quit the pill and got my life back

What is clear is that many women, including myself, make far too little effort to educate themselves. When I decided to write this article I called experts and was amazed by how ill-informed I was.

I knew barely anything about most of the 30 brands of pill on offer and I was dismally unaware of other long-lasting methods of contraception....

...Toni Belfield, director of information at the FPA, said women would spend days choosing a new outfit, but not picking contraception. I have to admit I spent longer last week researching which food processor I was going to buy than I have ever spent finding out about the pill

Am i supposed to feel sorry for you? Once upon a time, such information was the staple of the Guardian Women's Page and Cosmopolitan etc. Twenty years ago, we didn't have the internet, but feminists (remember them?) were saying all the stuff Lucy Fairford has just found out. She can't be that good a journalist if she lacks basic curiosity and the drive to 'know stuff' - not even about her own body. No doubt she knows everything possible about ill-fiting clothes with fancy 'designer' labels and which c-list celebrity is shagging who this week, but didn't care less about poisoning herself.

I hate the Observer because it really hates women. I have been reading it for over twenty years, the Guardian for quarter of a century and it is a shadow of a once great newspaper.

...and Valencia

Tonight, the first night of Cyrano in Valencia - but without the nose...

Precisamente, en el montaje de Valencia, Cyrano no llevará una nariz exagerada ya que a Znaniecki, “no le interesa tanto abundar en su defecto físico, sino en esa sensación de aislamiento”.

Plácido Domingo: Cyrano de Bergerac es mi personaje

And next year, more appearances in Valencia - a Puccini recital (150th anniversary), and an opera (possibly baroque) or zarzuela.

I don't know if it's due to be broadcast/webcast; there's certainly nothing currently listed on Operacast, but I'll keep an eye out - unless you know! What with him cancelling the NY Broadcast, and BBC Radio 3 fouling up big time, this is definitely something in need of a professional recording. DVD would be even better...!

Meanwhile Un mexicano prepara una ópera sobre Neruda por encargo de Plácido Domingo - an interview with Daniel Catan apropos "Il postino" for Los Angeles in 2009, followed by Paris (just a short train ride away from me), New York and possibly Chile.

update: Cyrano arrasa en taquilla

Plácido Domingo cautiva al público del Palau de les Arts con ´Cyrano´

Plácido Domingo : «´Cyrano´ es el fin de una época que añoramos los que adoramos la melodía»

Plácido in Hamburg...

Singing Act I of Die Walküre to celebrate 40 years since he made his debut in Hamburg - in 1967 he sang Cavaradossi, Radames and Rodolfo, but didn't sing Wagner there until 1968. Although the audition didn't go too well

Ein Desaster, da Puccinis berühmte Arie "E lucevan le stelle" nur unter Krächzen herauskam, bis die Stimme ganz wegzukippen drohte. Darauf Liebermann lakonisch: "Ich hoffe, dass es Ihnen am 8. Januar besser geht!" - Domingo: "Was ist am 8. Januar?" - "Da werden Sie ,Tosca' in Hamburg singen." Ein Star wurde geboren...

Wiedersehen mit Hamburgs Lieblingstenor.

And then a concert review - Dafür aber 15 Minuten Jubel, Blumen, Tränchen beim Tenor und auch sonst große Rührung allenthalben.

Domingos Liebeserklärung

And then he was at a ceremony in Baden Baden in tribute to King Juan Carlos

However, the mmofm community also had their exclusive reporter in Hamburg - Raffe - , who after international intense negotiations has kindly agreed to the sharing of photos.

More below the fold...

More on Norfolk Island

I have to admit that I had not heard of Norfolk Island until today, despite me having roots there.

Despite being politically part of Australia - as a self-governing territory - it is closer to New Zealand and even closer to New Caledonia. It has its own internet suffix - .nf, its own language and it seems that it is in dispute with Australia.

Most Islanders are of Caucasian ancestry, being descendants of the Bounty mutineers (1850) as well as more recent arrivals from Australia and New Zealand. About half of the islanders can trace their roots back to Pitcairn Island.

This common heritage has led to a limited number of surnames among the Islanders — a limit constraining enough that the island's telephone directory lists people by nickname (such as Cane Toad, Dar Bizziebee, Kik Kik, Lettuce Leaf, Mutty, Oot, Paw Paw, Snoop, Tarzan, and Wiggy) Wikipedia

I have to say that the photos make it look absolutely gorgeous, an emerald isle set in a sapphire sea, and I would imagine it being a popular holiday destination from Oz and New Zealand*, although the Tourism site says "Norfolk Island is undoubtedly the South Pacific’s best kept secret".

The history seems to focus primarily on the Bounty Mutineers and their descendants, the Pitcairners. Certainly no mention of the 1846 prison "Childs" Mutiny.

* if any Australian, New Zealander or Polynesian readers have info, I would be interested

Description of the murder of my great (x3) grandfather

Norfolk Island: Childs Mutiny

Suddenly, as if his self-control had finally given way William Westwood yelled "Follow me! We will kill all the…" and seizing a hatchet he rushed from the yard, followed by a dozen or so others. "Follow me and you follow to the gallows!" he yelled. Some held back, but a press of others crowded out, grabbing billets of wood, axes, spades and hoes, anything that came to hand. A constable barred their way and Westwood struck him down. Stephen Smith, the overseer, hid behind the cookhouse door but Jacky-Jacky Westwood had seen him, rushed in and with a blow, splattered his brains over wall and floor. "On! On!" he shouted as he reached the gaol gates and sighted a constable's hut with door partially open. Crazy for blood, he split one man's skull, attacked the other still in bed and rained blow after blow, until he, too was dead in a pool of blood.

The upshot was that Stephen's widow (name I don't know) and daughter, Susan, had to travel back from Norfolk Island to Dublin when Susan was just a babe-in-arms. This illustrates my Australian roots... thanks to Pat and David for doing the research!

There is a picture of his grave: the tombstone reads:

Sacred to the Memory of Stephen Smith Æ 40 Native of Dublin.

Overseer at Norfolk Island who was barbarously murdered by a body of prisoners...July 1846 whilst in the execution of his duty to the Settlement...leaving a wife and a child

La fille du regiment (again)

I went to see this for a second time, eleven days after seeing it for the first time, a day after hearing the broadcast and now nearly two weeks ago.

This posting is really an addendum to what I wrote the first time. I was going to write a long thoughtful post while listening to my recording of the radio broadcast, but I have subsequently acquired the DVD from Genoa with JDF and Patrizia Ciofi, so I thought it might be more fun to write about the audio-video presentation rather than a merely audio presentation.

Some miserable bastard who heard the radio broadcast over the internet didn't rate it. People who had seen it live and heard the broadcast all opined that the radio simply do justice to what was an impressive total performance. In the end I did not chime in on that thread, because there was so much I wanted to say.

The simple fact was that people who saw and heard it live in the house believed that the radio broadcast was a poor imitation.

Opera is not an audio-only art form. Objectively, the idea of it being so is a temporary aberration of less than a hundred years, in a four hundred years (this month!) history,  simply because audio recording became viable long before effective video recording. Often, audio-only is more convenient, but if the composers had really intended us only to listen to opera, they would have written oratorios instead. It's a bit like football by radio - it's better than nothing at all,but why choose it in preference to television or being there? I suppose I get hacked off by pompous twits trying to argue as a point of principle that a an audio recording or broadcast is definitive. Yes, it is an object in its own right, but not by definition superior to audio plus acting, dancing and staged spectacle.

Having heard the radio broadcast as well as my first performance I had some familiarity with the music. Not much, I stress, but there was a sense of familiarity. Nevertheless I haven't changed my opinion greatly. I love the overture, and I love the closing scenes of Act I, the love duet, of course the wonderful nine high Cs count them of Ah mes amis, and Marie's farewell. Twenty or so minutes of sublime music that provide a wonderful contrast with the high comedy of Act II.

If I say that I have no complaints about any of the performers, it sounds as if I'm damning with faint praise, or else that they were so perfect. Neither is true, but they all performed excellently as individuals and as an ensemble. I understand it will be shown on TV - in December...

Another moan

From time to time, I make a point of watching all three main news bulletins on BBC1 - One, Six and Ten O'Clock. This is best done on a slow news day. It can be a fascinating experience, because you feel watching the One O'Clock that they are sitting there thinking - it's just pensioners and housewives can you hear me dear I said it's the news that's right Mr Blair, yes Blair, he's the Prime Minister.

At six o'clock it's all about the 'typical family'. Let's explain this to you of limited intelligence by making really simplistic analogies with the disposable income of a random atypical household. By ten o'clock, the news is being analysed for intelligent people who can hold two thoughts and play two roles simultaneously.

Natasha Kaplinsky is simply not up to the job. I watched her interview Caroline Flint. As a Labour Party member I thought it was wonderful; as a voter who expects journalists to hold ministers to account, it was a abysmal. Caroline Flint might as well have given a speech. A couple of times Kaplinsky tried to interrupt, but Caroline went on full flow, totally on message, getting all the right soundbites out. I'm not sure what idiot thinks the public needs a low-IQ dolly bird interviewing a government minister. One who usually makes a hash of reading the news from an autocue.

There again it's health service. Not difficult scientific procedures, just public service provision. Well, not even that, just one 'human interest' story of how some health trusts are cutting back in order to manage their deficits. We have a glamorous female minister, hey let's have a glamorous female newsreader interview us, because that's part of the BBC's mission - to entertain. Even on the News. Let's not present the facts about health trust deficits. Let's not investigate the conflict between balanced budgets and unlimited provision. Let's not find out who makes the decisions and on what grounds (and let's not even examine why the budgets are in deficit). You're watching at six o'clock? Don't worry about these dry points, they're for the important people who are still at work at six o'clock (haven't they heard of flexible working, home working; don't they know that the retired or ill, or full-time mothers have brains?)

Later was the news of the death of Ian Richardson. According to the reporter, House of Cards symbolised the Major Years. Er, well, no not exactly. House of Cards ran parallel to the fall of Thatcher. That was why (apart from being a great drama superbly acted) it is regarded as such a landmark in TV drama.

But my story of how the news improves during the evening falls down as a result of last night's Newsnight, a so-called debate on the Press Release by Marie Stopes Rise in abortions after Christmas. According to those debating it, it was entirely due to the greater number of 'children' binge drinking. Earlier in the day someone had said that January (post Christmas) and September/October (post holidays) are the peak times for abortions, and, intuitively, that makes sense. They gave a pile of statistics, but they did not seem particularly connected to the news story. And certainly the statistics for women up to age 24 doesn't seem to have any relevance to children binge drinking, which was the thrust of the non-debate. I'm appalled at the idea of a fifteen year old binge drinking, shagging the nearest passing boy, and having to have an abortion. But I also know that women in their 30s, 40s, even 50s have abortions, for all sorts of reasons.

It is actually a very complex issue. In general, people on telly can't handle statistics, they especially don't know how to discount seasonal and demographic variations. No one asked whether the age range of fertile women is increasing. In fact there was no critical analysis at all, just a load of hand-wringing of the "Isn't it awful someone should do something about it" variety. I was stunned at the pointlessness of the whole exercise so for the first time ever I submitted a comment to the Newsnight blog - number 18; I also commend 22 Leslie and 24 Jennifer.

Tangentially, I am thinking of embarking on an experiment. I have a theory that the BBC News Have your Say boards select the most illiterate, inarticulate, irrational and pointless submissions, ignoring those with proper spelling and grammar, let alone those that present a logical or evidenced argument. I am considering submitting one of each to various threads under different IDs and compare the success rate.

Got my tickets!

For Plácido in Manchester! Woot and yay! Block B (Centre) down at the front. But Row K seems rather far back :-(

And I'm sure my mother will have an attack of the vapours when I tell her the price (she's insisting on paying for her ticket, I was not prepared to accept that, because I wanted the most expensive. We'll work it out...!)

And I hate Ticketmaster. I moan every time I use them, because they add 10% to the advertised price. I don't know why they don't advertise tickets at the price they will actually charge. Well, I do know, and I think it's wrong.

(They went on sale about an hour ago, and, currently, the splash page for the M.E.N Arena is nice...!)

And an article in yesterday's Evening News 'Opera king' Domingo to play city - as I wrote elsewhere

Here's me looking at the Manchester Evening News - as one does - and my heart skips a beat at a picture of Pláci captioned 'May Date'. > I had it all worked out, take him into Cheshire I thought, country pub followed by a fine restaurant. The rest, I thought would be up to him.
Then I thought, it didn't say he will, only that he may.  And in any case, I suppose there would be other applicants younger and more beautiful than me.

Obligatory 'snow is me' post

Almost nothing happened on my way in today. Indeed, everything that happened was due to my misjudgement. I decided to wear an old pair of boots, but got just a few feet down the driveway when the heel snapped off, so I returned indoors and threw on my usual shoes which are pretty sensible, except, having an open top are less suitable than boots for snow.

It wasn't until I got to work and saw someone in walking boots that I cursed myself for not thinking of doing that myself.

I'm currently sitting here in bare feet, and damp trouser hems, with my socks draped over my bin, hopefully to have dried out by hometime.

Since I bought my house in 1995, there have been few examples of the garden being snow-covered. On average fewer than one a year. And the Victoria Line was running a 'good service'.

In fact the only problem was that the pavement between home and the bus-stop was treacherous. But I survived.

Rolando sings Zarzuela Arias

He has a new CD out. Dear reliable Rolando, always brings out a new CD for my birthday!

So for the fourth year running I have ordered a Rolando CD, even though this morning I opened two DVDs (Luisa Miller and La fille du regiment) and three CDs (Simon Keenlyside, Anna Netrebko, and Martin, the teenage love of my life playing organ).

Actually, I ordered the CD-with-bonus-DVD. Being three pounds more, it tipped me into Free Super Saver Delivery, saving me £1.50 in postage.

And there's a mini-site, including a twelve minute video-clip featuring footage from the recording session and interviews with the Rolando and the conductor, who's been known to sing a few zarzuela arias himself...!

A worm turning

That's me, that is.

I need to get this off my chest.

I got caught in a conversation this evening by someone who latched onto me. I went to the Stage Door at the Royal Opera House and joined a number of fans in the lobby area as is my (occasional) habit. I do not mind entering into chit-chat in that situation; especially because it's a reasonable assumption there are shared interests.

This man saw me and began to talk. and talk. And talk. And talk. He told me of various operas he had seen. He told me of various operas he hadn't seen. He told me of various opera singers he had met. He told me about his daughter in France. He told me about both his ex-wives. He told me he was single now. He told me had retired three years ago. He told me about a friend in Germany with whom he exchanges gifts twice a year who is a tenor fan. He told me what he used to do for a living. He told me his religion but he doesn't go to Mass very often. He told me which choir he had tried unsuccessfully to join. He told me he was a bass-baritone. He told me what his father's favourite opera book was. He told me that someone who works on lighting has the same name as him, except hers has an 'a' on the end. And he went on and on. It wasn't that he didn't give me time to speak, but he spoke at me, very quickly making (incorrect) assumptions about me, basically being very boring. I did speak a bit, but offered very little in the way of personal information, except 'I wasn't there'.

But all the time my eyes were glazing over.

I do not know how to handle situations like this. My instinct told me in 10 seconds that he was a crashing bore. It took me maybe another minute to realise he was going to embarrass me. I do not know how to react when people tell me their life story within five minutes of meeting. I can't deal with it when people go on and on about stuff that either is of no intrinsic interest to me, or is so superficial in detail it soon loses its interest. It's all very well saying you met a star, but 'he signed autographs' tells me nothing I didn't know already.

Being a wimp, I endure it for fifteen minutes, then realising that my eyes glazing over, my edging away, my looking away, my non-committal 'oh's are to no avail, I can take it no more and tell him bluntly "You are very rude and very boring. I have no interest in hearing your life story."

The stars were not appearing (there was a dinner) and I decided to head home. As I walked to the bus-stop I felt a little bit of triumph that finally I had been blunt. As I waited for the bus, I began to realise I had been cruel. During the journey I decided it had been hurtful rather than cruel.

I probably didn't need to be so blunt. Maybe I could have tried harder in expressing boredom more subtly. If one tries not to be hurtful, it's a good start to living a good life. Maybe I should blame him, if he hadn't been so 'me me me' I would never have reacted that way. If he had picked up my body language, I would not have needed to be so cruel. But it's a simple fact of life that a significant number of people are incapable ever of picking up these signs, and assume that if someone is, initially, polite enough, it means they want to be talked at. He wasn't creepy or threatening just mind-numbingly tedious.

Perhaps my failing is not making allowances for people with a personality disability in the same way I would for a physical or mental impairment. I always used to be the person that the lonely latched onto. I've gradually shaken that habit. But, obviously, not sufficiently.

But then it's so rude at the outset of a conversation to say "I'm not going to get involved just in case you turn out to be tedious and embarrassing"

So I expect the worm will turn again and crawl under a stone.

Stupid phone calls

On Friday, Jimmy was taking a nap in order to be rested for the evening.

The phone rang and, as it was in my hand, I answered it. It was from HSBC (with whom he banks) and the caller asked to speak to 'Jimmy's official legal first name, which isn't James'. I said he was not available; could I take a message? The message was tell him Chris called. I asked whether there was a number to call back on, or whether he should call his branch. The caller said he was not able to discuss any aspect of his acocunt. I explained that I was not asking him to. "Chris" said he would call back. I tried to explain that 'Jimmy's real name' was not in the habit of answering the phone. I'm the householder and the phone is in my name.

He kept saying he was not able to discuss details of (Jimmy's) bank account, I kept saying I wasn't asking him to. And every phrase was ended with "Thank you madam, good bye". I wasn't being abusive or difficult, just trying to establish a number that Jimmy should call back.

I would be angry if they did try and discuss details of the account. As far as the caller was concerned, I could be his landlady, tenant, housekeeper, gardener, nanny, or weekend guest. Even a burglar! If I am not permitted to take a message such as "Phone your branch" surely I should not be privy to which company he banks with. By their own logic, HSBC have broken their own rules by revealing this information to an unnamed unknown person who answer the phones. And yes, he reveals who he banks with every time he makes a payment, but on each occasion that is his decision. If he wished to withhold the information he would be within his rights to do so - he could pay by cash, postal order or by the account of AN Other.

I fully support the Data Protection Act and I get very annoyed by idiots who try to misinterpret it to the inconvenience of their customers.

Carmen B cast

Jimmy and I took ourselves along to the Royal Opera House last night for what promised to be an enjoyable evening.

What could possibly go wrong?

A great and familiar opera, one that is simultaneously easily accessible and yet rewards repeated study. One with fabulous tunes and exciting orchestrations. A strong unconfusing and believable storyline, three dimensional characters, and to cap it all, a colourful, exciting and intriguing production.

What could possibly go wrong?

In a nutshell, it was dire.

I posted the following to a couple of newsgroups:

If the Royal Opera House claims to be one of the world's top places it has no business whatsoever employing people to whom 'provincial' is a compliment.

I speak specifically of the world's worst conductor, Philippe Auguin, who turned the Act II opening (Flamenco dancers etc) and Votre Toast into funeral dirges. I don't believe in booing, and I'm passionately anti-capital punishment, but booing's too good for the likes of those who ought to be taken out and shot (no doubt a very nice man who helps old ladies across the road and is kind to children and animals). I did get a slight frisson at the end of Act II with the "La liberte" but that was entirely down to Bizet, and nothing whatsoever to do with the shonky amateur conducting.

And I speak even more specifically of the unreservedly dreadful tenor Marco Berti as Don Jose. I had read that he is a wooden actor, and I can live with that if the voice is up to something, but he was dreadful. Rarely on pitch, and dragging his women down with him, a really ugly sound, more barking/bellowing than singing, the worst 'La fleur qui..." ever. A disgrace. Loud, yes, but I was actually covering my ears up he was that bad. In future I will actively avoid him. Loud, yes, and that might suit some opera houses, but isn't good enough for the ROH. I actually can live with the odd note being slightly off, but when 40% of the notes are wrong and I'm wincing in excruciating pain, there's a problem.

And I started dreaming about the possibilities of Andrea Bocelli in the role.

The Micaela Liping Zhang might be okay in a better role; the bass Laurent Naouri isn't good enough for a top opera house. As for Viktoria Vizin, I felt she was over-parted, yet having seen her as Maddalena (Rig) and Mercedes she's luxury casting for those roles. Perhaps with a better conductor and better leading man she might prove to be a decent, reliable if not necessarily star mezzo (there's definitely a gorgeous voice there).

But really, that was only a summary of the dreadfulness of it. Certain aspects are perhaps forgiveable. Perhaps the bass was put off actually singing Votre toast by having to do it on horseback and then dancing on a table, and certainly those same moves hadn't shown Ildebrando D'Arcangelo in the greatest light, but I would expect a decent stab at this great aria.

There is a possibility of course that Don Jose got better in Acts III and IV but I wasn't hanging around to find out. Far too much of La fleur was shouted not sung. When he found pitch he bellowed it, with no regard for dynamic markings or for a sense of legato. But even though I winced twice and tried covering my ears it wasn't actually as bad as the Act 1 duet with Micaela - Parle-moi de ma mère. I have to say Micaela is a thankless part; requiring a very good singer, but not large enough a part to merit an established name who can deal with it. And certainly Liping Zhang started off well enough, but by the time she was losing pitch thanks to the tenor she did not sound good. And he sounded terrible. When performed well, it is a gorgeous duet - so lyrical. I adore the bit where Don Jose sings so lyrically

Ma mère, je la vois!.. oui, je revois mon village!
O souvenirs d'autrefois! doux souvenirs du pays!
/ Doux souvenirs du pays! O souvenirs chéris!

and Micaela comesback equaly lyrically. Except that this was Don José in a Bayreuth bark.

As for the conductor, the tempi were slow, painfully slow. This was apparent throughout but was particularly noticeable in the opening of Act II when there are flamenco dancers. When Pappano was conducting in December, these flamenco dancers kicked up a steamy sultry display of sensual abandonment to lively rhythms; last night it was more akin to the village tea dance and the sultry sexuality was lost.

I can deal with okay, mediocre, 'good in places' and so on, but I don't like a performance which would shame a provincial opera house. Not at one of the world's leading houses.

It still hasn't been confirmed about the TV show, but I presume - hope fervently - that it will be of Cast A under Pappano; if so, I would say drop everything and watch it. If it's Cast B, I would say, haven't you got some drying paint that needs watching.

As a pre-birthday celebration it was a sore disappointment. It's like hours of my life I can't get back, hours that would have been better spent watching Jonny "God" Wilkinson rampant as the hammer of the Scots, followed by beans on toast at home.

Plácido to perform in Manchester

Plácido Domingo

And about bloody time, too...

Well, I reckon I'll be able to sort my accommodation easily enough...

And that's a good week for me. I didn't book anything when I was making bookings because I automatically think first week of May is election time, only it isn't in London, not this year. So I've actually got nothing booked that week.

And just today, I was thinking it's about time I went to Manchester...

It's not on the M.E.N Arena site, yet...