If I were Gordon Brown, which obviously I'm not, because if I were Gordon Brown I wouldn't be blogging my thoughts about whether or not to call a snap general election this autumn, but I were Gordon Brown I wouldn't call a General Election.
It is only two and a half years since the last General Election, and although Parliaments rarely last their full five terms - the 1992-97 Parliament went almost to the limit, but that was Major's desperation at staring humiliating defeat in the face - there is a general perception that four years is about right. It was necessary for Wilson to call quick elections in 1966 and 1974 in order to increase a slim majority and turn a minority government into a majority, respectively. The current Parliamentary majority is big.
The Tories tried to make it out as a constitutional necessity that there be an Election after Brown took over, which is total rot, and to do so would undermine Parliamentary Democracy - we vote for a Local Representative, often/usually on the basis of Party label and we expect the Leader of the biggest party to form a government, as First Among Equals. We do not vote directly for the Head of Government.
I have a perception that Elections tend to bore people. Not always, especially not when the result is in doubt, but I do strongly fell that people in general do not care for unnecessary elections.
Autumn Elections are not good news. They are not good news for activists - I do not feel comfortable leafleting in the dark, or the cold, rainy, windy days that are typical of later October and November. Fewer people will open their doors when canvassed. And people are less likely to leave their warm hearths to go to a Polling Station on a dark autumn night than in May or June. There has only been one Autumn General Election in my life-time, that of 74 which was necessitated by political deadlock. It followed an equally unsuitable February one when Ted Heath - Who Rules Britain? and the electorate said "Not you mate!".
I can see the attraction for going early, with opinion polls looking good, the "Brown Bounce" matching the "Cameron Decline". But if I were Gordon Brown - which I'm not - I would not be able to sleep with fear that I blow it and become the shortest serving PM in history, except for George Canning who died in office.
There is always the fear of - like Jim Callaghan - leaving it too late. All the experts predict an economic downturn in the next couple of years. And even if the reasons for economic changes are clearly to do with global factors outside the control of any one particular government, the electorate tend to hold the Government responsible, which I don't regard as a bad thing in itself.
None of the know-it-all pundits in the papers I have read have mentioned the Olympics. An autumn 2007 election would lead (probably) to a Spring/Summer 2012 Election. If I were Gordon Brown, which I am not, I would have some trepidation at holding an election at a time when, probably, all the infrastructure projects will be struggling to complete on time, way above budget, and the criticisms of the whole endeavour will be at their shrillest and loudest. A successful Olympiad will create an Election-winning Feel Good Factor - perhaps - but I wouldn't wish to risk holding out until the last minute in order to reap the Olympic benefits.
But Gordon Brown hasn't asked my advice, even though he knows where to find me should he want it! And if he does call a snap Autumn election, I shall be blogging "Vote Labour". But I don't know who will be the Labour candidate where I live (sadly, our wonderful MP since 1992, Keith Hill, will be standing down after years of tireless service to the constituency of Streatham including Brixton Hill, Clapham Park and parts of Balham)
I was pretty busy yesterday. I dumped my photos to be printed, then I walked along to the pub. There were people waiting outside, for the doors were shut, despite it being gone half eleven. I rang the bell and Harold - landlord came to the door. He shooed the hoping customers away and let me in. Until one o'clock, I was washing new, lined glasses and loading the old ones into the boxes, then I went downstairs to help colleagues in the Cellar Bar. There were new pumps and a new till. The pumps were brilliant - we barely spilled a drop, I even managed to pull decent pints of Toby on a consistent basis. The tills are great too. they're a bit slow at the moment while we dither around the keyboard, but I'm sure they're going to be a lot quicker when we get used to them.
I was supposed to be on again at eight o'clock, so I arrived soon after half past seven, surprised to see the doors shut! So I rang the doorbell, and P. answered the door. "Been washing glasses?" I asked cheerfully.
"Are you working?" she asked curiously. she had spent the last two hours reading a paper, and brewing up for the beer pump fitting. P2 and Mike arrived, so we played I-Spy. We managed to open at about eight o'clock, and things didn't go too badly.
I made a vow to play and blog all my records by the time I reach forty. Frankly I don't believe I am going to achieve this challenging target but I'm not going to give up just because I am staring failure in the face. Sadly, this means that I really have to play all items in my record collection, and reveal to the world that I actually spent money on garbage.
Blur. There was a week once when the marketing brain-washers devised a rivalry between Blur and Oasis. Sadly, that was for Oasis's third album which was dire. But there again, Blur's Parklife is perhaps even more dire. The songs are not songs. The vocals are obnoxiously annoying. The best thing that can be said about this album is that it makes Oasis's third album look reasonable, and I give thanks for Pulp, who are just a Different Class (even though I tend to think of their lead singer as Jarvis Tosser).
Another in my occasional alphabetical reviews of DVDs etc.
Written by Umberto Giordano who also wrote Andrea Chenier, I started this exercise thinking that Fedora is a worthy but forgettable barely second-rate work. Prior to last weekend, I had heard it once live, at Opera Holland Park and once when I first acquired the DVD. Click image for details
There is another commercial version available which I do not currently own but I will...!
In addition I have a 'private' recording from Liceu Barcelona from 1988 with Renata Scotto as Fedora, which is basically the same production as the New York Met, but with different costumes and the sets refurbished. This has been converted to DVD from an obviously well-played VHS, and my gratitude to the person who did this is unbounded; however, commercial DVDs are better quality.
On the whole my comments are about the New York version, except where indicated. It would be nice to have a commercial DVD of the Barcelona one because I think Plácido is in better voice and hunkier, although I wouldn't exactly say he is unlikeable in the New York one!
Basically, "Blondie's Greatest Hits and lots of mediocre fillers"
Sorry, but that is a fact. I have liked Blondie for almost thirty years now, and I think they are as ace as when I first encountered them in Junior 3. Amusingly, I put this CD on 'Random' and the first track that came on was Denis, which I think was the first song of theirs that I was aware of.
Thirty years on, their sound is as fresh as it was then. We won't see their likes again. Although, checking their site, Blondie and Deborah Harry are still touring. I really ought to catch them sometime. She was no spring chicken when they burst on the UK pop scene way back when, and I think she is still as cool now as she was then. I suspect that as a pre-teen I had a bit of a girlie-crush on her. I remember when she appeared on programmes such as Swap Shop she came over as pleasant and down-to-earth, a great contrast with the 'attitude' in the songs. Such a shame, then, that the hagiography in the CD liner notes is so full of pretentious tosh.
In my view, Debbie Harry is a cultural icon, beyond famous. And yet, I wouldn't recognise her if I saw her in the street. I firmly believe that I am far from alone in this. I suppose it is a symptom of my boredom at the media-driven cult of celebrity. I would far rather read about Debbie than many of the so-called, plastic, transitory so-called 'celebrities' (most of whom won't endure 30 years - or longer, if you include the pre-commercial success era) that dominate the mass media. although, on the other hand, I wouldn't want to think that I was invading the privacy of someone who has always seemed to handle the fame well
If the truth be told, I think a double CD of 47 tracks is overkill. Inevitably, some of the songs are better than others, and, on the whole, the 'singles' are better than the non-singles. That having been said, I could have sat down and ranked my preferences for Blondie singles on the basis of how much I liked them when they were charting, but that would not necessarily accord with my current views. For example, I wasn't that keen on Dreaming back then, but listening to it today, I am struck by the subtle complexities of the harmonies.
I have never really accepted the label of 'Punk' as applied to Blondie. For example, Sunday Girl is fundamentally poppy. But not banal pop. Pop with a hard edge to the music, and even though the melody, lyrics and, at times, her voice, are really quite girly, at other times it is as hard as steel. By chance, and unconnected to me alphabetically playing my CD collection, this song came on my mp3 player and suddenly I was bopping merrily down Millbank and Horseferry Road, a big smile on my face.
Heart of Glass is obviously a classic pop song. As soon as it begins I want to get on the dance floor. This is the sort of incessant dance beat I like, created by humans and in sympathy with human heartbeat and aspiration. And a nice tune. I also expect that the words are good, too. Although I have to admit I do play 'misheard lyrics' a lot with Blondie. My early exposure to them was over Medium Wave radio - a small batter operated transistor - which does not aid clarity - and even though I am playing a CD on a reasonably good hi-fi set up, and the internet gives me access to the real lyrics, I want to carry on mishearing 'you're teeth are in the desert'.
If my feelings about Debbie had been anything stronger than 'Girlie Crush', I think In the Flesh would have got me going. It's slinky and sensual, tantalising close to steamy and sexual.
Picture This is wonderful! The rapidly descending scales on the guitar, the raucous middle-section. The words are wonderful when sung by a woman - they'd be freaky if sung by a man. And there is something specific and indescribable in the overall tone which is immensely evocative to me of a very particular time and place. Hanging on the Telephone is wild and fun.
I think I appreciate Atomic much more than I did back then. It is really quite a sophisticated piece of music, notwithstanding the steady disco beat. So many different elements, such as the repeating almost strident guitar riff combined with a legato vocal line. As the song progresses it gets more intimate and sensual. I can imagine myself shimmering away on an empty dance floor in a crowded venue wrapped up in my own physicality oblivious to the strangers who may or may not be watching. Of course, in RL, I wouldn't. A change of key intensifies the progress to the almost-erotic. I wonder how it would sound without the passé disco beat.
I also find Call Me to be deeply sensual.
The Tide is High is truly lovely. There is something going on in it,something to do with the key, I think, which gives it an air of melancholy which provides a perfect ironic contrast with the optimistic but ultimately hopeless lyrics.
If i was a total music anorak, I suspect what I ought to do is compile my own 'highlights' version of this album, culling about half the content, the fillers, and I would then have a supremely excellent album of timeless songs. But I am not a music anorak. And, if necessary, I have a fast forward button
The first question to answer is 'why?'. Simply because I won free tickets in a competition. A competition I found about in one of my Katherine Jenkins Google Alerts. I have recently developed a habit of entering competitions; one never knows what might come up! And, naturally, I invited Mrs Senzatalento to come along with me.
I know it is important to do one's homework before attending any performance and this was no exception. I was excited to read about his dream to sing Otello at the Royal Opera House and I certainly listened to the excerpt of him singing the seminal A-ha work, Hunting High and Low. And, you know, I'm a sucker for tenors who are easy on the eye. I had previously heard him on the TV singing something or other prior to the West Ham - Chelsea match at the end of last season. Like West Ham, he is Icelandic.
The concert was billed as Gardar Cortes Plus Special Guests. Naturally, over dinner we speculated as to the identity of the Special Guests and hoped and hoped that perhaps La Warbling Barbie would be there. We were desperately disappointed, but were delighted at the opportunity to hear for the first time Opera star Sigrún Hjálmtrsdóttir aka Diddú, best known as lead singer of pop group Spilverk Jóanna and also star of the Icelandic Opera.
The conductor was Gardar Cortes Senior. The Programme is below the fold (GC indicating our tenor, D our soprano, and O, The National Symphony Orchestra)
Every piece was sung with microphones. I can see the purpose of using microphones for the pop numbers, but anybody who needs microphones for operatic arias and duets at the Barbican really shouldn't be on the stage there. I have been to a chamber concert where the Balcony was closed; considering that the hall was barely half full, perhaps that would have been wise this evening.
The less said about the soprano the better. Sometimes, if one can't say anything good, it's probably best to say nothing at all. My usual get-out for being critical is that I have paid my money, that isn't even the case here. Bear in mind that this was not a promoted by Barbican concert, but seems to have been a private hiring and promotion; nevertheless it makes it possible to add "Appeared at London's Barbican" to the résumé.
Bluntly, she was unremittingly bad. Frequently, I kept reminding myself that it takes guts to stand up there and belt (I couldn't do it). I kept reminding myself that it takes a certain basic level of skill to learn the words and the tune and perform them simultaneously, with a reasonable degree of accuracy. But frankly, that it isn't enough. Countless millions of amateurs do that; if it's at your local church or a birthday party you are gracious in your applause. But one has higher standards in one of the world's leading concert venues. Perhaps if she had been less ambitious and stuck to simple songs, she might have been more bearable. But why stick to simple songs when you can slaughter Casta Diva?
Casta Diva is an exemplar of bel canto ie 'beautiful singing'. This wasn't even Can Belto, more like Can't Bellow. No understanding of the long phrasing and the overall arch of the piece. No grasp of legato. The unaccompanied section was disastrous, wildly off pitch, real car-crash singing. At no time did she give the impression of understanding the slightest bit about what she was singing, nor understanding the composer's intent, or the music. Dynamics varied between ff and fff. One phrase demonstrated an ability to diminuendo and crescendo - obviously delivered as a 'showstopper'. Ugh.
Each aria was delivered as if learnt mechanically bar-by-bar and as Mrs Senzatalento commented, even the gestures were delivered as if they had been taught to her phrase by phrase. I think she would be booed off stage if ever accidentally engaged by any of England's third tier opera companies. I resigned myself to a combination of cringing and hysterical silent giggling.
In contrast Cortes was positively genius. Nevertheless, I did find myself pining to be at an Andrea Bocelli concert! Undoubtedly an extremely good-looking man. However, if one is to build a career on good looks, it's best to go into modelling. Or, if that career is crooning, possibly, some on-stage charisma might not come amiss. He stood there in exactly the same position for every song or aria. Barely moving, unwilling or unable to engage with the audience, unable to reach out beyond the stage.
On the plus side, it was clear that he can sing in tune, and in there is a voice of some quality, without wobble, bleat or beat. Someone told me he was 27 years old, and I thought 'promising provincial'. However, I read that he is 33. Although I recognise that singers develop at different speeds, I can't help feeling that by age he should be beyond 'promising'. I will also say that his performance of 'Mattinata' was something special, of which I have no criticism whatsoever.
As for the rest, I found it just a bit boring. Apparently he is releasing Hunting High and Low as a single, and I really can't understand why. Admittedly, I was never the world's greatest A-ha fan, but it really is an insipid song. And he adds nothing to it, and his crooning is considerably less interesting than Morten Harket's. Granada was a mess: I don't know why so many singers have a desire to sing this, usually badly. Just because top tenors such as Domingo, Carreras, Florez make it sound simple doesn't mean that it is. As for Nessun Dorma, the orchestra gave it full welly and demonstrated Puccini's genius in manipulating an audience with his rousing orchestration building to a climatical climax.
Overall, his performance was generic, not unpleasant. And he had a better range of volumes (also including f) than his soprano. Shame that he couldn't manage a subtle mf nor any colouring. And it seemed that all the singing was coming entirely from the throat, without any use of diaphragm. The man is clearly inherently musical, and will doubtlessly sell endless CDs on account of his indisputable good looks (no, I can't understand that one either). But with such a proliferation of excellent lyrical tenors as we have currently, he's competing in a crowded field with an inadequate arsenal. I suspect he would not be unwelcome at a third tier opera company, although it's difficult to tell with the mikes, which I think tended to hide the fact that there might just be a modicum of beauty in the natural voice.
Almost as entertaining, perhaps more so, was the audience. A great number were Icelandic, and some more appeared to be members of the Classic ForMorons cult, and they were unremarkable, ordinary people wanting to enjoy themselves, and who can argue with that desire.
But there were all sorts of people who I gathered were connected with the launch of the single. I was not sure whether they were with the record company or marketing company, or whether they were just liggers unable to make it onto a star guest list. We had an amusing conversation at the interval with two women, who thought the first half 'incredible'. One of them had heard Pavarotti sing Barber of Seville at the Met seven or eight years ago, which I considered literally 'incredible'. Mrs S. in all sweet innocence asked whether they thought he was as good as Pavarotti. They were adamant that Cortes will 'grow into his voice'. At the end of the concert, we encountered them again, but they were incoherent with the effects of whichever controlled substance they were taking. There was evidence of much substance abuse, especially with the hysterical giggling in the Ladies loo. I can't see the purpose of combining drugs and music. How can you possibly experience the psychotropic effect of music when the mind and sensation are already gone?
We had some fun in the basement bar, where we paused to sip water and ended up watching the ghastly fashion show of these tarts and hags. Maybe they weren't tarts, technically, but the Primark posh frocks teamed with shoes that someone had told them were fashionable (five inch heels). The cheap bleach jobs, the inappropriate mixing of black dresses with dirty off-white shoes, the unfortunate exposure of unsightly leg-flesh with fake-tan, the collagen lips, the overdone make-up, the vacant expressions, haunted soulless eyes and embodiment of slow silent misery. Of course, I got the up-and-down dismissive looks, which amuse me, because I am supremely confident of and relaxed in my body and feel no need to wear a uniform and mask to boost my self-esteem.
We were quietly watching the parade when some woman with a clipboard approached us and spoke to Mrs Senzatalento, wondering if we had won tickets in a competition. Before we knew it we were being ushered to a backstage area to meet Gardar Cortes and be filmed (perhaps we are now stars of Icelandic TV). I felt very awkward because I do not like to meet performers and then be dismissive or critical of their performance. I think it's rude (obviously, I don't mean occasions when I meet a favourite after a performance I have felt was less than their very best). We had our couple of minutes with him. I stuck to the truth, that I enjoyed the concert and thanked him. In that brief time he gave a clear impression of being pleasant, well-mannered and courteous, although, again, I noticed a distinct absence of charisma. And he autographed my programme. We didn't have our cameras, although I did take a photo of him and Mrs S with her phone.
Update: It seems that unbeknownst to us, in the first half we were sitting very close to John the Moderator of the Katherine Jenkins Bulletin Board (we descended to the three-quarters empty circle for the second half) who took some rather splendid pictures
Well, what can I say. How can I sum up today? I think that I wrote yesterday that I was planning to go to the Cliff. And, go to the Cliff I did. Mind you, I took a bit of time getting there. I got off the Buzy Bee in Ashton Village to change my money at the Bank. I caught another one and caught the train at Sale Station. Because I was going the The Cliff, I got off at Old Trafford.
I caught the 54 round through Ordsall and Pendleton, that oh so familiar route, and getting off on Cromwell Road Bridge. I toddled down Lower Broughton Road, with that oh so familiar feeling of excitement mixed with nerves, plus the feeling that I'm completely daft, and it's about time I grew out of it, yet knowing that the place has so much magnetism that it will be an awful long time before I do grow out of it.
When I got there I had a good look wound: it didn't take long to realise that the lads might well be at Littleton Road. I checked with Billy W, he said yes they were; they'd be back at about twelve. that wasn't long to go, so I sat on the wall and waited, and sure enough, soon they arrived, all of them in about five cars. when I first see them, I just feast my eyes and calm my nerves. I was able to say hello to Gary Walsh, but decided to leave the rest until they came out. One young lad having been standing by the door went running over to his mates exclaiming "I've spoken to Jesper Olsen." I joined the crowd outside the door. Brian McClair was the first player out. He seemed to get away very quickly - I do hope it's because he had another engagement rather than the fact that he's just eager to get away. He looked very delicious and trendy - his shoes were the give-away: lovely black suede nicely pointed shoes, and snow-washed jeans. He seemed quiet, but he might have been in a hurry, or he might be unused to the Cliff ritual. I'll give him until Christmas until I judge him.
Paul McGrath was the next one out. He is so lovely he is. he is just absolutely really friendly and whenever he sees me, he always asks me how I am. He is definitely, as well as being the best player at Manchester United, the most friendly, and judging from what I've gathered on brief meetings, the Manchester United player with the most pleasant personality.
I can't remember the order in which the lads came out after that, so I will go through them in alphabetical order I've omitted a few players who were only really fringe players and never properly made it
Arthur Albiston came out very early and didn't seem prepared to hang around. Much as I admire Arthur as a player and much as I respect the fact that he's been at United half his life. I wonder why he always seems so irritated at the fans. I wonder if he's always been like that , or has fifteen years of seeing fans, undoubtedly every day, rather made him sick of us all.
Viv Anderson didn't seem keen on hanging around either, in fact he was rushing out so quickly that I had to take a few rapid steps back to take his photograph.
Clayton Blackmore came out very late, indeed it was after two o'clock - I waited that long especially for him. He was almost in his car by the time I grabbed him. I can't for the life of me remember what he was wearing, but he looked absolutely gorgeous, really tanned. I managed to get a kiss out of him.
I missed Peter Davenport because I was too busy with Brian McClair. I'm not sure if I'm annoyed or not. Peter, I have found, is a really good laugh, but perhaps if he was in a hurry he might not have had time for the jokes.
Mike Duxbury is not the most sweet-tempered person, but I managed to get a photo. To be honest, I can't think of anything to say to him, cos he's a boring sod.
Colin Gibson didn't appear to be there, mind you I saw him last week in Altrincham. I had just come out of M&S wearing my Reds on Tour t-shirt when I saw a man smiling at me. I looked a bit closer - it was Colin Gibson. that was the second time I've seen him in almost the same spot - when I was in Upper Sixth I once saw him going into Mothercare with wife and children.
Billy Garton came out at the same time as Clayton. I chased him to his car, a red Cabriolet, because I thought he was going to drive off before I could grab him. I took his photo.
Graeme Hogg was there, looking absolutely lovely. He's not perfectly good looking, in the way that Clayt is, but he's highly attractive. He was looking very tanned, and as (nearly) always he was dressed smartly yet casually. He had a deep turquoise top tucked into his jeans. He always dresses in a way that makes me think he is pernickity I told him he had better not be going to City because I know a lot of people would be upset. He seemed very dismissive of that; then somebody asked him whether it was true he had failed a medical for City. He said it was crap. To be honest, I think out of all the United players, he's the one I'd most like to get to know - I get a feeling that he's quite deep.
Kevin Moran is a nice bloke, the oldest player at the club. I think if I could think of anything to say I could have a really decent chat with him, but I couldn't think of anything to say to him. Besides that, he came out reasonably early, when there were still quite a lot of people about, so I couldn't really detain him to talk about nothing.
Remi Moses came out pretty late. I got quite a lot of words out of him. I said it was great to see him back in the team; he said it was about time too. I asked him how it was going; he said it was going great. Although he said a fair amount, it was still more than easy to see that he's still fundamentally very shy. Mind you, it's nice to see such a skilled player who's far from being big-headed.
Jesper Olsen seems to be getting more accustomed to the habits of The Cliff. His first season he was dreadful - I called him Elusive Olsen, but now, he's prepared to walk a few yards into the group of assembled fans and even exchanged a few words.
Bryan Robson came out pretty late. Not as late as Clayt, but still late. Prior to him emerging from the building, he had walked up and down the stairs a few times in just his shirt and underpants. Well, me and these girls, Michelle, five days older than me, and her fourteen year old sister Debbie from Benchill and Debbie's friend Lindsey from Brooklands, well we were going wild just seeing him. Then he came out, and he was in a really good mood. Debbie asked him to sign his autograph once to Debbie and once to nobody. So he said, "That's a funny name" really witty like. As I say, he just seemed to be in a good mood; he waved to us as he left, mind you, there was only me and these three girls, plus one bloke and one lad.
Gordon Strachan only paused long enough for me to take a photo. Shame really, because he's a nice bloke. Perhaps he was in a hurry. He can be a good laugh, too. I tell you he's one of the best buys that Ron Atkinson made - three years ago I predicted he'll be one of the favourites of the fans - and that was after only one game. After three years, I don't argue with that - he's an ace player.
I had a bit of a chat with Gary Walsh. He seems a good sight more confident than when I last met him. I was telling him that he was the first Manchester United player to be younger than me, and he was trying to make out he was twenty one going on twenty two. He's got a really pleasant. He's bloody tall - I had to crane my neck to talk to him. Mind you he's only 6'1½" according tot he Handbook - perhaps he seemed taller because he was in footy boots.
Norman Whiteside was obviously in a silly mood, although he didn't seem to want to linger. However, I asked him if I could take a photo and he pulled a really silly smile, more of a grin really. What I noticed both this time and the two times I was there at Easter that Norm no longer seems to mind the . When I went in 84/5 he seemed to object to people adoring him, but he's grown up a bit since then.
All in all it was a very good day. I had a really exciting and enjoyable.
I returned to Old Trafford and caught a train into town. I bought a dressing gown from M&S. If it lasts as long as my old one, I will be well pleased it lasted until 1995, when I decided to replace it on moving house
White Rabbit has kindly drawn my attention to this picture
I have this feeling there is something missing, but I can't quite work out what...
This episode airs this Sunday in the USA.
The Simpsons Archive is quite helpful in identifying when various episodes are shown in various other countries, for example the UK listing. The Episode number to search for is: JABF18
I've got a day off tomorrow! It will be my first day off for a fortnight, and if I wake up in time I am going to go to The Cliff. Mind you, knowing me, I probably won't, or knowing my luck, if I do go, They won't be there.
I'm well made up in some ways. I got a pay slip on Thursday, for my first week's work, and my statement this morning (my quarterly statement was sent here!) confirmed that it had indeed gone in. This week I will receive the large amount from the week that I worked loads.
I'm also made up in another way. C laid me off on Friday. While I've enjoyed working for her, and I think I've definitely learnt a lot, I don't feel bitter that I've finished. In fact, the three times I went last week, I didn't look forward to it, and couldn't wait for the three hours to finish. I don't like the idea of getting up so early in the morning - I think the pub job means that ideally my body clock wants to follow its own pattern, which doesn't include getting out of bed at half past eight. financially speaking, I might miss the money from cleaning, but if it means that I can do more at the pub, and I do it better, I can't complain.
Because I got paid on Thursday, I did a bit of shopping in Altrincham on Friday. I bought a denim jacket from Western Jeans. It only cost £20. At that price I couldn't resist it - and it's dead trendy. I had been looking for a black one, this one is grey - it will go better with my blue jeans than a black one would (bizarrely, Jimmy recently discovered this jacket at the back of the cupboard-under-the stairs. It happens to have male buttons, and it fits him, so it's now his!).
The only thing that's annoyed me since I last wrote this was in regards to footy. Firstly, despite trying to swap with everyone I could think of, I had to work Saturday lunchtime, which of course meant I couldn't go to Old Trafford in the afternoon. And then to add insult to injury, I get home to learn that the wallies were drawing two-two with Newcastle, and that was the final score. Yes, Newcastle United, the team we really slaughter at home usually. Mirandinha scored for Newcastle, and needless to say, grabbed all the headlines, while really, it should have been Brian McClair - apparently he had three good chances, and although he DID score, it was only from the spot (Jesper Olsen had scored the first).
I worked again in the evening, it was alright really, I enjoyed it, and I have to admit, there is more to life than Manchester United. Mind you it still hurts to have missed that game, but to make sure I don't miss the Spurs game, I've booked that Saturday lunchtime off - and I'm DETERMINED to go.
Sunday was alright. The lunchtime session is a nice one, just long enough and busy enough. then the evening was good. I caught the bus into Altrincham, and the train to Sale. It was a Pacer, the Chester trains are always Pacers on Sundays. Having done that, I was able to avoid going to Church, which was great.
The evening session was good fun. Ken the bloke from Tesco was desperately trying to get me to go out with him. Roth, who I don't like - I find him one of the most vulgar men I have ever met - was most offended that I refused to go out with him. Well, if there's one thing I do retain, it's my dignity! However, other men, well. there I was just doing my work, behind the bar, as one does, when I noticed C - H&J's son - I've noticed him before; probably the most I've noticed him for prior to last night is the fact that he is the father of the twelve week old baby. But I just l looked at him last night, and thought. Wow, that guy oozes sex appeal. Nothing I couldn't handle, indeed he disappeared after half an hour. Nothing to lose sleep about. Indeed today he was in the bar when we were clearing away and I was conscious of the fact that he'd turned me on last night rather than the fact that he is completely and utterly sexy.
Until Die Walküre, that is. Rheingold, of course, precedes that, and believe you me, I am excited about Rheingold, but I am shaking with nerves at my excitement for Die Walküre.
I don't know how this is quite going to work, but I intend doing a sort of count-down to The Ring. Probably not every day, but intermittently. I suppose I could do serious study of the scores and the influencing mythology, but, it's not really my style.
So far, I have my horned helmet and breastplate lined up ready to be polished, my rams fed and waiting to pull my chariot. My sword is embedded in my ash tree in my kitchen and as we write, I am simultaneously gouging out my eye in return for ruling the world.
It's so exciting!!!!!!!
But you know, hero worship is a double-edged sword, although, hopefully, not by the name of Nothung.
Last week, oh I should have blogged this, bad me, I fired up my trusty laptop and tuned into the internet which was broadcasting a tribute concert to the late Beverly Sills live from the Lincoln Center in New York's downtown Manhattan - Photojournal
Included in the programme was Plácido singing Ombra mai fu. I suddenly realised that I hate hearing him sing live on the radio or internet. Not live in person of course, but live on the internet, because I get a) so nervous and b) so critical.
(You know how it is with some obsessed fangirls - and boys - that they honestly truly believe that their idol is utterly perfect and completely beyond criticism. I'm not like that, I can't be like that - actually I think it diminishes credibility. For me it's almost like - I've earned the right to criticise - you may disagree, and that's okay, it's just the way I kind of feel)
So there I am listening to him singing Ombra mai fu and thinking, hmm, I'm not sure about that note there, gosh, he's got a deep voice, blimey that's a high note, well above a High C. At the end I was thinking, yeah,that was nice, I've heard him better. You know, that's me being critical.
And then all over the internet is praise - one commentator wrote "...he also floated the prettiest little high F you've ever heard..." High F? That high. And, like, ordinary people who attended, not known as fans of his, were fulsome in praise.
In preparation for my mounting excitement five weeks today, I bring you a nice YouTube I stumbled upon earlier, presumably from the concert at the Alamo a few weeks ago. Paloma Querida.
Nothing to do with Wagner, of course, but what the heck...Just a shame it gets truncated prematurely.
The review is not a pleasant read, heaven only knows what the book is like.
I find it disappointing when posthumously biographies are written to reveal that a genius is a terribly flawed human being. I think we all know that no one is perfect, and that having superhuman skills is not equivalent to being a super human. I'm not much of a ballet fan, and I have no regrets at not having seen Nureyev live. From I see on the TV he was something special, and I don't think an exposé of his personality and of his private life can change my feelings about his dancing.
And yet, simply in writing this blog post, in reading the review, I am proving my insatiable thirst for salacious gossip. the more scandalous the behaviour, the more interesting the read.
I can understand - and to some extent sympathise - the concern over murderous driving. But a reaction to a few recent headlines doesn't really disguise the fact that thousands of people die every year at the hands of dangerous drivers of all ages.
Banning teenagers (which I suspect would translate to under-21s) from carrying passengers after dark will destroy any attempts to popularise 'designated drivers', will place a lot more teenagers at risk from attacks from predators and violent passers-by. Also, nightfall comes very early at some times of years, so presumably this will rule out car-pools to and from work, school and college, nannies/au pairs/older siblings and young parents on the school run, and be against the interests of teenagers with constructive evening activities such as drama, sport, church etc.
I wonder if the efforts of the police would be better spent enforcing a ban on all teenagers or targeting any drivers that show any signs of disregard for other road users - thunderous cRap music, lack of indicators when turning, children without seat belts (let alone booster seats). I understand that the mobile phone ban is honoured more in the breech than the observance.
Of course it is a problem, but no problem has ever been solved by knee-jerk reactions.
A recently acquired CD but one which can safely be said to be the oldest in my collection, recorded as it was in 1903 -04. Tamangno died in 1905, aged only 54.
It really is painful to listen to. This is one of those posts where I am going to state strong opinions and not only tolerate but welcome open dissent, because it is clearly largely a matter of taste, and there is no disputing, etc,
I see very little point in listening to these ancient recordings. There is some historic value in hearing, for example, Otello from the singer who created the role - although not At Verdi's choice. But this is somewhat diminished by the knowledge that Verdi never composed for a tinny piano and scratchiness in Niun mi tema. This is even worse in Di quella pira, where the piano sounds more like an end-of-the-pier hurdy gurdy.
This CD came cheap and this is only my second hearing of it. I cannot play it with Jimmy in the house. Not that that really matters, because I doubt that I shall play it again for years. It perhaps has some value as a dinner party conversation piece, but I no longer host dinner parties, and when I used to do so, conversation degenerated rapidly with inebriation.
I fully recognise that there is some intellectual value in listening to really old recordings such as this, and one can't really call oneself a tenor nut without a passing interest in the legacy of singers such as Tamagno and Caruso. It is said that it takes some time to get past the sonics on these early experimental discs, but I can assure anyone who says that I had plenty of practice in listening to scratchy 78s as a small child, to an extent that could have put me off tenors for life. When I listen to music, I want to hear the best, and the quality of recording is quite a significant factor in that (up to a point). I can't relax to this, I can't really appreciate the music, partly because of the absence of orchestra. Many times his voice sounds pinched, screechy and very wobbly. I have no way of knowing whether this was because this was the extent to which his voice had deteriorated by this stage in his career, or because of what is lost/distorted in the recording process.
I do not feel that I learn anything from listening to these, certainly not as much as I learn by reading a short biography of him. In 1902 Caruso received £100 for his first ten recordings. In 1903 Tamagno received a cash advance of £2000, plus four shillings on every record sold.
I do feel there is a macho search for purity in terms of historic recordings. Almost as if people prove their credentials by praising the performances with the worst sonics. People who prefer a live performance with an UHER mike held under a coat way back from the stage to a studio recording because it's more 'real'. People who record anything recorded digitally, or in stereo, as being false. Those who disdain anything that wasn't originally issued on cylinders. Indeed I have read a tongue-in-cheek comment that the best singers are those that never lowered themselves to be recorded, especially those who were wise enough to die before the birth of the Gramophone.
I actually have to cleanse my ears after listening to this by listening to some Verdi tenor arias beautifully and gloriously sung by a current singer and recorded on late(ish!) 20th century equipment in full DDD mode. Surely the way that Verdi would have wanted!
We went to a restaurant to celebrate my sister's 18th birthday, restaurant visits being rarities indeed. The service was excellent ie 9/10 although I'm no expert.
I played football with (my brother - then aged seven). We were drawing 6-6 but he handled outside the area, so I sent him off, but he showed dissent, so I booked him.
I went to the bus stop. I was just standing there, bored out of me mind, when this car stopped dead near me (because of the traffic queue). Imagine my surprise when I should see Gary Bailey
I went to bed with Dave Ward (A Piccadilly Radio disc-jockey). On the Flashline, there was a call from Walton Road "Susan and Jackie, Lisa, and Terry spotted flashing from Frances" Believe me, you had to be there...
I went to the doctors and sat in the waiting room for 20 minutes, so I read a Cosmopolitan Magazine. It had a feature on morning sex, which was quite interesting.
Next was French with Mrs K. she nattered on in French, and to be honest, I did not understand much.
At lunch I messed around with (friends). Sarah. also hung around, looking quite disapproving (footnote added two years later 'Not really like our Sarah!' - who turned out eventually to be a really good laugh)
In the double English lesson we read Wuthering Heights. I was the very first reader - by the way Sarah made AT LEAST three slips.
In Double Maths we studied straight lines. I seemed particularly thick.
In History, we discussed Russia in the 1860s. Mrs P is not as boring as everybody makes out (with a 1988-added footnote 'Just more so!')
In choir we sang 'Music Where Sweet Voices Die', which I adore, and 'Autumn' which is growing on me, even though Miss F reads 'p' as plonk and 'delicato' as elephant-like.
Instead of French was choir. From 1223 until 1330 we belted out O Praise the Lord, but at first, I DON'T think that Mrs B was too amused by our feeble effort. So together, she and Miss F.coaxed us into an enthusiastic chorus, and scolded the 1sts and 2nds something terrible. But the 16 3rds were paid ever so many compliments. Afterwards we went out on the Broadwalk (school playground, in effect), and messed around. I'm ever so slightly nauseated with C. and M. Sometimes I wonder whether the word 'quietly' is incorporated in their collective vocabulary. Goodness, don't I sound a bitch!
After lunch was Maths. It was unbelievably hot in the classroom (newly built, on the cheap, badly designed). I was literally poring with sweat, and no way was I alone. Those windows open so WIDE of course! Mrs N. and all the group looked like beetroots, and the aforementioned teacher of Maths did not bat an eyelid when I tugged down my tie, and undid my top button (we had previously had a relationship which involved her repeatedly sending me to the Deputy Head's Office for wearing make-up, which of course just encouraged me more to wear make-up to school).
Talking of batting eyelids, I suddenly realised in English today what makes S. appear so snooty. Her natural blinking action is very slow, and this makes her look disdainful, which I presume is usually far from the truth.
At lunch I went to choir (Bach) with Miss F. She was really awful, and the thirds were the only people who were praised - and that was grudgingly. It's a very badly balanced choir. the seconds consist of five fifth years, two L6 and twenty-to-thirty second years with their baby voices and obvious lack of effort.
In RE Miss C made me stand outside the classroom for laughing when she told me off for not turning up to Mass last week.
After break we had a full length orchestra and choir practice. I was so embarrassed doing the cymbals etc.
I caught the 263 and thought all the way into Manchester, with my eyes lighting up while passing a certain football stadium between Trafford House and Jubilee House.
I met K. and M. coming from Deansgate. We walked down to the Arndale, and back up to Peter Street. Eventually we were allowed into the Free Trade Hall, and when C. arrived, I gave her her present and card. Eventually Speech Day practice began. It was so boring.
I got ready to go out, and then went out to Speech Night. Every traffic light turned to red before our eyes. Speech day started. I went onto the platform and searched all round for the triangle beater. Me, Sally. and Mrs. B. were panicking like hell, and a second-year noticed it under the side-drum. The orchestral pieces went okay. I only made one mistake. My style is really improving, and I managed the change from side-drum to cymbals in exactly the right length of time. Choir was okay, I suppose. Then we had to sit through the boring speeches, and the not-quite-so boring prize giving. Oh god, Loreto Speech nights could warrant a very long blogpost in themself...
I watched the Late Late Breakfast Show. The video of Friend or Foe was shown...and then Adam Ant was interviewed!
In History we did the reign of Alexander III. Honest to bloody God, that P. woman is so boring.
In Cookery, Mrs M. was in a right foul mood, because out of the whole class, Katie. was the only person who had done the homework satisfactorily. We then had a test - I got 20½ on 30, which was fairly average.
In Maths we went through our homework. Despite the continual revision of differentiating, I do NOT understand it. which is interesting,because I grew to adore differential calculus and would happily carry out calculus problems for the sheer fun of them, seriously
At lunch I went to choir. We sang Praise the Lord by Haydn (German National Anthem). It is RATHER nice!
In RE we did yet more from Mark's Gospel. I am bored sick of Mark's Gospel.
On the stroke of half time Mr Brilliant Bryan Robson scored a goal! And now Valencia have to score two!
In the second half Valencia scored two goals. At first I was upset, but by the end of the eleven o'clock news, I was almost pleased. After all, we don't need our players hacked down in the European Competition - we want them saved for more important domestic games. Nor do we want our players booked for retaliation against the blatant fouls in the way that Norman Whiteside and Ashley Grimes were.
Daddy chauffeured me to Alty Station where I met up with my lovely friends. Later !, * and & arrived, and we all travelled together by train to Oxford Road. Then we walked down Oxford Road to the Free Trade Hall, and found our seats in the balcony for Beethoven's Missa Solemnis. It was an excellent performance - I think I liked the Gloria best. Mind you, I was not too impressed with the technique of the timpanist. His rolls are rather poor. Nope, I don't know who the soloists were, indeed it has come as a surprise to me that I have ever heard it live. I assume it was Hallé Choir and Orchestra. It won't have been BBC Northern Symphony Orchestra (as was) because I knew their timpanists personally)
The diary for this month contains passing references to me reading Lucky Jim, Sons and Lovers, and The Drivers Seat, but no mention of whether I enjoyed them, or any reflection on the content.
Earlier in the life of this blog, I spent some time typing up my 'old diaries' from the 80s. I did not do it specifically for the blog - sometime in the late 90s I thought it would be a splendid idea to digitise them. Not especially for archival purposes - paper has served archives well for hundreds of years - but because I imagined myself writing a best-selling novel based upon them.
That paragraph may actually sum up my entire life and personality. An obsession with archiving, an ability of genius proportions to imagine me successful, a disability of equally gargantuan proportions to put in the effort actually to achieve anything that approaches success, and a short attention span that means started projects rarely get finished.
But less of me, what about the 'old me'. Or the Young Me. The 1982 me. Fourteen years old, and just about to go into "Fourth Year", when various Boring Subjects are dropped in order to concentrate on O-Level Subjects. We had to do English Language (A), English Literature (A), Maths (A), French (A), Religious Studies (A) and PE (non-examined). In addition I did History (A), Music (A), Latin (B) and Home Economics: Cookery (B). Remember these were proper O-Levels. I additionally did Italian (C) in Sixth Form.
I spent a great deal of time writing diaries. At this stage they were written on paper salvaged from redundant exercise books from the previous school year. There are pages and pages of turgid detail; detail of celebrity birthdays, what was Number One in previous years, who I caught the bus with, what we did in lessons subject by subject, detailed chronology of football matches listened to on the radio. Very little of life and me. Very few anecdotes that capture the essence of being in 4P in 1982, no character sketches, few funny incidents, and a decided reluctance to do teenage angst. I have no doubt where the last omission comes from - an overwhelming awareness that what I wrote at 14 would come back to haunt when I became Prime Minister. I knew then that I had to deny my weaknesses for future electoral advantage. Not for nothing is my middle name 'Margaret'. Besides, in the spirit of Crossmann, Castle and Benn, my diaries were a narrative on the 'times' rather than the 'life'.
I am sure that my blog-readers don't need to know how many times I had toast and marmalade for breakfast.
But in following posts I will extract what seem to me to be the most interesting passages from 1982, 1987, 1992, 1997 (to the extent that it exists) and by the wonders of technology, I shall pull up the blog highlights from 2002.
One of my all time favourite works. And by that I mean Top 5. It is definitely something that every self-respecting music lover should have at least one copy of in their record collection. I expect everybody has at least part of it in their collection, because the final movement - or part of - tends to be in most compilations of "Best of what you can't live without" But contrary to what the typical Classic FM listener will believe, this actually has four movements. There is plenty enough written on the web, some of it by musicologists, so there is little point in boring with you all that.
I have three versions of this. As a hint I would say it's better to pick it on account on the bass soloist rather than any other voice type. For years and years my favourite version was the Herbert von Karajan version with the Berliner Philharmoniker, indeed this is the version that is recommended by experts as the definitive.
But just recently, a new version has overtaken this as my favourite. I got the CD because I had been to bothperformances where it was recorded in the Barbican and even though they rated as two of my favourite performances of 2006, I was, nevertheless, overwhelmed by the CD. In addition to the fabulous singing - especially the bass (baritone, actually) soloist, I would highlight the timpani as being particularly special. I also like the way that the orchestra plays - an absence of legato, not quite staccato but with more or less every note precisely articulated - as opposed to the von Karajan version where there is, relatively speaking, quite a lot of eliding of notes, seeming, in comparison, to be quite slurry. And I love the way the Ladies of the LSC push right to the boundary, where to go beyond would be screechy...high risk strategy, immensely rewarding when brought off properly
The final version I listen to is the first one I acquired, one that sits on a cassette I made after borrowing the vinyl LP from Nottingham library when I was a student. This was chosen for the tenor soloist, though this is not a work to be chosen for the tenor soloist! Sadly, for a number of years, this was the only Beethoven 9 in my collection, and due to the relative paucity of my collection, it is one that has been played so often it resides in my muscle memory. It is just way too slow,way way too slow, and really, that now makes it very difficult to play and enjoy. The total playing time is 78 minutes with the fourth movement being 28:34 (with twenty years of cassette stretch bringing it to 33!) Von Karajan and Haitink bring the 4th in at just over 24 minutes, with total times being 67 and 68. Despite my reservations I am going to buy the CD.
I can't really describe music, and it would be such an insult even to try to describe this. Music transcends words. It would be trite to say - I like that bit, especially when it does that, and oh, that bit too, trying to take it apart and analyse it, when it is a grand piece conceived out of the vision of an extraordinary genius!
It's a cliché when people say - and to imagine that Beethoven was completely deaf when he wrote this. As if somehow that is remarkable. It is of utter sadness that he did not hear it being performed by full orchestra, even when he was conducting, but I don't suppose a deaf Beethoven was any different from a hearing Beethoven, or any other composer. They have the music in their head and they write it down from there.
Recanting my sneer at Classic FM types, I have to admit that despite the first three movements being better than just about any symphony by anybody, the fourth outdoes just about the whole of the rest of the corpus of Western music. A magnificent combination of extraordinary words set to mind-blowing music. Definitely one of those pieces that is far greater then the sum of its parts, even though the parts are, in themself, quite magnificent. I read a quote the other day that whilst Mozart believed himself to be God* whereas Beethoven was reaching out to God. Obviously, one's interpretation will depend on the extent of one's belief in a Higher Power. I feel that this is one of the very few pieces of music that encapsulate that spirit, and one of the most inspiring pieces of music, as it culminates in a celebration of Joy!
It is definitely a piece for pumping up the volume, pumping it some more for the Final choral movement, singing along as loud as one can, with scant regard for tunelessness, especially if one does tunelessness well. And then wallowing in the moments of repose. Cathartic and adrenaline-forming. Pure joy!
One can have a lot of fun on YouTube watching - and of course, listening to the numerous versions available there, by necessity only short excerpts. It's also nice to read the comments. such as "Where can I buy a CD or DVD of this?" ( to which the reply is, "Just about any record store in the world"). At first glance, it seems the comment of an ignoramus - but an ignoramus wanting to learn, which happens to be my favourite type of person. And someone else "Magical. From a guy who loves hip-hop, this is the greatest piece of music ever produced."
Ones worth pointing out - Bernstein's historic changing of Freude to Freiheit at that historicBerlinconcert in the heady days of 1989.
And what a contrast with this clip under Furtwaengler from 21 April 1942. Think v. carefully about that date. Gallops along wonderfully whilst simultaneously making the blood chill.
So, if you've got an hour or so to spare, sit down and enjoy these videos, of Herbert von Karajan conducting the whole bang-shoot, with superb camera-work and editing, as well as great conducting of really great music, with soloists Gundula Janowitz, Christa Ludwig, Jess Thomas and Walter Berry. Some of the comments make me well up - I suppose the music contribute as well - as does the thought I suddenly had that it should have been Wunderlich singing the tenor part. Actually, I'm not really sure - was his voice of the right fach. I have to confess to being a bit of a Karajan fan, I sort of grew up on him, never live, sadly. There are so many recordings where he gets it wrong, but so spectacularly wrong. And the soloists - isn't Walter Berry totally gorgeous. And Gundula Janowitz, too. But I've just fallen in love with Walter Berry.
You won't get that hour of your life back, but trust me, you will not want it back!
I have to include this 1970 clip for sheer self-indulgence in the young tenor soloist who seems like he might have had a promising career ahead of him...!
Zipping through the operas alphabetically (if 'zipping' is synonymous with 'plodding'...)
I have a version of Gounod's Faust on DVD, transferred from a video-off-the-telly from three years ago. I have even tried uploading it to Rapidshare for wider enjoyment but for some reason I am incapable of producing discs suitable for uploading despite enormous amounts of helpful suggestions from numerous kind people.
I saw this production when it was revived a few months later with a less-than-starry cast, and my insightful review fully reflecting the subtleties and nuances of every aspect of the opera is available to be read.
The opening run had a very starry cast: Roberto Alagna, Angela Gheorghiu, Bryn Terfel, Simon Keenlyside, Sophie Koch and Della Jones. It really ought to be released on commercial DVD, but it hasn't been and rumour is that Roberto Alagna has stonewalled on his fee, which I think is euphemism for 'vetoed it because he looks a prat'.
I find this a very accessible opera, both musically and dramatic, and it is a crying shame that the fabulous production by David McVicar is not available to the general public, otherwise I would definitely put it into my category of 'excellent introduction to opera for a newbie'. The story is legendary; the opera is based upon Goethe's drama. Even ignorami like me are aware of the concept of the Faustian pact of selling one's soul to the devil - for the promise of a return to youth. The opera is almost a text-book example of how Grand Opera ought to have been written. I read somewhere that at one stage, it was the most performed opera worldwide, although there are people nowadays who look down on it as being a trivial work, an attitude I don't understand - perhaps because it contains too many bloody good tunes and is too damn entertaining. The tunes are tuneful, hummable and well harmonised and orchestrated. The characters come over as more than mere cardboard caricatures. Although, obviously, fictional, the story is paradoxically credible.
The opera begins with the overture, accompanied by a vision of Faust (Roberto Alagna) staggering round like an old man, and glimpses of Mephistopheles (Bryn Terfel) lurking, plus a ballet couple who symbolise the youth that Faust doesn't have...yet.
It opens, really, with a great tenor aria, followed by the arrival of Mephistopheles (henceforth Mephisto, or Meph, or Bryn, because it's too difficult to spell) dressed in brown - trousers, great coat, waistcoat and hat, resembling a Cavalier. The aria becomes a duet and Faust enters into a er, Faustian pact with the Devil (aka Mephisto/Meph/Bryn). In a chest, with a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs, starlet style, Roberto becomes young again, and cartwheels across stage bringing the duet to a rousing climax.
The next highlight is Simon "Shirtless" Keenlyside, fullly clothed, cast as Valentin, singing Avant de quitter (he's about to go off to war). This is a justifiably famous aria and is the reason why Valentin, not actually that big a part absolutely requires a top-drawer singer.
As the soldiers party as they prepare to go off to war, Meph is sighted in a fancy silver and red cloak, which he changes into an evening suit for the Cabaret L'Enfer, complete with Dancing Girls. By this point, Faust is mirroring his outfit.
We then have another famous aria Salut demeure chaste et pure, another aria familiar to anybody who has ever bought a tenor aria compilation. I don't think that Roberto sounds at all appealing in this; he is far too strained, and he looks it. Also, he seems to step out of character because *THIS IS A BIG ARIA*. He certainly is master of the embarrassed inane grin. He wanders wildly off-pitch, although the discrete cough at one point, followed by a distinct Frog later may be the explanation...the hazard of live performances being captured for ever from people;s TV.
Act I is intimate, Act II is full of crowds and choruses, and in Act II once again we have intimacy, particularly the love scene between Faust and Margarita (spied on by Mephisto, now dressed in a blue army uniform). If you don't look too closely you could almost believe there is on-screen/stage chemistry between Roberto Alagna and Angela Gheorghiu. Although Roberto shows a distinct lack of passion in the O Nuit d'amour, which performed well, is an outstandingly gorgeous duet. Fortunately, I do have a good version on CD, but not featuring Roberto Alagna, nor Angela Gheorghiu for that matter.
In Act IV Marguerita goes to church to pray for forgiveness. Amidst the liturgical music, Mephisto, dressed in priestly garb, arrives and tells her that her prayers are in vain; hell beckons. And we discover that it is Faust playing the organ. Bare-chested men dance in the background (symbolic of the hell that Marguerita might find herself in...?).
We then switch to The Soldiers Chorus, of the soldiers returned from war, another classic standard of upmarket compilation CDs. And a stonking good chorus it is, too. Included in their number is Valentin, who meets up with Siebel (the young disabled Trousers' Role character who has a massive crush on Marguerita and vowed to look after her in Valentin's absence). He pleads in vain for Valentin not to go to his sister's house. When he reaches there, he gets involved in a sword fight with Faust, who has abandoned Marguerita to her shame. Faust injures him, Mephisto finishes the job off with barely concealed contempt. By now, Roberto's evening suit is tie-less and with the collar unfastened). It is a very tragic moment in the opera, because despite the fact that Valentin, played by Simon Keenlyside is bleeding to death from a fatal chest wound, he never gets the opportunity to remove his shirt, which is,frankly, shocking. And, of course, is another Great Operatic Failure to Apply Basic First Aid moment.
Act V opens with Mephisto attending the Walpurgisnacht Ballet, whilst Marguerita languishes in jail for the murder of her illegitimate child. I can't help but notice at this point how Wagnerian the music is. Roberto has now lost his jacket and waistcoat and his shirt is untucked from his trousers. Bryn, meanwhile, removes his cloak to reveal that he is wearing a black sparkly evening dress and tiara.
I think the ballet is fun to watch, and the music is extremely familiar to me from a favourite cassette about which I blogged a bit ago. It sort of recaps the story, but in parody, or at least in this production. I'm not sure what it adds to the dramaturgy, but at the time it was written, the French absolutely demanded that every opera featured a ballet, often incongruously. Something to do with rich patrons and their mistresses in the corps de ballet, I think.
We then have a completely gorgeous aria from Angela - Anges purs, anges radieux - "Pure and radiant angels, bear my soul to heaven", and Faust finishes where he began, as an old man, presumably sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
It really is a fabulous show to watch, and an all round excellent piece of entertainment. Superb stage direction from the always wonderful David McVicar. Excellent stick-waving from Tony Pappano. A superb all round performance from a great singing actor, Bryn Terfel. Excellent vocal performance from Angela Gheorghiu, who is never less than reasonable and often very good on stage. Simon Keenlyside is dramatically brilliant, but seems a bit unsure vocally at times; at other times, gorgeous. Sophie Koch brought a memorable interpretation to Siebel and there was further strength in depth from veteran Della Jones and rising star Matthew Rose. So, in an ironic sense it was disappointing that the weak link was the eponymous 'hero' Roberto Alagna. Not his greatest moment captured on tape, and perhaps unsurprising if it is true that he has vetoed release of the DVD. He hasn't been back since to the Royal Opera House.
As for Faust the opera - what do I think?
It's a classic story and one that we learn a vague sense of long before we actually know the story - the sense that you can do a deal with the devil (for youth or something else that seems to be highly desirable), but, not only does the devil take your soul eventually, also that which is desired doesn't bring one the happiness one thought it would.
I am not sure how clearly this comes out in the opera. There are passages of sheer tragedy, not least that of Valentin, who survived the war only to be killed in a stupid fight. And of Marguerite, her shame redeemed only by death. And, perhaps most of all, Faust, who destroyed his previously exemplary life for a short period of hedonism. The story rollicks along, accompanied by some fantastic music, but in conclusion, I don't find that I don't have sufficient empathy with any of the main characters really to care about the outcome.
Royal Opera House regulars are reeling in disappointment at the news that two of the brightest stars of the operatic firmament have announced cancellations for this autumn.
Rolando Villazón cancelled a number of events during the summer and into the autumn and his management expressed a hope that he would be back for the run of L'elisir d'amore in London. Earlier this week he announced his withdrawal from this and also from the second batch (in addition to the first) of Romeos at the New York Metropolitan Opera, one performance of which I was hoping to get a ticket for.
There have been rumours circulating in the media and on the internet about his health. One rumour is that he has hyperthyroidism and consequent depression and inevitable vocal distress. Which sounds pretty gruesome to me. Apparently depression is a common side-effect of this, although, to my mind, it's a pretty common side-effect of every debilitating illness that leaves one whacked out and unable to follow one's normal pursuits in life. If by chance you happen to be reading, Rolando, I wish you all the very very best and even though I am desperately disappointed that I won't have the chance to see you in either role, I fully understand your reasons and also respect the fact that you have given the ROH sufficient time to look for a replacement but did not hastily cancel too soon back in August. I know that many of my readers will join in wishing a speedy and full recovery. And I am looking forward even more to seeing you in Don Carlo.
And Bryn Terfel has a dropped out of the Ring. Thankfully he was only due to play a minor role, that of Wotan, who only dominates for three quarters of Rheingold, an act and a half of Walküre and, disguised as Wanderer, appears now and then in Siegfried. See, he doesn't even appear in Gotterdammerung. It's not as if the Royal Opera House has built this production around him and has heavily marketed it using his image. (Not that it needed much marketing). Oh, but wait, it has.
It was originally announced as being because of an extremely stressful situation affecting one of his children. Being an extremely empathetic and sympathetic person, I was totally understanding, even going to the extent of defending his integrity on internet newsgroups. Although I don't have kids, I know plenty of people with children about the same age as Bryn's, and understand that there can be all sorts of issues going on: health, or victim-of-bullying, or behavioural problems, or academic struggles, that create more stress than is necessarily apparent to the bystander, and the details are nobody's business.
And then it emerges, the 'extremely stressful' situation is that his six year old son has broken his finger. Seemingly, badly broken, because it needed to be reset in an operation due last week. 'Operation' is always worrying, far more so than 'broken finger'. So, it would be entirely understandable if he had requested two or three days off rehearsals to be with the family at this time. And then Mrs Terfel, or Fricka to her friends, gives an interview to the Mail on Sunday, explaining that the real real reason is that she wants him home. She would prefer if he recorded more crossover albums and did concerts (which presumably pay fatter fees than opera). Which is all perfectly reasonable in making future plans.
However, the whole episode is unprofessional and entirely lacking in integrity. I can't pretend that I bought tickets because it was Bryn; I bought tickets for the Ring Cycle, and knew that I could only contemplate Cycle 2 or Cycle 3, because Plácido is not in Cycle 1. And I made a conscious decision to buy Cycle 3 tickets, because of Bryn. Many of his loyal fans will have booked to travel from afar, will already have booked hotels and travel, perhaps non-refundable, will have booked time off work etc, and will be faced with the choice of cutting their losses and salvaging some money and the time, or attending a Ring at considerable cost whilst dealing with the fact that the object of their admiration and the reason for them travelling such distance has treated them with disdain and disloyalty. Presumably Mrs Fricka Terfel has no idea that the tickets went on sale - and sold out - on 1 November 2006, or that ordinary people try to reduce their costs by booking cheaper, non-refundable travel tickets and hotels. He had a contractual obligation to learn and study the roles and to turn up. People will always understand that singers have to cancel, either because of their own illness, or because of extreme family circumstances - someone cited Montserrat Caballe cancelling when her daughter had meningitis. But when a singer, who is supposedly the lynch pin of a major saga, the biggest thing the Royal Opera has done in years, cancels and shows such contempt for the public - who pay for his affluent lifestyle - the public have every right to show contempt back. Those concerts he will be doing, well I can't see myself being bothered to turn up, to be frank.
In the down-market media, people who know fuck all about fuck all have been praising him for giving up work to spend more time with the family. Well, it isn't like that in the real world. He has had ample opportunity to be at home during the school summer holidays, a luxury denied to most ordinary people in ordinary jobs, who have to be at the mill day-in day-out. Admittedly, that was time he was supposed to have been spending studying his part, but he did give an interview to local media that he hadn't actually started learning Wanderer until August. I would dearly like to send a copy of my bank statement to the Terfels explaining how monthly income less mortgage and bills, less Ring Cycle Tickets, leaves a part-time worker* such as me with a financial deficit.
* but as a highly paid professional with no dependants -- other than the Royal Opera House - I'm not pleading poverty or sympathy, just stating facts. It's not a problem - I remortgaged with Northern Rock at six times income...
Definitely one of those operas that one regrets is so short, barely two hours of music. But top class.
I wonder why so Gluck is so under-rated, almost to the point of obscurity, when everything I have heard by him (albeit a grand total of four operas) is so wonderful.
For some reason I always think of Gluck as being Baroque, perhaps because he used recitative. But then, so did Mozart, and he is definitely regarded as classical. And the references seem to regard Gluck as classical, the opera pioneer of the Classical era.
Iphigénie en Tauride is without a doubt the gayest opera I have seen. And when I say 'gay' I don't mean happy-in-an-old-fashioned way nor do I meant lame/pathetic in a pre-teen way. I mean gay as in homosexual. Although my friend - who insists that every opera has a gay sub-text, usually evident in the music - reckons that this production did not focus much on the gay thing, leaving it ambiguous. I suppose she is right, in that the actual production wasn't very gay, but it didn't need to be, because the opera, despite the title, and despite the fact that the mezzo has the largest portion of singing to do, is really a love story between two men. They refer to each other as 'friends' but that is merely a sop to 18th century sensibilities. Remember they are Ancient Greeks. The synopsis is available on ROH site and wikipedia, but as it based on a play by Euripides I expect everyone knows the story anyway .
Musically it is packed full of treats, not a moment of superfluity, a through-composed work with some extraordinary passages. The highlights are Pylade's love song to Oreste, Oreste's mad scene, and Iphigénie's long anguished soliloquy towards the end.
The Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment, guest pit band, were ace. I loved the tone, the crispness and clarity, under stick-waver Ivor Bolton who seemed like a man transformed from the lacklustre Don Giovanni I had caught him conduct in the summer.
Top marks must go to Susan Graham. I had never heard her live before, but on the basis of this, I am rather eager to hear her again, preferably in this role. Oh my word, I shall, in December. A powerful inhabitation of the role vocally and dramatically, full command of the stage. And a wonderful display of extremely florid singing that always threatened to go totally out of control but was in fact an exercise in perfect control. Paul Groves was largely satisfactory as Pylade, with the exception of some strain on higher notes. A more than competent stage performer, just overshadowed by his co-stars. I would certainly like to hear him again, preferably in this role. Oh my word, I shall, in December.
Simon Keenlyside was Oreste, and, strangely, this was first time I have seen him in an entire staged opera*. On the whole he did not disappoint. He is a very physical, lithe stage actor and a splendid singer, and for the most part I thoroughly enjoyed his singing. Except there was a point during his mad scene where he was wide of pitch, both sharp and flat, and decidedly hoarse, cracking as if he was choking. I don't know how much this was to do with the fact that he was lying on his back with his head in the orchestra pit, but I have not heard reports of such a thing occurring on opening night, so I put it down to "one of those things". He displayed some hoarseness in the second half, too, so I assume he probably had a cold or some such. Although I largely enjoyed his performance, I am not disappointed that I will not be seeing him in this role in December. Nothing personal! It will be interesting to hear the differences between a light baritone and a baritenor in the role.
I really liked the production. I have seen a few comments from people round the internet who described it as tosh. Maybe I am perverse but I enjoy productions where it doesn't necessarily make sense.
It was extremely monochrome, with all the characters being dressed in black, and there was very little in the way of scenery, especially no furniture to abuse. The set consisted of walls and a sacrificial altar that rose from descended into the floor as required. No gimmicks such as "Ooh, we have a turntable stage so let's use it."
The walls were undecorated except that at various points, the names of Iphigenie, Oreste, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra appear in chalk and are periodically removed by water. It was not a brightlylit set,with most of the action taking place in darkness. Very noir. It was highly stylistically choreographed, at various times the crowd scenes danced through a routine of stabbing each other with imaginary swords and falling down dead, and during Oreste's mad scene he was lifted up by the chorus of Temple Priestesses and enabled to walk along the wall whilst lying horizontal on the arms of the priestesses. I am not sure of the point of that except to illustrate "This is Simon Keenlyside, he can do this." For those who take note, he remained resolutely fully clothed, refusing to live up to his nickname of "Shirtless", although he did removed his shoes and socks in preparation for being sacrificed, as one does.
At the end the goddess Diana appears as a deus ex machina. She sung her aria from inside the dome at the very top of the opera house. I have heard of this being done but never experienced it before. It seemed pretty effective to me.
This is due to be broadcast on Radio 3 on 6 October and I would definitely recommend tuning in, although it will inevitably lose something being audio only. I suppose it's not an opera that would necessarily attract people with only a passing interest, people who would be inclined to pick one or two warhorses to see in a season, but it really is so engaging and irresistible,with lovely tunes intelligently orchestrated, a love duet, a mad scene and so on.
I am not quite sure where the time has disappeared to. I have barely done anything of note for ever so long.
And yet the blog seems to have been neglected. By whom, I am not sure. This is a blame-free culture here. Anybody who disagrees will be taken out and shot.
Jimmy has been working all the hours imaginable, leaving me to do...what?
Agreed, my burden of housework has ballooned, but I long ago worked out the means to survival on the minimum of housework.
I have been watching less TV, because I haven't been watching with him. Yes, I have been to the pub a few times, but time-wise this is merely a replacement for time spent with him. Apart from the obvious things like working and sleeping, I really can't figure out what I have done with my time!
Separation is a strange thing. When one is single, one yearns to be part of a couple, often for reasons connected to loneliness as much as any other. The avoidance of relative loneliness. For nearly four years we lived a slightly strange existence where we were definitely seriously 'together' but he was living in his father's house but spending some nights down here. Then he moved in permanently and we immediately learnt how irritating how each other could be. And, as I suspect with most couples, it is the little things, the matters of trivial substance and negligible impact that really begin to annoy!
There have been times when I have wished myself single and free, free to eat what I want when I want, to spend my leisure time doing what I want with no concerns about the needs of anyone else. When we discussed him taking this bar management post that I would see very little of him, and I accepted this as being a price to pay in the short term. Rather than getting worked up about it, I decided to seize the opportunity to use the time constructively. Or failing that, to enjoy some solitary leisure pursuits. I have done neither. I really don't know what I have done except work and sleep.
I am so conscious that at various times in my life I have failed to maximise an opportunity that presents itself in unexpected ways. Not that I particularly regret them. That's just the way that life works.
But I am really surprised at the extent to which the blog has been neglected. I have a long list of topics to be blogged, but that really isn't the same as writing and publishing the damn posts...!
I find it quite difficult to write this. I generally find it difficult to write a tribute when someone dies. I find it a tad irksome when a significant passing brings out a flood of words motivated more by the need to mark a rite of passage and indulge a personal if often vicarious grief than out of genuine feeling.
I can't say I was ever a fan of Pavarotti, but as in the case of someone else, whose recent death I wrongly omitted to mark - Anthony Wilson - how can I remain untouched by his death when his life had brought me such joy.
And how can I say I am not a fan of someone who sings like this - I was about to change 'sings' to 'sang' but this beauty will live on forever
His death was not unexpected, it seemed a surprise that he survived pancreatic cancer so long, and then the final demise was rapid - which, I hope is a good thing. I was surprised at the wide spread of the media coverage on a day which, in the UK at least was not exactly a slow news day*. Not just the "Broadsheet" newspapers and Radios 3 and 4, but BBC News 24 and Sky, the red-tops and the purple-tops. And although I consider myself a careful student and an informed predictor of the media, this took me by surprise.
And in writing tributes and obituaries it is tempting to use superlative adjectives that are unevidenced, a result of emotion rather than fact-checking, especially in the downmarket newspapers.
What is absolutely without question that for millions, billions, of people who are not fans of opera or of classical music, Luciano Pavarotti was the face and epitome of opera. Other than that massive concert in the pouring rain in Hyde Park, I have never heard him live; if I had been inclined to, I would never have heard him in the vocal condition that made his name. I have a couple of DVDs with him in them, but I find them nearly unwatchable. I have relatively few of his recordings, and no complete operas - in every case there always seems to be a better alternative, and not just the obvious ones like Ballo and Tosca - I feel no pressing need to get Pav in Fille du Regiment on CD now that I have JDF on DVD.
I was startled to read in one of the tributes today that he never performed Calaf live on stage. I really find this to be extraordinary, but perhaps, in a sense, entirely typical of the contradictions of the artist. I think I would have been a bigger fan if he had focused more on the Bellini/Donizetti/lyric Verdi in which he excelled. But the number of roles he actually performed or even recorded is astonishingly low.
And, to be honest, it wasn't really for his opera performances that he became so universally famous, but for his role as a pop artist. I don't think he was ever a great musician, but undoubtedly a great singer with an innate musicality. I know a lot of people of my sort of age got into opera as a result of "The Three Tenors". I didn't. My mother and I sat down to watch it on the TV following her (day late) birthday tea and England's third place play-off match in Italia 90, with my brother breezing in and out as he got ready for a party and feigning utter boredom as is the wont of fifteen year olds...We thought we would be in a vanishingly small minority of people who would be watching it (we both had our favourite singers performing, neither of them was Pavarotti). We were, of course, wrong.
There are people who are hugely critical of The Three Tenors, as a trademarked entity and as individuals, and blame them squarely for the ghastly manifestation of plastic talentless plastic popera singers. And, I suppose, the emergence and inexplicable popularity of the likes of Bocelli, Jenkins, Watson, Potts and so on is the perfect proof of the Law of Unintended Consequences. Each of the Three Tenors had made their very great reputations, in different ways, through years and years of hard work and critical acclaim from experienced audiences in many different arduous roles in the world's top opera houses. I believe, because I have seen the evidence, that such performances did introduce many people to opera. The evidence that these artificial stars, reliant always on the magic of the microphone and the mixing desk, have done so is absent. Jimmy commented that he had caught a clip of the 3Ts on the news "they look like they're having fun!" he exclaimed, almost as he didn't think that was allowed!
There are an enormous number of obituaries, tributes, memories and reflections all over the internet, in every language I can read and, no doubt, many more besides, far far too many to include here, although the untiring stalwarts over at the 3Ts Yahoo Group are doing a splendid job.
But here are a few I have found worth reading, in no order other than left to right across the tabs in my browser...
A really brilliant video tribute from TelegraphTV, surprisingly an ITN production, with insightful intelligent - definitive - comment from Sarah Crompton their Arts editor; the only fault being the absence of a deep links, but at least with an easily searchable sidebar. I swear, I drafted this blogpost before I watched this clip.
Luciano Pavarotti: Obituary "At the age of 12 Luciano contracted tetanus. He was in a coma for two weeks, and was twice given the last rites" - well, I'd never read that before, but, together with the genuine privations that came as Italy faced defeat in the war, really puts Paul Potts's pathetic sob stories into context.
*Russian jets being intercepted by the RAF; a report published on the damaging effects of food addictives; the report into Foot and Mouth being leaked; Madeline McCann's mother being interviewed by Portuguese Police; the funeral of 11 year old murder victim Rhys Jones broadcast live from Liverpool Cathedral; the England football, rugby and cricket teams gearing up for crucial matches on Saturday.
One of those slightly strange days; I had barely got to my desk and hadn't even switched on my PC let alone sipped my coffee when somebody is talking about Pavarotti. And later in the morning, I went to another bank of desks, to return something I'd borrowed, and my opinion is being sought on Pav.
I walked into the building after lunch and noticed a small crowd gathered in the lift lobby. My immediate thought was that there was something wrong with the lifts, but, it turns out,the crowd is watching the TV, BBC News24, with Pav. So I stay a few minutes to watch too. The crowd disperses, and this woman, whom I don't know, have never seen before, asks me "Is he dead?" I said, yes, it was no surprise, he's had pancreatic cancer; she said "I didn't think he'd die today, I thought he would last until tomorrow..." bursts into tears and almost collapses in my arms. I really don't know what to do at this point, I'm not used to public shows of emotion at work, and of nearly four thousand people, from two government departments, she chooses me to be the one she cries onto.
This evening, I'm in Jimmy's pub, and stating that I don't especially likes the music. He tells me I can be in control; it's a 5000 track WinAmp playlist. SO I put on "Nessun Dorma". From time to time, and only rarely, one can get away with such a choice of music. Of course I end up in a debate with someone I have known all the time I've lived in London; neither of us actually know who is singing on this particular version, and anyway, we don't like Nessun Dorma. Still, we recognise he was a catalyst in getting people into a type of music that maybe otherwise they might not have.
So, to escape from Nessun Dorma on a loop, and considering my nom de net elsewhere, I can only bring you Elephants Yeah
I did hear Pavarotti live, once. In Hyde Park in 1991. Not exactly the sort of event one forgets in a hurry.
I shall write more tomorrow, but it's been one of those days with a home PC crash over breakfast, a reluctance to blog from work, and some serious running around in the evening.
Some amateur footage on YouTube, and thank you to "Anonymous*" for drawing this to our attention
I'm still not sure about those trousers ;-)
* I respect anybody's right to be anonymous on the internet, but I would so love to have a name or pseudonym for Anonymous who so frequently leaves links. I can learn a tiny bit, mainly location, from my site stats, but would never divulge such info on the internet.
Now there's even less reason to sit through Siegfried*
UpdateIMO, Siegfried is a great opera, but, being that it is called Siegfried one would expect the singer in the role of Siegfried to be able to sing. Instead, we get Jon Treleaven. Many of us who were dreading the appearance of Treleaven were at least consoling ourselves with the thought of Bryn as Wanderer. John Tomlinson's okay-ish, I suppose, and thenk god, he's able to take on all the Wotans/Wanderers, but he's no Bryn. I would be okay with John Tom as Wanderer if it wasn't for the dreadful Treleaven as Siegfried
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