Gertsamtkunstwerk

Fifty years (and still going strong)

Celebrará Plácido Domingo 50 años de carrera artística en Guadalajara

This site says that the concert is 3 September; his site says 1 September.

Meanwhile, a week on Sunday, he conducts the Verdi Requiem for LA Opera's opening night, and the blogosphere offers up an insider's account of rehearsals

How many people get to say hello and exchange hugs with Placido Domingo on a regular basis? Well, I do. I don't think he knows my name but he is warm and friendly and likes pretty ladies and is always happy to see familiar faces....Today we were surprised that he took (led) the rehearsal....Placido took us through the entire piece, giving us his tempi and phrasing... He personally sang many of the solo lines in between the chorus sections. What a voice! It is still rich and full and beautiful even though he's past 60*. Amazing. He brings the singer's sensibility to conducting, with extreme sensitivity to the musical line and the meaning of the words. I realize what a gift it is to simply be in the presence of this great and wonderful world-class artist. The man *is* music. It's what he's made of.

And his site has a picture of the new statue in Mexico City.

* and then some...

Diana Day

Ten years ago, I remember it well. Which in itself is quite an achievement, considering how much I had had to drink, although clearly nothing like as much as Diana's chauffeur that night. I was out with my strictly-platonic friend Roy and after the pub shut he came back to my place and we sat talking until about 3 am, before he left.

Before I had t'internet, I wondered vaguely whether I should check out the news headlines on Ceefax but couldn't be arsed, going instead to bed, to rise at about midday. I nipped to the newsagent, more concerned with getting a Lottery ticket as an 'extra' to slip into my sister's birthday card. I then went to the counter and saw all these papers, with the front page being variously Diana Dead or Diana Seriously Injured. I turned to Jay the newsagent and said "It's terrible what rubbish these tabloids print." No, it's true, he said, she's dead.

Unconvinced I thought I would check out Ceefax at home, and was pleased that I happened to turn the TV on during the news, so it was true. I then realised the news was going on all day. The TV schedules were carefully culled to prevent any offence - only they missed the godslot, the only interesting telly that day, the late great Nigel Hawthorne narrating the history of how Christianity came to England, with the immortal - pre-recorded - line "And you never knew what fate would befall tourists in France in those days..." Great TV blunder! My friend Helen thought Coronation Street was weird, the Rovers being the only pub in Britain not discussing the Death of Diana.

I found the media coverage and public hysteria quite unbelievable, although Brycchan put it into context by describing the scenes of the crowds that gathered to mourn Nelson and to line his funeral route.

I found the attitude of some of my colleagues fairly horrendous. On the Thursday we had an end-of-audit meal, co-hosted in a Greek restaurant by myself and another Senior Auditor (we were the most senior present). People were going on-and-on with their media inspired mourning. I pointed out that our manager had lost his father the previous week, and I asked how many had even offered their condolences let offered the hand and ear of friendship to someone who was clearly very upset. One colleague was going "she was such a devoted mother"; I suggested that that was rubbish, said colleague was a far better mother, who wouldn't have dreamed of going on holiday without her children*, and certainly not sending them away for weeks on end to some boarding school*. Said colleague had deferred her University entrance until her 30s, having been bringing up her children, then went to University part time, and then was conscientious in her juggling an onerous job (and professional study) with the everyday responsibilities of getting the children off to school, supervising homework etc.

At the time I was working in an office on Buckingham Palace Road, and finally decided to go down to the Mall to see what all the fuss was about. Despite my cynicism, my compassion fatigue and my anathema at the hysteria, it was a memorable occasion.

What did not come over on the TV was the scent. An overwhelming scent of fresh flowers mixed with gently burning candlewax. I kept falling into conversation with people with the same views as me, what a load of hysteria but I've come out of curiosity, and it's quite extraordinary. What also lingers was the sense of peace and tranquillity, with the Mall being closed to traffic, allowing people to reclaim the street in safety, away from the incessant roar and smell of motor vehicles.

I wasn't going to watch the funeral, of course, then someone rang me to say that Martin** was playing the organ, so suddenly, it became compulsory viewing. (And didn't he play it well...I have the CD, but only for Martin's organ-playing and he doesn't even get a namecheck). Well, my 11 am appointment to get my legs waxed had to be cancelled, to my annoyance and that of the beautician. Eventually I rearranged it for the next Saturday, going there from breakfast with David in town. I bought a train ticket from Victoria to Streatham Hill, then walked down the High Road to the beauticians, before getting the bus outside WH Smith and inadvertently fare-dodging, which ended me up in Camberwell Green magistrates court, pleading guilty in my absence. So, my current hassle is all the fault of the bloody Royal Family and that stupid bitch being too arrogant to wear a seatbelt. Perhaps I should have done what some high-powered businessman did in high-powered negotiations with the Lambeth Chief Exec - breakdown in tears and say he was very upset at Diana's death; Heather was not sure whether the waterworks were genuine or a clever negotiating tactic.

* okay, I know people have their reasons, and it's not my place to question or criticise valid reasons, but I didn't like this idea that somehow Diana, as well as being a saint, was also a role model parent

** the one great love of my scholdays

Every Breath You Take

I'm doing quite well playing my tapes alphabetically. Last week Pink Floyd, this week The Police.

I saw Sting at Live8. I didn't like The Police at first. In First Year at secondary school., there was thing. Siobhan was into Gary Numan, I was into the Boomtown Rats and Catherine was in to the Police - she had pictures of Sting on her bedroom wall.

Then Catherine left.

Then I got into the Police.

I was so naive as a teenager. I considered that they had a 'comeback' in 1983.

I bought this album circa 1990. Hit after hit.

Pretty much good song after good song. Best ones - Message in A Bottle; Walking on the Moon; Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic...one of those songs that has me bopping round the room expressing gratitude I don't have one of those webcam things people put on their blogs; Don't Stand So Close To Me. Specifically the '86 version. It has a different sound to it, a more surroundish-type-sound*. And more unfinished (or unresolved) cadences. I think we've all experienced the 'crush-on-teacher' syndrome. It mattered at the time.

I seem to be involved in along conversation about Every Breath You Take. My interlocutor, of whose identity I am no longer sure, was quite dogged in stating that because it was a song about stalking it was creepy and unpleasant. It had not struck me that way previously, and for a while I did consider this element, but on listening to it just now, I'm not convinced. It sounds more like a man who is bitter and full of hatred at the break-up of the relationship. Not Big Not Clever but Perfectly Understandable. Yes, he's obsessed, and he'll be watching her, wanting to prove that she's untrustworthy. It's too simple to label it an anthem to stalking.

And from the Department of Misheard Lyrics "Sue Lawley"

Least favourite - De Do Do Do De Da Da Da.

It struck me listening to this album that it must be a bit disappointing being a member of a rock band like The Police. Admittedly Sting is rich beyond one's wildest imagination and I don't suppose the other two suffer the penury of Church mice. But there you are, not exactly in Youth's First Flush, writing songs full of philosophical thoughts and literary references, hoping that you will be taken seriously by the college crowd; instead you become the pin-up od pre-teens who - thankfully - don't have a clue about the meaning of 'that famous book by Nabokov'. Life sucks sometimes.

Still, I contend that Boy Bands back then, back in the Golden Age™, they had something about them. It might actually have been because pre-teens were a bit more sophisticated, could handle pretentious philosophical ramblings in a sophisticated way. We'll Never See Their Likes Again.

Bloody hell, looks like they're back together and touring, hitting Twickenham next week. Twickers? Plenty of tickets up on ebay. Tempting but not that tempting, not sure I would be trendy enough to go to such a gig. Oh wait, it's 2007, they're in their fifties and sixties, their fans are in their forties. I think I'm trendy enough for that, but I don't think I'm that motivated, although, it's tempting, the concerts are at the weekend, so it's not like I'd be out late on a work night. Amd Twickers is well served by public transport - change at Clapham Junction. Nice, safe, suburban and middle-class. (I wonder how white middle-class middle-aged and elitist will that audience be - frighteningly so, I would imagine).

* technical term

Things people say

Last week I was chatting with someone and I said "It's like in West Wing when Josh is always complaining that the story will be about 'process' not substance.

I walked along the street and overheard a conversation where someone said "Arabella's problem is that she is more interested in process than outcome".

In my meeting, someone said "Oh you're looking at outcome rather than process..."

Another time, someone was trying to describe just how boring her and her husband's home life is, trying to evoke sympathy by tugging at the heartstrings. She said "Occasionally we go out for Sunday lunch but otherwise all we ever do is swinging..." At which point everyone jumped, startled. She blushed bright red and "Swimming. Swimming. Swimming."

I came down downstairs and saw that Jimmy had a beer. "Did you ask my permission?" I challenged him.

"Yes," he said, "You gave me permission."

"I don't recall..."

"I shouted upstairs 'Gerry' and you replied 'Yes' so I was pleased you've finally learned to read my mind..."

You can tell who's in charge in our relationship.

Kiri Te Kanawa

  I have liked Dame Kiri for a long time. I first encountered her as a result of the televising of the Charles and Diana farce wedding, and subsequently she got a lot of mass media coverage.

Sopranos don't tend to rate amongst my favourite voice types - even with female singers I prefer mezzos and, especially, contraltos. But when I do like sopranos I like ones whose voice have the timbre of crystal, of whom Kiri is the epitome. People have called her 'Dreary Kiri', some have said watching her 'acting' is akin to Hari Kiri. Cruel, but understandable.

This double CD is a recent acquisition, a present from my very clever Kiwi/Yorkshire nephew who shares his birthday with Kiri. It is very pleasant listening, Disc 1 in particular. I think what I like about it is the fact that she, or whoever compiled it, has avoided making it a chestnuts album filled with the predictable clichéd overplayed Classic FM that the plastic wannabes record ad nauseam. there is a lot of material on it which is otherwise unfamiliar - or nearly so - to me - especially the Duparc, Ravel and Korngold arias. I really don't know Dir tote Stadt at all, but is due to get its UK staged premiere in about 18 months time at Covent Garden. This aria "Glück, das mir verblieb' inherits the same sound world as Strauss's Presentation of the Rose - although the only Strauss on this is the Marschallin's aria from Act I.

The mood of the entire disc is incredibly peaceful and tranquil. I suppose those who want their divas to chew the furniture while they slash and burn will invoke the 'Dreary Kiri ' clause. But I like its restfulness. I also like the fact that in many of the selection it seems that the orchestra is allowed to display its music. Considering that the various tracks are from a variety of recordings with various orchestras under various stick-wavers, I can only assume that this is a sensitive and intelligent, if arguably idiosyncratic selection by the compiler.

I am less keen on the second CD. It is perfectly pleasant and enjoyable when it comes on the mp3 player, but a whole album of folk, musical theatre and pop songs gets a bit much, especially when I have better versions of many of them in my collection, whether by Kathleen Ferrier or Simply Red.

  I got her 'Ave Maria' so long ago that I have it on vinyl. I am currently digitising my cassettes, and all my vinyl is also on cassette. I am thinking it would make more sense to get myself a turntable and digitise my original vinyl, but I am rather scared even to look at them, suspecting that they have been warped by years of storage in the bedroom cupboard, all carefully standing up - and I have recently learned they ought to be stacked. In any case, I don't find anything attractive in the hiss and cackle, not to mention pop and jump, of vinyl. It is relatively easy to digitise a cassette; the sound is generally reasonable enough, if I work through them I will probably find a few worth reinvesting in on CD.

This is a gorgeous album, and one of which I have made countless copies for friends etc, back in the days when people wanted proper singers singing their light excepts unsullied by horribilised pop, rather than Katherine-Potts-Bocelli straining through Never Mind the Bollocks in Middle German with a heavily legato string arrangement.

And indeed, every singer has eventually to release a sacred album. Dame Dreary Kiri did so before the major milestone in my life The 1991 Acquisition-Migration-to-CD. Every track on this is lovely, and, without exception is executed in a lovely manner by the exquisite voice of Kiri. I adore Mozart's Laudate Dominum; not much later I got a CD of it in context, and that is still one of my favourite CDs. I like Bist du Bei Mir less now than then, because I have an alternative version I often repeat-play almost to over-play. I I think this is a tad too gentle and devotional and lacking basic human emotion.

Gounod's Sanctus is fantastic. Gounod is one of those composers that every time I hear something by him, I keep meaning to explore all. This is full of bombast and grand drama, and almost impossible (for me) to sing along to, even when alone in the house, solo part or chorus , and especially both together...In general I would say that while it is a pleasant album, it's not necessarily one that can be played over and again.

Dodgy fiction

For the past few months we have been making a conscious effort to de-clutter. From amidst the clutter I have found a 'story' I started writing a good few years ago*. I have decided to read it, as if I have nothing better to do with my time. You know it's going to be a cracker of a romantic love sex bonker story by the arrangements for the first date:

I'm babysitting for friends tonight, but I'm sure they won't mind you coming as well. I've got the electoral register for this ward, and some canvass cards, so we can start cutting them up and pasting...

Romantic, eh?

* clearly before "El Pack" (or however it's spelt...!)

Hearing and the ageing process

Last night we made the mistake of watching live a programme on a commercial TV channel - the new series of the fabulous IT Crowd (laugh out loud and possibly even better than series one) - the mistake was the 'live' bit, not the programme! We had to sit rather than fast forward through the ads. Two were for newly released albums. One for an acoustic guitar bloke of whom I have never heard, but the short excerpt seemed quite pleasant if not particularly something I would feel the need to buy. The other was for a band called Mövenpick or something. On an admittedly short clip they just sounded like noise. I was about to express that view, then I pulled myself up short. I can't imagine myself listening to, let alone buying such a cacophony, but to say so makes me 'middle-aged'.

And yet quite a lot of the pop music I like I am sure presents itself to people, say 19½ years older than me as being 'noise'. I understand it to be a proven scientific fact that are hearing changes as we age, and at my age I am less able to extract something meaningful from the 'noise' then I was at 10 or 17 or whatever. But when I listen to the 'noise' from my youth I hear music. When I listen to today's pop so-called music, it's just noise. I accept that there is an element of familiarity and rehearsal, but I have a feeling there is an additional element, too. I don't know how much is me and how much is a reflection of the changes in engineering/production over the decades.

La Fanciulla del West

click image for more details

This probably has to be read in conjunction with my review of the same opera from La Scala. Although I am not very into Puccini I have two DVDs of this opera.

Overall, and in general, I much prefer the Covent Garden one to the La Scala one.

First of all, the sets are amongst the very best opera sets I have seen live or on DVD. Almost worthy of applause in themselves. Act I, the bar, Act II, Minnie's Log Cabin and Act III,  the gallows in the mining village. It is enjoyable to note hundreds of little details and the overall picture is splendid.

I find so much of the music very reminiscent of that which accompanies classic Western films, and then I remind myself that Puccini did it first.

I find the first half of Act I does drag a lot. I see its importance in setting the scene; for a first viewing it's quite interesting, but it sags on repeated viewing. It's very clear how the main characters are introduced one-by-one and the atmosphere is set - the miners pining for home,  the Wells Fargo man, and the camp minstrel (although I find the way he is blacked up Al Jolson style) very dodgy. The highlight of this opening 'boring bit' is the evocative miners' lament. (When I was making rough notes I wrote 'almost liturgical in its lachrimosity' - Pseuds' Corner, anyone?). And as the Minstrel the camera lingers on the "Wanted" poster for Ramirez, a bandit,  a Spaniard from Mexico.

The opera only really starts after 36 minutes with the grand entrance of 'Dick Johnson'. And it grips me for the remainder of the Act. The Love duet in particular, especially the bit, erm, I wrote it down in English from the subtitles "Waht you cannot say, your heart told me when we danced". I do have a bit of a problem with Carol Neblett in this role. For one, she looks a lot like Nurse G-g-g-gladys Emmanuel, but more to the point, she adopts that tactic of sopranos when the top notes are beyond them - screamingly squawk it.

I am not sure whether Fanciulla is a great opera or merely a good one with some great scenes. Whenever Iwatch it I find myself repeat-playing certain sections. On this DVD, we get Plácido at his very best. It's not a role that is particularly considered a signature role for him, but it's pretty clear that he enjoys it, and vocally it suits him very well. He obviously relishes the opportunity to strut around oozing machismo - it's easy to see how Minnie fell so completely for him.

Act II starts badly with what I noted in my notebook as a 'rather tedious and ethnically embarrassing scene with Wowkle and Billy looking like cartoon-character "Red Indians"'. But when that's over with, I enjoy the way that Minnie is getting ready for her big date - and then he - Dick Johnson - arrives, looking very sexy, in an ankle length leather coat and a rather fetching hat, although, obviously, being a gentleman bandit, he doesn't wear that indoors.

They engage in sweet-talk at the table, but the music tells us that passion is rising; his macho strutting is mixed with an awkward nervousness. And 'Un baccio, un baccio solo' is pure steaming lust. He actually smokes the cigar she hands him (and we know from Carmen that this is a man who knows how to handle a cigar...).

Next is Comedy Moment, when the door blows open and snow blows in so Dick Johnson bundles Wowkle and the baby into the snow with indecent haste. Then we have a B-movie style passionate clench as the door blows open-and-shut in the  blizzard. But the snow - and the sound of gunshots - is an excuse for Minnie, declaring everlasting love,  to make Dick stay, whilst the orchestra portrays carnality. Frankly, if he was over me like that I would also declare everlasting love and I would not curl up in a bearskin and offer him my bed.

Opera is foremostly about singing, and I love the way Plácido sings in this, contrasting the passages where there is steel in the voice with tender moments. The orchestra is important, too. In this work it never realy plays 'tunes' but its mood music acts as an accompanist, a very different tone than, say, Bohème or Tosca.

To be honest, although I really enjoy this opera, there are crazy nonsensical aspects to it. He is shot and bleeding. I accept that at the time it was set it wasn't possible to summon the air ambulance, but I would have thought that a bit of basic First Aid would have come in handy, instead she just bundles him into the loft. When he is discovered by the big Bad Sheriff Jack Rance, still no first aid is administered, instead he sits slumped over the kitchen table as Minnie and Rance play poker for his body. And magically, he is fully cured in Act III*

Act III is short and perfectly formed - with yet another fabulous set. It begins with a lamenting reminiscent with the miners' lament in Act I - this time it's Rance, and Nick the barman, yearning for life with Minnie, who's off doing her own thing with 'Dick Johnson' aka Ramirez the Bandit. I really love the scene when he arrives having being cornered by the Wells Fargo men, looking deliciously scruffy and with his shirt unfastened enough to reveal just a tantalising glimpse of chest hair. He delivers that wonderful aria "Ch'ella mi creda libero e lontano"and Minnie arrives to save him.

A thoroughly enjoyable and satisfying opera - albeit with a zero body count - but probably not a great opera!

*It's a bit like the otherwise superbly wonderful 'Rome' on TV, where Lucius Vorenus is mortally wounded and bleeding in Egypt but somehow manages to make it back to Rome. I don't believe either scenario would be possible now, with a much greater understanding of physiology and hygiene, let alone medical care and fast transport, let alone the Old Days

PS In the course of writing this, I googled for 'Ch'ella mi creda..." and to my horror the first hit was for Andrea Bocelli. I couldn't quite believe that Bocelli has recorded it, but I caught a short snippet, and it was even more horrendous than I imagined; then my computer seemed to have been taken over by the disembodied voice of Andrea Bocelli with no obvious means of killing it. Needless to say, I am traumatised as a result of infiltration by this dangerous cult.

A couple of videos...

Unveiling a wonderful new statue in Mexico City - also mentioned at Inmortalizan a Plácido Domingo, and talking about green stuff...great singer, great musician, thoroughly nice person, very handsome and sexy...

Rum Sodomy and the Lash

click image for more info

A brilliant title for an album, and a brilliant album by a brilliant band.

I was introduced to the Pogues at University by Dave, Mike and Andrew, and I have liked them ever since. Good grief, I even went out and bought this on vinyl. The Wikipedia article has taught me quite a lot, as has some of the links thrown up in it

One of the most attractive aspects of this album is the folk-rock fusion. I actually really like folk music - up to a point. I like it when it's proletarian and urban, hate it when it's tiptoe-through-the-tulips cowpat music. I like the ethnic Irish sound, and I like the fact that it's not Misty-Eyed-Old-Farts music, but Angry.

Every track on this album is worth listening to its own right, each is quite different from the rest. For example, the Wild Cats of Kilkenny has a wonderful combination of Bodhrán and penny whistle, a combination which ought to make one vomit, but the banshee howling and strident electric guitar - maybe it shouldn't work, but it does! And Cait O'Riordan's vocals on "I'm a Man You Don't Meet Everyday".

There is a good mix of original material by Shane McGowan and intelligent cover versions. It so happens that my two favourite tracks are cover versions, but that shouldn't be seen as diminishing the immense talent of Shane MacGowan - there's something about Shane MacGowan - born in Tunbridge Wells, attended Westminster School - which makes him just perfect to be 'considered one of the most important and poetic Irish songwriters of the last thirty years'.

I have always known Dirty Old Town as a song, but for about 15 years I thought it was a twee tiptoe-through-the-tulips song. Yes, I know that isn't the tradition of the Very Great Ewan MacColl, but it wasn't until I was actually in Salford*, with the Pogues' Dirty Old Town in my ears that its evocation of a very industrial city suddenly struck me - Ewan MacColl was still alive at this point. Of course Salford has changed beyond recognition now and will change more, especially round the Quays and near the Lowry.

However, sometimes an album contains a song so powerful that owning the album is mandatory simply because of that song. I realise that my recent record reviews are becoming increasingly autocratic in insisting that no record collection can be considered proper without certain works.

And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda' is simply one of the greatest songs ever written. The tune is compelling but even more powerful are the words,words made more poignant by the banjo, accordion** and brass. One word of warning - do not listen late at night. I never cry at audio-only performances of music, but listening to this at half past midnight a few days ago, I was in total floods. Even in the light of early afternoon, it is sending a shiver through me. And it makes me angry. Everything about World War 1 makes me angry. Utter waste, sheer evil and completely without any point. Why on earth did Australians end up fighting Turks in Gallipoli, dying and being maimed, just because of posturing by the immoral powerful and unaccountable. I don't know if huge conscript armies could be mustered nowadays, without extreme coercion, but the damage inflicted on an entire generation is incalculable. There are still people alive who fought in that war, we're still fighting it today in Iraq and elsewhere  and if pointlessness and near-century long consequences is brought into the reckoning, it must count as one of the greatest evils of human history.

* en route for The Cliff, then Manchester United's training ground
** and how rarely do I praise the accordion, which if it wasn't for bagpipes, ought to be considered the spawn of Satan

People and food

We went to Sainsburys at Streatham Common a few months ago, and decided we'd have a coffee in the café attached to it. Jimmy ordered a Double Espresso - after all it was advertised on the board, and there was a coffee machine. The man behind the counter didn't know what one was, and then served it in a sizeable mug. It wasn't even as if he was a schoolie on his first day in a Saturday job. Just one of those things you just sigh, and move on...

A few minutes later two elderly Italian women and a young boy, perhaps a grandson, came in. The women ordered their coffees, the boy wanted an orange juice. No can do. He could have cocacola or fanta or sh*t or more sh*t. But not orange juice. Or apple juice. Or grapefruit juice. Or cranberry juice. Or any juice. Only chemical-sugar concoctions. This was at Sainsburys...

Later we went for a pre-ballet dinner in the heart of Covent Garden. Lovely restaurant, gorgeous food, nice ambience, serving staff hitting the right balance between attention and peace. We didn't pay much notice to our fellow diners, there was no need. I was vaguely aware of a table to my right. A table for six, but with a spare chair. The five who sat there ranged from 'average' size to plump to one very tall, well-built and proportionately chubby man. They conversed, the odd word or phrase was barely audible at our table.

The sixth person arrived and I was immediately struck by how thin she was, the sort who makes Victoria Beckham look chubby.

Conveniently for the thin one, having missed the moment when her companions ordered, she skipped starter. She had her main course, basically meat and veg, but she left the meat, and the sauce and didn't eat all the veg. She immediately went to the loos and the last we saw of her as we left she was standing by the entrance, explaining to the staff on reception that as she was smoking French cigarettes she didn't want to impose them on her companions(who were sitting in the smoking area). That may be true, of course, but the strong taste of French cigarettes conveniently masks the taste of vomit in the mouth. And it also acts as a convenient excuse for being absent when puddings were being ordered. She looked really dreadful, just skin and bone; that horrible thing with sticky-out neck bits that thin women cultivate. Her hairstyle was expensive, her clothes were not from Oxfam, her perma-tan was well-cultivated. It's conceivable she was a 55 year-old with elements of 35, but my judgement was that she was a 35 year old prematurely aged by decades of starvation. There were members of the corps de ballet who looked obese in comparison.

Carry on Up the Charts

I am a very late convert to Beautiful South. They have been around almost for ever, certainly since I was a student (or perhaps I am thinking more about the wonderful Housemartins)  and  recently split up because of 'musical similarities'.  I only ever bought this one. Typical me to really get into a band nearly two decades after they formed and just as they split. And I have decided that I would really like to see them live.

I have always enjoyed their songs in a sort of passive way, but it's only since I put them on my mp3 player that I have realised just how much I like them. All of the songs on this album have nice tunes, which may seem like damning with faint praise, but it is a sine qua non of songwriting. I don't actually know much about them, but I have never got the sense of them being manufactured.

If the tunes are nice, the lyrics are brilliant. I have nothing but admiration for the poetry evident in every song.

This is most definitely an album that is worth playing over and again. That's the problem with trying to blog my entire record collection by forty. I am not sure there is any great benefit in listing all the songs on this album, and trying to rank them in order of preference. There are plenty of sources on the internet that have the track listing. However, I am trying to establish a list of my top one hundred pop songs ever. Maybe. Ish.

Some of the songs are memorable for lyrics such as

Albert Steptoe in 'Gone with the Breeze'
Mother played by Peter Beardsley, father by John Cleese

Whereas One Last Love Song has fairly banal lyrics, a deceptively simple melody, and moving harmonies. The unconventionally nasal lyricism of the male singer turn this into a special song.

A Little Time uses contrast between the soft male voice and the female voice coming in as if at cross-purposes. Very apt.

Bell Bottomed Tear is poignant. The words are profound, I think, the tune delightfully simple, the orchestration sophisticated, the voices real and idiosyncratic. I really like her voice. In fact thinking about it, in pop I tend to prefer female voices to male; in classical, I prefer male voices to female. Discuss...!

In fact this is incredibly difficult to write. I have decided that this has to be right up there as one my very favourite pop albums in my entire collection. I don't want to be a position.

Song for Whoever is quirky and satirical and yet not really cynical. Wonderful song.

I'll Sail This Ship Alone. Wonderful Song.

Prettiest Eyes. Wonderful Song.

Aaaaagh! Aaaaagh. Aaaaagh. I am going to have play this album over and over again over the next few months just so that I can determine how many of those songs mentioned above are actually not merely very good but quite possibly great.

I am the newest mad keen fan of the Beautiful South. Believe me, I am now an expert. They are utterly wonderful and this album ought to be in the collection of everybody who calls themself a music lover.

Songbirds

Retail therapy coffee table crap.

Well, it's not really crap, but it's obviously a compilation put together for a 'mood'. Lots of non-threatening music with a variety of singers with a diverse range of talents.

I like to put these things on random to cock a snook at the compiler. Especially when the compiler is marketer not a musician.

Bland. Let's pick some singers that people like, and find their blandest songs - Madonna, Alanis, Joan Armatrading. Let's ignore the fact that they are liked partly for their attitude. Well, I suppose Better Midler isn't bland. Sentimental schmultz can never be described as bland. On a record with sentimental schmulz, bland suddenly seems attractive.

I have never been able to take Natalia Imbruglia seriously since I heard she dated Liam Fox; I hadn't heard of her prior to learning that fact. Apparently, she was in Neighbours, in the days I used to watch it. Her presence clearly entirely passed me by.

On the plus side, there's some Sinead, but it's hardly her best song. Bonnie Raitt - now there's a woman with a voice. I always liked stuff by her I've heard. But never enough to rush out and buy an album.

The above was written after playing Disc 1. Fortunately Disc 2 is considerably better - or my mood and more ears more open to the selection.

Morcheeba. Not bad. I used to almost know Morcheeba very well. But that's a whole other story...! On the second disc are some very good tracks, by kd lang, Pretenders, Shakespear's Sister, Everything But The girl etc etc.

But the original draft of this is dated 19/5/2005 and it's now 19/8/2007. You calculate...it's not as if I have exactly been drawn to this CD in the past two years and three months.

Although, listening to it this evening, I have discovered a rather nice song I was not previously aware of - Where Have All The Cowboys Gone by Paula Cole, of whom I have never heard.

On the other hand, it also includes The Corrs. I mean, that should be against the law shouldn't it. I think buying this CD was the final stage of aversion therapy and I have never bought a pop compilation CD since. I don't think. In fact, I don't remember buying it. I supposed I might have shoplifted it in a drug-induced trance. But, somehow, I doubt it...

My copy says £15.99; Amazon has it available at its market value of a whole 97p. Gahhhh.

Festival

I have these five cassettes. I taped them off my sister. And I think she taped them off someone's vinyl. Knocking on for twenty years ago. TDK cassettes. They have been played so very many often times, in all sorts of dodgy cassette players I have owned over the years. On the box is written "Festival of Light Classical Music" Tapes that have sustained me through every aspect of my adult life.

There is no way that I can be in the slightest bit objective or dispassionate about any of the music on these, because they probably represent seven and a half of the ten hours of music with which I am more familiar than any other. And familiarity is one of the main aspects of liking music. Music that brings back memories, yet conversely, because of its ubiquity in my life, brings no specific memories and thus speaks for itself.

I thought about listing every track but how dull would that be, so I thought I would just pick out a handful of my real favourites. But then I realised that that would be at least half of the tracks. So I shall try some more general thoughts.

One of my Guilty Pleasures is Compilation Albums. I realise that these days, with the ability to burn CDs and download MP3s and all that I don't really need to buy Compilation Albums, but it's a form of retail therapy. They're also good when you don't really know what you want to listen to.

The best compilation albums feature music that has stood the test of time. Not just music that is popular because it has been used in adverts.

I always have trouble with popularity. Just because something - a piece of music - is popular doesn't mean it's good. I would say this particularly applies to something that is 'best selling' at a specific time. Conversely popularity doesn't mean it's bad. Indeed, there is an argument that a piece of music that is acclaimed by the critics, and loved by professionals and public alike over a significant time period is, by definition, good.

But then, you are left with the Bleeding Chunks Syndrome. As I write, Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries has just finished. A piece known, I think, by most people with ears, even if they don't know they know it. But only a very few minutes, and not a typical few minutes, excerpted from a 16 hour work of genius. Is the Ride better than the Ring as a whole? Can that question ever be answered? But it is certainly more popular than any other piece of music that Wagner wrote. Yet one day I was playing this in Hall and someone actually came to my room and reprimanded me for my subtle anti-semitism. I was too cowed and too anxious to be 'right on' - and too ignorant - to argue the toss. I like the music. Live with it. She wasn't even on my corridor, just passing by.

I did a search on Amazon, CDDB etc for this compilation, and struck a series of blanks, so I'm not even sure whether I there is much point in blogging this. But it is such an incredibly important part of my acquiring musical knowledge. Because I had such a small collection at the time I taped these, they were played over and again and I absolutely absorbed the music into my marrow. I have recently acquired the means to digitise cassettes and I have done so with these (the bigger problem is track splitting; well, it's not difficult just tedious and time-consuming). If I took a logical approach I have just about every tune already in digital of one sort or another, but I am so fond of the compilation as well as (most) of its constituent parts.

It is an entirely intelligent compilation. I would say that every piece is well known, but actually, that's because they are my musical life's blood. For example, a few weeks ago, I was watching Weber's Frieschutz, a completely unfamiliar opera to me....and yet, I knew the overture and one of the main themes as a result of this compilation. So it wasn't difficult for Frieschutz to become immediately "I like" and, more importantly "I want to get to know better".

And in total indulgence, a whole side of a cassette is devoted to just two pieces of music - Swan Lake and Nutcracker. I mean, let's face it,they are f***ing ace pieces of music and a nice way to round off 7½ hours of glorious music.

Digitizing the 70s

I've spent a fair part of the day scanning in slides from my childhood. I actually thought there were more. I haven't yet done the boxes from before I was born - but I will!

Having barely skimmed the surface, I now want to get my grubby mitts  on the various photos that are also at my mother's, including the Summer of 69 when I was going through my blonde phase.  Difficult to believe if you see me at 4. Dead good I was at tennis back then. Admittedly, my grip is rubbish.

I am trying to remember the name for that dress...yes, I gave names to dresses, I think I was probably an exceptionally weird child. I do remember that I decided it reminded me of the different flavours of fizzy pop. There must be a photo of my coat called "Furry Henry". Yes, I gave names to coats, too.

The bedraggled scruffy look is absolutely inherent as a personality trait, not as an attitude I have cultivated in adulthood!

I am reliably told by My Sister that this was taken at Haddon Hall

New York here I come

Oh god, I actually thought I was going to pass out I was hyperventilating so much. Sale of single tickets for the Metropolitan Opera started at midday NY time which I calculated to be 5pm my time, so I got onto the site at 4.30pm to find them already on sale. With. a. real---ll---y slow...server. Because I hadn't registered I got timed out and my ticket taken away from me and I had to start all over again. But I have a ticket. Problem is, it's gonna be held at the Box Office at Lincoln Center - which is fair enough - and I have to present Jimmy's credit card. He won't be going to New York. I wonder if I contact them and explain, they'll let me present my (non-photo but addressed) driving licence, passport, two utility bills, Audit Warrant and Official UK Government Pass. Hmm...

So, this Iphigenie en Tauride opera, is it any good? just kidding, I have heard an audio version, and I have a DVD on my to-do list, and I'm going to the Covent Garden baritone version in September

My next challenge is trying to get a ticket for Romeo and Juliette. I'm not going all the way to New York to end up taking a trip on the Long Island Railroad to see it at a cinema when I could do that on a 417 bus from home to Clapham Common.

I suppose now I'm going to the Met I shall have to relearn when to applaud. I understand it's a) at the scenery and b) when the star makes his first appearance on stage...

While I'm there, I wouldn't mind visiting Pampano

Digitizing the 60s

When I was very very little, my parents took photos and got them developed as slides. This means that, unlike most of my contemporaries, my baby photos are in colour. However, they are not very accessible.

The other day I met up with my sister, nephew and niece. They brought with them, at my request, The Slides!

I have been struggling all morning to get the scanner to work, until finally figuring it out that all I had to do was turn it off and on again.

Here is a photo of my older sister and me with our grandparents. I was just a few weeks old.

Pavarotti sings Puccini/Essential Pavarotti

Those of you who have been paying close attention to my blog for the past x years will know that I am working slowly and steadily through my entire record collection and blogging it.

It may come as a surprise to some that I have two records by Pavarotti in my collection. Admittedly, one was taped off my mother's copy years ago. I can't remember why I bought the other. Perhaps it was a Britannia Record of the month which I forgot to cancel way back in the days when the Pav had a voice, sort of.

 But actually, the tracks on it were recorded in 1973, and 1979-1980, so it's a pretty good product. It's called Ti Amo and is pure Puccini, no dubious crossover crap. The excerpts from La Bohème, by no means my favourite opera, even by Puccini, are simply exquisite, taken from that benchmark recording in 1973 with Herbie and the Berliners; having these four tracks saves me the trouble of having to buy the complete recording (ducks...)

It also includes Nessun dorma, which is the only operatic aria I truly hate with a vengeance and a passion, and every bloody tenor has to include it on his compilation CD. Basta! I say. But it would be bloody strange to have a Pav-Puccini album without that dreadful turgid song from Turandot.

I could live quite happily without his excerpts from Tosca. I have a very clear idea of how I want my Cavaradossi to sound. And it ain't Luciano. Supposedly it's his signature role, but I think that I would rather hear him in Bel Canto than in this

 It is extremely pleasant to listen to the Essential Pavarotti. His voice was - and as captured on record is - extraordinary. I would actually go so far as to say that in terms of pure vocal technique and sound it is the most 'perfect' voice in my not insubstantial Tenor collection. And I always get pleasure from listening to Pavarotti. I don't get anything like as much pleasure from watching him act, but this post is purely about the audio experience. What an amazingly technically brilliant and sweet voice.This compilation features most of the arias one would expect on an aria compilation by a leading Italian/lyric tenor - although, Una furtiva lagrima apart, there is an absence of Donizetti and perhaps too many tending to the spinto-dramatic range. I cannot contemplate anyone who appreciates gorgeous singing not enjoying this. And yet, there is something that leads me wanting. I suppose it is an absence of differentiation between the dramatic requirements of the roles, both Canio (Pagliacci) and Manrico (Trovatore) sound surprisingly cheerful, considering; Neromino surprisingly morose.

And how amazing album to work one's way through an entire album of some of the best arias ever written, executing them perfectly, with a beautiful voice, ringing High Cs, squillo, the lot.

Lacking nothing except emotion and any indication of actually being involved in the songs.

I am so ambivalent to Pavarotti. Technically perfect voice. And so boring. Just singing the top arias of the top repertoire, all Italian. Singing them perfectly. But it might as well be the Argos catalogue.

If any Pavarotti fan comes here and decides to flame me, I hold my hands up. Perfect voice. But when I hear a tenor singing tenor arias, I don't want to sit there saying in my head 'Perfect execution'. I want my reaction to be visceral, physical and, not to put too fine a point on it, sexual. I will never argue against the clinical perfection of Pavarotti's voice. I have a favourable intellectual reaction. It simply doesn't get my juices flowing. Sorry.

Anybody who has been watching the news will know that he hasn't been well. He was treated for pancreatic cancer last summer, is down to 11 stone, would you believe, and is currently in hospital having been treated for pneumonia or some such. Naturally, I wish him the best but I can't say the prospect of a new album - presumably valedictory - exactly thrills me.

Way to go!

BBC NEWS | UK | Journalist Lord Deedes dies at 94

Totally indifferent. Always am when someone hits their 90s. Good innings and so on, what?

Died aged 94 after short illness?

From my lips to God!

Reports from...various places

Jane has very kindly emailed me a couple of pictures from Wiesbaden:

The view from her hotel room...!

And look who she bumped into outside the hotel: (I don't know if it's just me, but he looks very huggable in this photo!)

 

Thanks Jane!

Bravos for Ravinia gala

I can't say I care for the comparisons with Don Giovanni or the Duke of Mantua, obviously a so-called journalist who knows eff-all about the subject she writes about.

Some links from Salzburg coverage. not saying anything I haven't already linked to, but with added photos: Placido Domingo singt Zarzuelas in Salzburg; Bussis für die Zarzuelas; Plácido Domingo im Interview

And this made me laugh - Who can resist the tenor of his logic? (I think I would rather watch the Three Tenors play footie - although not Luciano now,obviously - than hear Beckham, Juninho and Zidane sing...)

Missa Solemnis

As part of my ongoing 'all the records by forty' project I listened to Beethoven's Missa Solemnis a few times with the intention of blogging it thoughtfully.

It is acknowledged as a great work, and like all the rest of Beethoven (that I know), I like it. I realised that I have very little intelligent to say about it. I thought that perhaps that absence of intelligent comment was merely indicative of a lack of understanding. Beethoven didn't write the work as Light Entertainment, and if I were to approach it as such, it would be a waste of my time and yours. Hence the reason why I listened a few times.

I don't need any explanation of the story and the meaning. Despite my ungodliness i am very familiar with the rites and structure of the mass, musically I find masses to be a particularly worthwhile musical form. I considered whether my understanding would benefit from listening with the score and decided that it probably would, but, to be honest, I can't be bothered. I am not intending to perform it any time in the near future, and I don't think it was intended that the listener should need a score to comprehend.

I am torn, because in a way everything you need to know about a piece of music should be discernible by listening. Active listening, that is. For listening reasons, anyway. Clearly if you are going to perform it, you need more. And yet, I also know that one can benefit from the insights of others. But at the end of the day, I listen to music for pleasure, not to earn a living. I am not interested in studying music as an academic discipline and I have neither the ability nor the inclination to perform outside my shower.

I like the Sanctus very much, especially the writing for strings. Why do I like it? It has a gorgeous tune. And I like the fugal-ish arrangement. And it builds to a splendid climax for 'Hallelujah'. Every Hallelujah should be climax-like. I have to admit, I am a very shallow person. The rest of the tunes do not move me sufficiently. Definitely a CD to play on occasion but not necessarily over and again.

The love that dares not speak its name

It's a furtive love, an embarrassed need. It's not the sort of thing that one can speak easily of in polite circles. Google it, and there is no automatic fill-in. Google it and the first ten hits contain two of my blogees, my Facebook friends.  331,000 hits suggests I am not alone

Dirty old men sneak guiltily into corner shops to purchase their porn and take it away under their macs or in a brown paper bag. Or wrapped in a Guardian. Even that's not true any more; porn mags are displayed at child's eye height and mainstream but niche hobby mags are out of reach of diminutive women.

I am not a kleptomaniac nor a thief by nature but my fetishist obsession has driven me to thievery on occasion. My all-time favourite item to be thieved was KPMG analysis paper, pads and pads of it, brittle like the paper of bibles.

I have collected notebooks for years, started small. Just the red Silvine exercise books, that came in so many models. Or nice little notebooks, often a passing souvenir of a museum or tourist spot visited. To accompany a souvenir biro which would bleed or crack by the end of the week.

I moved on up to neat spiral notebooks with brightly covered card covers.. From card onto plastic. From there to interesting materials: straw or velour. I was always careful, nothing too expensive, take advantage of the sales, grab when the line is being cleared.

Now it is utterly compulsive. There are people taking advantage of those of us with this shameful addiction. I have bought notebooks with Wedgwood designs, notebooks designed for the intrepid travellers to record their impressions of hot and dusty places. Notebooks better made and with better paper than the average published hardback book. I can't help myself. I go into WH Smiths to buy a birthday card and come out with three new notebooks. Sometimes I feel the urge to buy every size of every design. I'm killing time in the vicinity of a Paperchase and suddenly my bank balance is lighter and my rucksack considerably heavier.

Which then leaves the Big Question. What do I do with stacks of beautiful blank notebooks? Gaze at and sniff their unblemished virgin state. Well, yes, obviously. But I have a further urge. I need to fill them. Fill them with words. Word must be written with fountain pen. Fountain pen with ink has a sensuality that is the perfect partner to gorgeous notebooks with pages of smooth silky white paper.

I have hinted from time to time that I write fiction, purely for my own enjoyment. It's not about creating a product that's marketable. It's not about striving for literary credibility - although I strive for continuous self-improvement - but is it about release, about capturing and encapsulating the torrid creations of my fevered imagination.

It makes no sense. I have a computer with a word processing package on it. Word processing on PC is a much more sensible way of writing. Cut and paste. write out of sequence. Edit, rewrite. Delete, reword. Insert an extra passage. Clear up accidental or deliberate inconsistencies of continuity. Obliterate my worst verbal ticks: finding a word and over-using it (the Gotterdammerung post down below has too many 'culminations' in such a short space). Or long winded sentences. Too many "I/she/he realised"s,  too many "each other"s. On PC they can be erased and eradicated.

But the prose doesn't flow if I don't adopt a bad posture and scrawl in convent girl script in black ink fountain pen in a notebook.

And yet it feels plain wrong to be writing smutty stories in beautiful smooth notebooks.  Clearly, there is a role for carrying around a to-do list. Ring Gas Board, Go to Training Course, Acquire Self Knowledge. It's always good to have somewhere to write random thoughts. Random thoughts inspired by my mp3 player or the rolling countryside or the extraordinary people with whom I share a Tube carriage.

For many years I kept a paper diary. It started in top Juniors and it expanded and expanded. I used to write it at every snatched opportunity I could. In lessons at school (hardly surprising I never got a proper education), in Lambeth Labour Group meetings. They all thought that I was striving to be a political diarist in the tradition of Crossman, Castle and Benn. As if.  Full of teen angst, even though, obviously, having been elected to public office I was somewhat longer in the tooth than teen.

It fell into disuse when I first got a computer at home. Although I did try - my first computer written diary entry for 1998

Diary covering January 7th to January 11th 1998.

So much for good intentions - yeah, that’s right, a rushed job on the diary!

Not that there is a great deal to say for the period concerned. I have spent the weekdays in work - not really feeling particularly highly motivated, perhaps a result of being the first week back after Christmas.

On Tuesday I went to Southend, which, I guess was vaguely exciting - at least I had to concentrate and work! Had a bit of a nightmare journal there- I hadn’t exactly got up especially early, so I knew I was running late. And to really make my day do you believe that the Central Line was really delayed. Originally they said it was due to somebody on the track at Leytonstone, but then they said it was because of Signal Failure. Hey, that’s London Underground for you! So I was sort of aiming for the 9.20 train but, having just missed the 9.50 I had to wait until the 10.22!
So I was not a happy bunny. Actually Tuesday was my only night all week - well apart from Saturday and Sunday! On Wednesday was Council, and on Thursday and Friday, I attended a Housing Benefit Training Session. Which was quite interesting.

Saturday was the day of great excitement: I had my computer delivered. And guess what I did practically for the whole of Saturday and Sunday. I spent quite a while unpacking the computer and everything that goes with it  - not least about fifteen compact disks, and nearly as many floppy disks!

I even logged onto the WWW; I decided to go for BT Line One, on account of that was the software delivered. I spent rather a long time surfing- oh, well, it’s just a novelty!

And the very best news is that on Saturday United beat Tottenham 2-0 with goals from Ryan Giggs. The details can be found in the database in Works - I shall keep all the footie scores there. So United are now just massively in lead in the Premiership!

(What this quotation fails to impart was the excitement of being able to use ClipArt in my diary - I included pictures of a train, a computer and a footballer.  The banality of my coverage of Lambeth full council is breathtaking: we were a hung council with no administration just four months away from the glorious revolution splendid victory of May 1998. No hints as to the stupid games the LibDims were getting up to in their increasingly desperate knowledge that New Lambeth New Labour were on the march ascendant. And work. It was a blooming private diary. No worries about disclosing official secrets in my private diary. It might have been at that time I was reviewing the then HM Customs and Excise Departmental VAT Return, the most ironic audit i have ever undertaken.

Four years later, having entirely abandoned paper diaries I started blogging in a much more innocent era. In those days one poured out one's innermost thoughts, believing that nobody was reading, or that one's only readers were fellow bloggers in on the secret. Gradually I cut back on the personal stuff. not as a conscious decision but with a growing awareness of the inappropriateness of talking about many aspects of work. Important not to express opinions on Real Life people. If you write about someone assume they will read it, but don't arrogantly expect them to. Do not write anything that expose my vulnerabilities for exploitation.

In a delicious squaring of a circle it has slowed dawned on me that I need to keep a paper diary. For my inner thoughts, for keeping a record of the vicissitudes of work of mental calm of relationships (not just Relationship), to get things off my shoulders.

From blogging I think I have a learnt a lot about how actually to keep a paper diary. Do not do a chronology, do not work from the bottom up. Note random thoughts, do not worry about maintaining a coherent narrative, enjoy the disjointed and fragmented, treat it as an exercise in creative writing rather than a school essay or an audit report.

And revel in the sensuality of black ink flowing from a fountain pen onto a virgin page of smooth white paper.

Gotterdammerung Prom

It is extremely difficult to provide a review of one of the Ring Operas. So much going on, so many different elements. They cannot really be viewed in isolation, and, Gotterdammerung, the culmination of the greatest epic work in Western culture, cannot be assessed without some reference to Das Rheingold, Die Walküre and Siegfried.

The culmination of the Proms' Ring Cycle occurred in glorious splendour on Sunday. Undoubtedly a memorable occasion and a stirring performance, greater than the sum of its parts, and the parts were nothing to be sniffed at.

There are pros and cons of the Albert Hall. The sometimes almost unbearable heat;, and, especially for a Wagnerian epic, physical comforts become of some importance. The Albert Hall being circular, with audience arranged almost totally round the circle - barring the organ - means that there are plenty of partial view seats. I was in one, in a second tier box, where I had a glorious view of the timpani and percussion, and, with my superdouper binoculars could almost read the conductors' score, but my view of the lower strings and any singers who stood in front of them was somewhat limited.

Any concert performance of an opera is going to lack a basic element - the acting, together with costumes, set, lighting and so on. Not that there isn't merit in concert opera. I am a firm advocate of opera as a visual form, arguing that people who are wedded to opera on radio/CD/LP/shellac/cylinders are missing the point that audio-only presentations were a technology-driven accident (or lack-of-technology driven) that impacted on opera, not an opera-driven imperative. So most people who decry the burgeoning of opera on DVD as opposed to the 'superior' audio-only (preferably on scratchy jumpy vinyl 33s or even better on 78s which need changing every three minutes) are merely revealing the unthinking ignorance of their own conditioning or habit rather than actually returning to first principles and asking a question*. That having been said, in the best concert performances of opera, with the best performers, the absence of costumes, sets, lighting etc enables a situation where they are forced to convey the drama and emotion through superb singing and expressive acting**. In respect of this Prom, the acting was absent. I was not sure really why a 'stage director' got credited. The singers barely had room to perch at the edge of the stage and stand-and-deliver.

Another disadvantage of concert opera is the absence of an orchestra pit. This actually has its advantages in that I can watch the timpani and percussion. Also that I can watch the clarinets and oboes and the wonderful clarinet-type-thing-with-a-horned-end-that-isn't-a-saxophone, and, using my binoculars, even watch the fingering. It does tend to give an added dimension to understanding the conversation between different instruments of the orchestra. On the flip side, it was not always possible to hear everything being sung. Possibly not just because it was a concert performance, not just because it was in a super-barn*** but because the acoustics vary so significantly and there is no rule book on the Albert Hall acoustics. On the other hand, there were glorious moments when a splendid reverberation of sound bounced around an impressive venue.

The conductor was Donald Runnicles, the orchestra the BBC Symphony. I presume that the BBCSO are not in the habit of performing any of the tetralogy and at times it showed. There again, in 4¾ hours of playing, it is hardly surprising that there was evidence of raggedness, roughness and duffness at times.

For me, the highlight of Gotterdammerung is the orchestra. Partly, the enjoyment of hearing all those familiar leitmotifs. I am the antithesis of a leitmotif expert, but as each of those familiar phrases emerges, it is impossible not to be reminded of what they have signified in the previous episodes. And, overwhelmingly, Gotterdammerung is about those two amazing pieces of orchestral interludes, Siegfried's Rhine Journey and Siegfried's Funeral March. Unbelievable pieces of music, worthy of inclusion in any concert programme in their own right, and made more amazing by context.

I do not think I have ever appreciated so much three particular pieces which I thought were very familiar to me - the duet between Brunnhilde and Siegfried in the Prelude which sounded so joyous and so full of carefree innocent young love. And then, the startling contrast in Act 3 of first Siegfried's Brünnhilde! Heilige Braut! Wach' auf! Öffne dein Auge! which is definitely on my list of favourite tenor arias, and this afternoon my eyes filled with tears at the enormity of the emotion, betrayal and consequences. Followed by Brunnhilde's Liebestod Immolation Scene. Absolutely extraordinary. The Ring turns full circle. We started with the fictional Rhinemaidens in the primaeval slime of the mythical River Rhine, and were shown the grandiosity of the Gods, the beautiful human tale of the gorgeous Walsüng Twins, the heart-breaking fissure between Wotan and Brunnhilde, the maturation of the Boring One and his awakening; after the machinations, politics, greed, capitalism, pride and other numerous human faults, we are left with noble dignity of Brunnhilde's love for Siegfried. Obviously, it is a vile misogynist plot, indicative of Wagner's self-centred arrogance, to expect Brunnhilde to leap into the funeral flames unable to endure life without Siegfried. In reality she would have the strength of character to grieve and mourn and start a new life. But as a moving end to an emotionally demanding saga, it is perfect.

Singing-wise, I would not ascribe greatness, but I would definitely give it a high overall mark, with no link so weak as to be negative. I was disappointed by the male chorus, perhaps having been totally spoilt by the glorious sound of the tremendous ROH male chorus. The male voice choir in this opera is almost as impressive as in Tannhäuser. I figure that if the male chorus blows my socks off on CD, I can't wait until I get an opportunity to hear Tannhäuser live (one of my lesser known Wagner operas, but one with amazing tunes. Oh heck, all the ones I know have amazing tunes - I don't know Die Feen, Das Liebesverbot, and Rienzi, and rate Meistersinger and Flying Dutchman below the somewhat below the other eight). I thought the Rhinemaidens sounded gorgeous in themselves, but lacked a certain sound that I sometimes find,a sound that seems to be way ahead of its time, is echoed in the Parsifal Flower Maidens but sounds more like an inter-bellum jazz nightclub sound).

The leading singers were all very worthy. Christine Brewer was amazing last year in Fidelio, previously I had found her less satisfying in Beethoven's 9th and the War Requiem. I found that her voice cut through rather than rode over the orchestra. She came into her own in Act 3 in particular. I have never rated her stage persona, but she did seem to inhabit this role and convey the shock and heartbreak. Stig Anderson was excellent as Siegfried. Never outstanding but constantly above average. Not particularly a beautiful voice but definitely one I would like to hear again in this role and would be interested to hear in the young Siegfried. (Beforehand, a friend had said "I hear the tenor's very good" and I had said "Is there a tenor in it?" I'm sure she must have thought I was trying unsuccessfully to crack a lame joke but the truth was my brain wasn't entirely working and I could only think of the orchestral passages).

As it reached its denouement the hall was lit with a fiery glow and I was half-expecting the pond in the arena to burst its banks and overflow; it didn't.

By quarter past ten it was over and I felt a sense of loss and bereavement, mitigated only by the knowledge that I have tickets booked for the Royal Opera House Ring Cycle 3 in October/November, about which I can only say "Bring it on...!"

* I regard the most important lesson I learnt in preparation for a Politics degree and a life in public administration and policy was one taught by my splendid A-Level Maths teacher - you don't need to know the proof for the exam, but we are going to work through this from First Principles so that you have a fundamental understanding

** see Die Walkure Prom 2005

*** remember, Real Opera Singers don't use microphones (except when the venue - or the 'crossover' programme - calls for it)

Reports from Salzburg and Wiesbaden

Domingo the Spaniard

Mr. Domingo came out for his first number — and he looked like a million bucks. He sang that way, too. For about 10 years now — 15? — I have referred to him as "the ageless Spaniard," and that description still applies. Yes, he was miked, but he was in fine shape, and sang essentially the way he always has. I don't need to tell you how that is. His voice and style are maybe more familiar than your own.

And, last night, I received an email from Jane:

What an excellent time we had in Wiesbaden.By accident we had booked into the same hotel as Placido and Eugine Kohn, the conductor. With a room overlooking the concert venue. Having watched the rehearsal from our bedroom window, we waited for Placido to return to the hotel where we got great pics of him outside. As he departed into the hotel we followed, walking up the stairs to our room as Placido took the lift (shame we could not get in with him!).however, what a surprise to meet him on his landing. As he began his first aria he caught a tickle in his throat, possibly due to the night air, and so had to begin the aria once more. This happened on the next aria also, by now we were becoming nervous, wondering what would happen next. All went well for Placido but the orchestra was a bit rattled, and it caused Maestro Kohn to work hard to get them back together. From then on all got better and better with seven encores. On the morning of the concert my husband got a picture of Eugine Kohn in the reception area. The following morning he stopped by our table at breakfast to ask if we had enjoyed the concert. I told him it improved as it went on but finished well. I think he was taken aback by my honest comments, I asked him how Placido was and he said there was no problem with him he was fine. What a very nice guy he is, taking the trouble to come and speak to us. What a night, something to remember for a long time. We then moved on to opera by the lake in Bregenz where we saw a stunning performance of Tosca. The set was really something to see. The singing was also first class. Our next stop was Verona where we saw La Traviata at the arena. This was the most disappointing performance so far.The set was awful and the Italians thought so too and in their usual way vocalised their disapproval, however the singing was good. Here's hoping to get tickets for Cyrano in Milan next year.

Thank you for that Jane. It's always excellent to get first hand reports from real people. And a room overlooking the concert venue...! Hmm, I can just imagine my Other Half's reaction to that!

A trip to Rhineland

I went somewhere timeless yesterday. The banks of the Rhine. We saw Valhalla go up in flames. We were always conscious of Neibelheim being not far away.

It was the third day; the trip began three years ago with a Prologue on period instruments. The first day, two years ago was rather memorable. For me, the best live performance I have ever attended - and I have no expectations of ever attending any better (by my estimations, listening to the many recollections of everybody who claimed to be there, there were actually 20,000 people in the Albert Hall that night). I skived Day 2 last year. To endure 'The Boring One'* in the South Kensington Tin Hut when external temperatures were hitting 35 was more than this soul can endure.

The day didn't start well when I realised it was already 1.15pm. I had woken at 10.30, then Jimmy brought me a cup of tea. I must have drifted off to sleep twice. I thought the Prom started at three. I was already resigning myself to having to wait until the interval. Which is a bloody stupid attitude to take considering that it is two hours until the first interval. There are whole operas over in that time. I checked the BBC website to find out when the intervals occurred and was delighted to find that kick off was actually 4pm. And, in the end, I arrived with plenty of time to spare. I had eaten brunch but not prepared a packed lunch. Which is silly. At Covent Garden or the Colly, there are numerous cheap cheerful and fast places nearby ideal for Wagnerian long intervals. Not so the SKTH.

A whole day passes. It really is an extraordinary experience. Entering in the remnants of the heat of the day, picnicking in the early evening, emerging into the darkness of night. Time ceases to have any meaning. Meeting up with friends, some by pre-arrangement, some by chance. Meeting 'online' friends for the first time (hello Dominic!). Seeing acquaintances in the distance. Audit clients from the past, former political adversaries, faces that are familiar just from coincidences of attendance. For those that know who I mean, a certain Russian Soap Dodger was seen in a brown suit, not the quotidian navy.

At quarter past five I checked the time and thought, oh my god, it's still 45 minutes to go until I get a fag and a pee. I checked the time ten minutes later and it was two minutes to six! In Act II, I was thinking, this is just the beginning, I'm sure there's a longueur coming, then the music began to build to a climax, and I realised an hour had passed in the blinking of an eye. And Act III was over all too quickly.

On the whole, my neighbours were extremely well behaved. After the first interval, a couple took the empty seats in the box adjoining mine. I thought for a while they would be anti-social: she was obviously a Blackberry Addict, but she put it away once the music got going. To my right were a young couple. He was one of those who appears to be about 18 at first glance although closer scrutiny suggested he might have been a bit older. They were sipping wine, and seemed to have the bottles lined up in their box. When Siegfried's Funeral March began, he leaned over the parapet his arm out-stretched, wanting to conduct the orchestra. I can sympathise - it is utterly glorious music. And then, at the end, before the conductor had even lowered his baton, he was on his feet. His subsequent manner of applause suggested that he was well gone. Not actually obnoxious, just a bit obvious. Later I was in the loos and realised I was able to eavesdrop on a phone conversation in the next cubicle. It was a young woman calling her Dad to say the concert was over and she would be home in due course. She went onto say 'He's taken me out for a meal and bought me bottles of champagne. It's very nice but it's a bit...I'm not really that sort of person, I don't want everything to be a big deal, I'd be happy with a bag of chips..." When I emerged from the Ladies, I was not surprised to see the young drunk would-be back-seat conductor waiting outside!

* it's not really boring. Any opera that contains the Forging Scene, the Woodbird and that incredible Love Duet can't be boring, but relative to the other three it is, in my personal opinion, the least satisfying

Reports from Salzburg and more from Ravinia

Of course, Plácido can do no wrong, having actually turned up to perform in Salzburg, unlike certain other stars.

There are various reports (in German) of the zarzuela concert with Ana Maria Martinez:

Domingo eilt federnd aufs Podium, sät formvollendet Handküsse auf die bleichen Arme seiner schönen Partnerin Ana Maria Martinez mit der spitzen Stimme. Er selbst singt mit dem betörenden Schmelz eines jungen Mannes, die Phrasen subtil gestaltend mit der Weisheit eines alten, die Stimme sitzt allezeit perfekt im Fokus, sie ist glänzend und klug geführt. Offiziell ist Domingo sechsundsechzig Jahre alt, seit 1975 bei den Salzburger Festspielen, insgesamt neunundvierzig Auftritte hat er seither absolviert.

And he got a medal, too:

Und wie natives Olivenöl dazu Plácido Domingo! So viel Charme, Charisma, im entscheidenden Moment tenorales Strahlen und insgesamt eine Performance, die ihresgleichen sucht. Nach dem Konzert, als ihm, der seit 32 Jahren in Salzburg auftritt und am Sonntag mit dem gleichen Programm seinen 50. Festspieltermin absolvieren wird, das Goldene Ehrenzeichen des Landes überreicht wurde, hat Domingo genau diese unschätzbare Berufserfahrung angesprochen, die jene gar nicht sammeln können, die früh verheizt werden. Die Festspielpräsidentin sprach von einem "Fixstern an einem sternschnuppenreichen Himmel".

Caramba bei iberischen Gusto-Stückerln!. This mentions that the concert will be shown  on ORF next Saturday, and also draws attention to an ORF documentary on Monday night.

Gert mutters Operashare and whistles trying not to draw attention to herself...

And  he announces his intention to be playing football next year in Salzburg. I thought he was supposed to have given up.

A couple of bloggers were at Ravinia last weekend:

I am not able to express how I felt hearing a voice like this.  I felt incredibly amazed that I was in the same room hearing it and, much like plane take offs, the intensity took away my ability to breath and sense of reason.

On another note, Domingo seemed completely charming.  He looks rather fit these days, wore a great black suit and shirt.  He kissed the hands of the head violinist and soprano Ana Maria Martinez and frequently clapped Chicago Symphony Orchestra conductor James Conlon on the back.  I don't care if he is older than my mother, he's quite dreamy and I should have liked to receive a kiss on the hand and to have a bottle of wine with that man.

Dressed all in black, he was regal, charismatic and in fine voice. As my mom said "He's still got it!" and indeed, he has. At over 60 years of age, the man can still work a crowd and hit those beautiful, soaring high notes. I wish we had seen more of him

I'm not sure why both bloggers refer to Winterstürme as "Spring Song". It's Winterstürme. Presumably he sang it in German, so why give it an English name?

And he's due to give a concert in Guadalajara in September to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of first appearing there - as a pianist.

Reports from Ravinia and Springfield

Placido charms fans at Ravinia - Supertenor shares light classics, even 'Granada' ...first time I've seen Winterstürme described as a 'light classic'. And I'm not sure why "conducting" is placed in quote marks!

Domingo glorious at Ravinia benefit

Domingo looked and sounded like a million bucks...Domingo sang gloriously, with all the warmth, style, intelligence and taste that have made him, at 66, the supreme lyric-dramatic tenor of the late 20th Century, and, now, the early 21st. The voice rang with such clarion power and passion

and a report from Bart Simpson's voice

Do the Right Thing

More from the front line of summer insomnia in the wee sma' hours.

It was probably fifteen years ago I saw Spike Lee's seminal film, on a hot sultry night in Streatham. Few films have succeeded so well in evoking the tensions simmering on such a night, as the oppressive heat pushes people to the limit of their frayed nerves, to the extent that whenever such a night occurs, I am reminded of the film.

Last night was unexceptional. I was dozing rather than sleeping, only for my slumbers to be interrupted by a vehicle. The same vehicle that I had heard the previous night and had put down as a street-cleaning vehicle. I assume it to be that because apart from the noisy engine and the irritating beep-beep-beep which seems to be de rigeur for a reversing vehicle, there is also a sound similar to brushes whirring and whirring. But I find it unlikely that my back-street is being swept at any time, let alone at 3.30 am on weekend nights.

I am determined to find out what this vehicle is, so I look out the window, remembering to wrap myself in the curtain for reasons of decorum and modesty. I glance around the neighbourhood, surprised at how many houses have lights still on. I do not see the noisy vehicle but I wonder how many of those lights are for security (for the burglars; to ward off demons), indicative of people being up or just sheer laziness/forgetfulness. I notice more lights come on in neighbouring houses, presumably illumination by those woken by the vehicle, which might be a ghost ship for all I know. I glance again at a window that was already lit when I took up my position. Suddenly a naked lady comes into view. A glance in my direction and she backs away. I know which house she lives in, but I don't think I would recognise her in the street, not with her clothes on, anyway. And, anyway, earlier in the day she might have been able to see me lying in my back garden dressed as if I was on a beach (bloody sun, I have now gone blonde, at least at the ends...)

I find it intriguing and strange that there is so much activity at 3.30 am. My neighbourhood is characterised by small semi-detached cottages - some of them subdivided - with tiny gardens, so there are dozens of people with bedrooms visible from mine. I woke again at about 6.30, because Jimmy's alarm clock was sounding. As I lay in bed listening to the sounds of a neighbourhood waking up, realising the air was fresher (had their been rain?) I felt a sense of tranquillity. Despite the vehicle noise, engines revving and the beep beep beep of reversing, it seemed peaceful. I remembered another hot spell, in Streatham, when a performance sports car had its alarm (high pitched whistle and the horn sounding) malfunctioning so that it went off and carried on going for an over an hour on three consecutive hot sultry nights. In desperation I pulled on some clothes and went down to leave a hastily scribbled note, only to encounter two neighbours with the same idea and a further four previously left notes under the windscreen wipers. The two neighbours, strangers to me, dissuaded me from bending and breaking the windscreen wipers. I remembered the night of a bad-tempered 'Equalities' Forum in the Town Hall when half a dozen people predicted "There's going to be a riot..." (it's a Brixton thing). A couple of hours later the thunder came, postponing the riot to a later occasion (Christmas, actually, hmm...). I later discovered that that night saw a then record number of A&E admissions for breathing and chest-related disorders. No doubt that figure has been exceeded since.

I reflected that there seems to have been a downturn in the frequency of car alarms going off. Half an hour later, yeah, you've guessed it. At least three times.

I was thinking of going back to sleep when there was a knock on the door: a visitor popping in from Australia for a couple of days (Jimmy's religious nutter brother-in-law). I invited him in, served coffee etc. He stayed for an hour, on his absolutely best behaviour. He didn't mention religion, I didn't mention politics! But I think I shall go back to bed. Because I can!

Personalised Prime Ministerial bus stops

It is a little-known fact of British political life, and one of those "Official Secrets" that tourists are not supposed to know, but every Prime Minister is allowed his (or, indeed, her) personal bus stop on the corner of Parliament Street and Parliament Square.

We were fortunate enough at the beginning of June to witness the transition.

Tony's bus stop was there in its full glory.

When we passed, the creation of Gordon Brown's was work-in-progress

The Mayor, of course, gets two Tube Stations for his own personal use.

If I suddenly stop blogging, assume I have been marched off to the Tower for divulging this Top Secret information

Summer night's insomnia

I never used to suffer insomnia and it's something that really annoys me. Particularly because I can sometimes sleep the clock round so it makes no sense that on other occasions I can't sleep at all.

One of my problems is that I get restless leg syndrome all over my body so enter into a prolonged fidget. I had the bright idea at 3 am to have a shower and it worked marvellously on the all-encompassing Restless Leg Syndrome, but didn't put me to sleep. But at least I was able to lie peacefully in bed daydreaming in a restful way.

Summer nights beg the window to be open. As dawn approaches, it is a bit of a toss-up between open window and lying under the lightweight duvet or shutting the window and spurning bedclothes. The latter is stuffy, the former is noisy. It's unbelievable how much noise there is at that time of day. Vehicular traffic never stops. Never ever stops, utterly unrelenting. If it's the gentle hum of performance engine noise I can live with that, but even at three o'clock in the morning there seems to be a need to sound horns, and rev engines in poorly executed acceleration. Then there's always the tosser who thinks it makes him more manly if he removes the silencer from his motorbike. There was a vehicle that sounded like it might be a street cleaner. Aeroplanes were coming into land, I could hear the under-carriages being lowered.

From time to time the generator starts up and tuns for a couple of minutes. This generator is, I think, the only source of electricity for the hideous block of flats built at 30 Streatham Place (the ones that are already falling down...). Its weird because there is actually a new electricity sub-station right outside my door, but still the generator chugs away every hour or so, echoing round the neighbourhood.

At one stage I heard a whistle. It sounded exactly like the police whistles that sound at the junction near work when a VVIP convoy is imminent (Jimmy does not believe me that the police use whistles for the conveying of extremely senior ministers, Royalty and visiting Foreign Heads of State/Government) so for a moment I indulged a thought that someone VVIP was approaching the Brixton Hill/South Circular junction in the dead of night (perhaps after COBRA??).

At half four was the sound of voices. I thought that was a splendid idea. If you are going to have a domestic, why not have it in the street at 4.30 am on a Sunday morning, especially on the first weekend of the year which has necessitated windows being open. All the insomniacs will hear you, and if you're very lucky you might wake up some folks who had previously been sleeping! The sound of Domestic was silenced by sirens rushing along Brixton Hill.

I decided that I was developing a stye; interestingly, the last time I got one was during the last foot-and-mouth crisis. But it seems to have subsided now. Perhaps the foot-and-mouth is a localised problem.

Still, there was no sound of Tescos delivery. That's nice. They generally deliver at about 5.30 am. The vehicles reverse and a loud amplified voice shatters the peace with an announcement "This vehicle is reversing, stand back this vehicle is reversing" and then they start throwing metal things around and shouting to each other. Funny, I thought that one of the reassurances at the Planning Application Stage was that there would be no deliveries out of hours... Lying greedy bastards.

Eventually I got to sleep and slept until 1 pm. Bugger. That'll do marvels for my sleep pattern this week...