Gertsamtkunstwerk

The Best of Andrew Lloyd Webber

Not merely the best of ALW, but the Best of him as played by the BBC Concert Orchestra. That is, without words.

I swear that I did not buy this. Possibly it fell off the front of a magazine, more likely,  judging by the inlay card, and specifically the phrase Licensed from Ian Summers Promotions, this was bought by some fiancé of mine who shall remain nameless to save his blushes. In his defence, the only place he buys CDs is in pubs when people come round selling rejects from jukeboxes.

And you can see why this was Rejected from Jukeboxes.

I am not a fan of Andrew Lloyd-Webber. I have slightly enjoyed several of his musicals and very enjoyed Joseph, especially but not exclusively because of Jason Donovan. I just think that ALW is massively over-rated by those who think he's the bee's knees. Disposable derivative formulaic pop (and rumour has it he doesn't even write his own orchestrations).

But were I to be a massive ALW fan, taking comfort in the predictable melodies and confusing their familiarity and easy-digestibility with greatness, I would buy the Original Cast soundtrack album. Or I would buy a compilation album culled from various OCs, featuring the big hit songs with the singer who made them famous. Or I would buy an album with a variety of really great singers taking on the Lloyd Bank's opus. I wouldn't buy an orchestra-only album.

I can see such an album having some use in some bar or restaurant which wants insipid background music. On the other hand would you want to eat in a restaurant that plays instrumental Lloyd Webber as background. I know I wouldn't! Perhaps these tracks have a place in a much larger compilation called Familiar tunes that don't offend too many people if played not too loud. Catchy it ain't.

Our trip to Valencia, the touristy bit

By which I mean, the purpose of going to Valencia was to see Iphigénie en Tauride. But, if you're going to arrive on a Friday afternoon and leave on Tuesday morning, it would probably be a bit silly to do nothing else...

I deliberately booked a hotel that seemed to be near the opera house, or the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia as it's properly known. If I was going again to the opera house, I would book a hotel in the city centre.

I booked into Confortel Aqua 3, but we were upgraded at no extra cost to the Aqua 4 (the numbers denote the number of stars). I wouldn't hesitate to recommend the hotel in itself, particularly and especially if you have a car. I really couldn't fault it. Modern, clean, everything and more we paid for, and good value for money. Reading the various hotel criticism websites beforehand, there appeared to be three criticisms. One is that it isn't handy for the city or the beach. Two, that the bathroom doors are see-through glass, which is a bit weird privacy-wise for people room sharing with friends. And three, the perennial 'the staff had an attitude problem'. The first two I would agree with. The third, well, funny how one tends to find staff that mirror oneself, innit?

It's above a shopping centre which didn't seem to be the most happening shopping centre. Even on the Saturday, it was eerily quiet. Handy place to get a coffee and a few odds and ends, but not much else, really. But there is a taxi rank outside, upon which we depended.

The hotel was a reasonably short drive from the airport, which is small, compact and easy to navigate. We had a glorious Westerly view as the sun set over the City of Arts and Sciences. Jimmy decided he wanted to lay down for a couple of hours. After which we set off to walk to the area which the guidebook indicated included many restaurants. We walked and walked and walked. And then we walked some more. Eventually we came up alongside a building which I guessed (correctly) was the opera house although you would never have known if walking casually by.

Then we walked some more, before doing some more walking, and some more walking, before walking around the area which the guidebook said contained restaurants. I thought I had been clever buying the Lonely Planet 'Best of Valencia', the only Valencia guide in Waterstones. And indeed, for the large part I was clever. But its one major failing was its maps. If you go away for a long weekend, you don't want a big thick guidebook but you do want clear maps that mark every street significant enough to contain restaurants. You also want one that is a little more up-to-date than 2005 when staying near and visiting the City of Arts and Sciences.

Finally, we found a restaurant that was recommended in the book, Cinquante Cinq, which is I suppose typical of any Scottish restaurant in Valencia. It didn't actually look that prepossessing from outside.

Alasdair welcomed us, and explained that he had a large party arriving, but as long as we didn't mind ordering straight away, we would then be welcome to linger all night. He talked us through the menu and we ordered. I actually cannot remember now what I ordered, which is a shame. I think the starter  was served in a crab sauce, and I suspect that I had fish for the main course. For pudding I had a fruit soup which was conceptually very novel. It was an excellent meal, washed down with two very decent and delightfully affordable (even after the poor sterling-Euro exchange rate we suffered) reds as recommended by Alasdair. The large party did arrive. I had been fearing that they would be as  lively and raucous as any large parties I had been part of in restaurants leading up to Christmas, but my fears were unjustified. I would really strongly recommend this restaurant. One thing to say, though, and I didn't notice it at the time, just began to feel it twenty four hours later when I realised a pattern was emerging. The dishes didn't seem very heavy on vegetables, and although I didn't pore over the menu, I didn't really notice much opportunity for ordering veg. Alasdair was very attentive when needed but also knew when to leave us alone.

We caught a taxi back to our hotel, really pleased that, eventually, we had hit on a really good restaurant but a bit disappointed at how quiet it was around and about. We didn't really see any bars that looked as if they wanted to be noticed, and although we figured there were probably places open in the shopping centre, we decided to call it a night.

I had the bright idea on the Saturday morning that we would stroll along to the opera house and pick up my tickets, so there would be no last minute panic. Jimmy reckoned we should walk diagonally across and it wouldn't take us long to get there. After all, the opera house seemed so near from our hotel, yup, that photo was taken from outside our hotel. After yomping for twenty minutes across part-building site part-future landscaped garden, I said "Tonight, considering I am wearing my nice new silk dress from Monsoon should I walk in these old and scruffy but comfortable brown boots or should I wear my gorgeous blue suede shoes and get a taxi?" 'Get a taxi' was Jimmy's response. A bit more yomping eventually led us to a sign post for the Palau de les Arts, saying it was 10 mins away. I could barely control my excitement at this point...

We were probably about ten minutes away but everything seemed roped- off and we were shooed away by Security. Eventually,  we found ourselves at the front of the house ...which was roped-off. I could see the ticket office. I was able even finally to confirm I was at the right place. But it was no-go. As most of the place remained roped-off before, during and after performances, I could only conclude that the concrete is already developing faults and they're scared stiff that if someone touches it, it might fall down.

We walked on in the direction we had been the previous night and after twenty minutes of not passing any food places, and feeling that the streets were eerily deserted, we eventually found a place that looked promising. Can't remember its name, don't need to. It was nicely decorated, well, nice, if bullfighting's your thing. We ordered some food and ate it. It was all right, I suppose, but we remembered how slightly miffed we had become in Madrid as every restaurant and Tapas Bar seemed to serve the same old same old uninspired dishes. We got a taxi back to near our hotel and wandered round the almost deserted shopping centre, before going for a lie-down in the hotel.

Jimmy met me from the opera house in the evening, and, as I instructed, he had brought my comfortable flat blue canvas shoes. We walked slowly back to the shopping centre and found a Tapas bar. I was well over-dressed, not that I cared. We had several glasses of wine, and some barely edible salt with food added, and found out that Barcelona had beaten Real Madrid live on the TV. I then returned to the hotel room and blogged about what a horrible city it was.

Sunday saw decisions being made. Well, after an incredibly long lazy lie-in in our very comfortable and extraordinarily quiet hotel room. We agreed, we are not going to get anywhere in this godforsaken dump unless we accept it's taxis everywhere. I flicked through the guidebook and decided it would be best to head to round the cathedral. We agreed it was bound to be horrible but let's make the best of a bad job, the guidebook has a walking tour, even if it's really awful at least we will be walking around, and although it's cold (like, wear hat and gloves cold!), it is gloriously sunny. 

As we drove into the city centre we started saying,  hey, this isn't bad. This is nice, this is like Barcelona, only, like, nicer. This is a beautiful city. We spent the remainder of the afternoon sort of following the Lonely Planet walking tour. I completely failed to follow its directions, but we did just about most of it, even if some of it was backwards and out of order. I took about forty photos, some of which are going to look pretty damn good when I finish editing the collection and post it here. 

 As darkness fell we decided it was time to eat. At any rate, it was time for our stomachs to eat, even if it was far too early for Spaniards to contemplate such a thing. We did try a Basque restaurant on the Calle de San Vicente Martir , which looked nice but wasn't open for dinner until a couple of hours later. 

So we carried on strolling, and got rather distracted by photographing fountains. First a big one in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, then a little one in a side-street off it. I was feeling quite chuffed with that photo, which looked passable even on the tiny screen on my camera. Jimmy pointed out a restaurant close by - so close by you can see one of its umbrellas reflected. We agreed it looked alright. It was open, they were willing to serve us. And, you know, it deserves a blog entry all of its own.

I came away with that feeling that it was the best meal I had ever had in my entire life. Of course, objectively, it probably wasn't.

But you know, when you've just had a really nice meal, you are not in the mood for looking back and making comparisons with meals long gone. The trouble is, I can't remember its name. I asked for - and received - a business card. Obviously, somewhere there is a receipt. I can't find them. Unless someone can drop its name here, I will have to wait at least a fortnight until the credit card bill arrives. It's next to this fountain (of the Three Graces? Muses?) in a small square to the (roughly) south east of the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, opposite the Banco di Sancto Spirito (how we laughed at that one, wonder if your money's safe there...). The thing is, it was a really nice restaurant. I took several photos, this is just one of the olives and tomatoes, served to accompany the bread (which in itself was noteworthy).

More anon...

My blogroll...

As part of my migration to this blog from the old defunct one, I decided, finally to use blogrolling.com to manage my blogroll.

I have about 300-400 blogs on my blogroll. Many of these do not update very frequently, others are basically dead (but one never knows, they may resurrect one day...).

I decided to list just fifty blogs on my sidebar. The intention was not to show any favouritism. Some of them are general blogs; some are subject specific. Some are better than others. Some are better at reflecting a particular but changing mood of mine. The blogroll was never intended to reflect any of those factors. It was simply supposed to be the most recently updated fifty. The way to get to the top of the list was to publish. And then watch yourself slip down as others update, too.

I don't use my blogroll as a reading aid - I use bloglines, which aggregates RSS feeds, so I am often reading your blog without even clicking on your site. I am not clicking on your site on the offchance you have updated.

I intended to have my blogroll as a courtesy to and advertising of the other blogs I read fairly regularly.

I noticed several weeks ago that the list was never refreshing or updating, and I made a mental note to get round to fixing it 'sometime'. And it was never a priority. I have now got round to trying to fix it only to find that blogrolling.com has been up on bricks for several weeks, and seems to have had a pretty catastrophic collapse. I don't see it being up and running at least for several weeks yet.

Boomtown Rats

Synonymous in most people's mind with Geldof

Once upon a time, five rather middle-class lads from Dublin got together and pretended to be bad boy rockers. They produced some rather good singles, some of which I bought on vinyl.

Then we had the Geldof-Yates saga and the incredibly silly names for their daughters.

We had Sir Saint Bob saving the world.

We had Gert buying this album

And now we have two of the hilariously-named daughters behaving like pointless vacuous spoilt brats in the downmarket media. What is that they do? Would there be anybody who would declare "I'm a big fan of/I really admire P. Geldof"?

I have to say that I am a major sucker for celebrity, I like hobnobbing with famous people, name dropping and the rest. But I like celebrities who have achieved something and excelled in their field. Logically there is no reason to lionise someone who has sold many pop records rather than somebody who delivers good prompt honest customer service. But that's the way it is.

Talking of pop records The Best of the Boomtown Rats contains several items of dross; would have benefited from reducing the number of tracks from 19. Despite some smash hit number ones they were never the greatest band around, and even though two of the tracks are from 1984, the rest span just four years. Perhaps 12 would be a better number.

The packaging is really nothing special. A standard jewel case with a twelve-page inlay booklet. The final page contains a track-listing. The remainder of the pages contain poor quality photos and an essay entitled Banana Republic: Memories of  a Suburban Irish Childhood by someone called Joseph O'Connor. I suppose I could read it, but the print is very small, and two pages of it are white type on black background. If they can't be bothered to make it legible, I won't be bothered to read it. I like my Greatest Hits albums to have song lyrics and maybe some facts and figures on chart positions. this doesn't.

Still, it was worth getting the turkeys on this 19-track CD for the jewels. I am playing it on random and the noteworthy tracks are

• Drag Me Down, a 1984 track I don't think I had heard before I got this album - great harmonies
• Diamond Smiles, probably my favourite Rats track, tells a story, has a decent melody and harmonies
• Rat Trap, the track that got me into the Rats, another great story and an edgy pulsating track - yeah, there was edgy in 1978, it's not a new thing. And I can sing along word perfect, the product of a Suburban English Childhood, by Gert Blog
• Like Clockwork - Johnny Fingers' second finest hour on keyboards
• I Don't Like Mondays, their most famous and probbaly greatest song, with some fantastic piano work. An excellent narration of a story, one of those songs that remind one just how crap modern pop music is
• Someone's Looking at You - perhaps their most under-rated song, perhaps because it's a bit abstract and philosophical for the three minute pop market, although also more relevant to the present day than to 1980 when it charted.
• When the Night Comes: this was the 'B' side to either Diamond or Someone. It's actually a pretty good song, but, in general, if you put B sides on your 'Best of' album, shouldn't it be a sign that the album is too long!
• Banana Republic - just strange and not in a bad way. Innovative and different.

Most of the rest are not unpleasant but do seem to be taken from the handbook on how to write a soft rock song for 1970s middle class boys.

Except for (I Never Loved) Eva Braun, which is neither pro-Nazi or anti-Nazi, but sounds like some immature attempt to be thought-provoking, without there actually having any thought process going on. Basically, a bit of pretentious tosh with no intrinsic value

This is a revival of my attempt to blog my entire record collection by 40, which, considering I abandoned it at 39½ has been mysteriously renamed Blog My Record Collection As and When.

The Art of Seduction

This post may contain Too Much Information for some...

Last night, having watched The Royle Family and the Blackadder Documentary, Jimmy declared it was time to go to bed. I agreed.

Unfortunately, we are well past the stage of just rushing upstairs. I decided to run all the greasy plates etc under the hot tap to make the job of washing up easier when I get round to it. He decided to fold up the dining table and put it away. I asked him to lock-up back and front whilst I extinguished candles.

"Right, I'm definitely off to bed, now," he said.

"So I am, but I do have to put fresh bedding on..."

"Shall I help you?" he asked.

"Don't worry, by the time you've faffed around, I'll have done it anyway. You get on with shaving and all those other things that men do before a shag and I'll have the bedding done!" I said.

"I think I'll do the hoovering!" he declared. And proceeded to get out the vacuum cleaner (actually, a Dyson) and vacuum the downstairs carpet.

I asked him what he would think if he read in a newspaper problem page "Dear Deirdre, everytime I suggest a bit of whatsit to my partner, he starts vacuuming downstairs..."

He replied, there's a lot of weirdos out there...

What actually happened post-vacuuming/bedding-changing is a matter of conjecture, as far as you're concerned.

Hallelujah

Best version ever... (of Handel's, that is)

An order of Monks who have taken a vow of silence...

Carols from Kings - not good

It's the same every year, I put it on, hoping for some enjoyable music.

And every year I am disappointed.

It's rubbish. Really rubbish. Every single carol they sing sounds exactly the same. It's like they have a set formula and that's all they do. All they can do.  A total lack of understanding that different pieces are written in different ways. No consideration that they maybe have different tempi, maybe within the same tune. No grasp of the fact that some of them have rhythm.

This was epitomised by Three Kings from Far Off Lands, which, in my experience and opinion is quite a funky tune. You would never have guessed it from the way they sang it. The whole thing was so dreary. I was just hoping for the organist to open the stops and do a crashing fugue, or for someone in the choir to put their head back, relax their shoulders and sing out with joy. It was never going to happen

I am critical of Katherine Jenkins because the way she sings everything without differentiation in tone and without seeming to care about the meaning of the song. So I shouldn't spare these who are no less guilty.

To think that this programme is broadcast over the world as some example of Best of British. It's quite shameful, really, and hardly surprising that people in more civilised countries, and the USA too, consider Britain to be a musical backwater, knowing little and caring less.

The whole thing reeked of amateurism and provincialism. In reality of course, there are lots of exciting musicians performing great music intelligently and/or passionately the length and breadth of the country. But all we get is a bunch of effete snobs being on the TV just because they have been (and radio) for decades.

Happy War, Christmas* is Over

* the bad bits, anyway, just New Year to fear now

I couldn't be bothered to go to Sainsburys yesterday. I needed to get food in, general stuff, stuff to eat, especially considering I have an extended period at home...eat is good. Plus I'm cooking a five course meal tomorrow, only because Jimmy has the evening off work, not for any other reason (!).

I had a nice trip to Sainsburys preceded by an even nicer trip to Oddbins, where David asked what I wanted. I shrugged in a dunno sort of way and said 'maybe two reds and a white' and he said that he had a box specially made up for me. So that was cool. I intend to blog a blow-by-blow account of Christmas, so I shall report back on the wines tomorrow.

Timing the supermarket run is always a crapshoot at this time of year. Not that I actually know what a crapshoot is.  Even though I don't 'do' Christmas, a supermarket trip is still necessary, because there is never an excuse needed for fine dining chez Gert Cottage. I got my fruit and vegetable yesterday from our local greengrocers - who as regular readers will know are Jimmy's brother and sister-in-law.

I walked apprehensively into Sainsburys, dreading a dearth of trollies and long queues to check out, but  there were loads of trollies and few queues. My first stop was the fish counter, where I only had to wait while one person was being served. At the Deli there was no one, except me. I chatted with the chap serving, saying how it's quiet. He said they hadn't stopped since opening, although it was beginning to lull. I got everything I set out to get, except that I didn't get a box of 'Biscuits for cheese' (not that I do Christmas, you understand). I do feel a fraud buying mince pies, Christmas pudding and Christmas cake, because when I was a teenager, I was perfectly capable of making all of these - and did, even if not necessarily all three at any given Christmas (turn and turn about with siblings). but when you're catering for two people, a whole Christmas cake is an awful lot of effort to go to. I only had to queue behind one person at the checkout. I was pleased to she was getting ready for Christmas - she had her rollers on underneath her hairnet. I then had a nice chat with the woman on the checkout.

I was particularly proud that I managed to get all this back home on the bus (yes, including three bottles of wine). Admittedly, I had planned well. Later this afternoon I just popped round the corner to buy bread, milk and some beer, plus biscuits for cheese, which I would have had to get irrespective of what time of year it was. And I said thank you to the little boy who stood back to let me on first. 

In between times, I went for a ride on Tooting Common. What with one thing and another I have done almost no exercise this month. I went swimming last Thursday, the first time in over a week. And now the swimming baths are closed for two weeks. Which is a pain - I get all that time off work and can't even go for a swim. It's also badly timed for the school holidays. 

So it's cycling or nothing.

I thought that the Common would be all but deserted. Wrong! I've seen quieter parks on sunny summer Sundays. Obviously, the dog walkers will always be there. Dogs don't know it's Christmas. And there will always be the odd jogger, the occasional cyclist, either like me, or using the Common as a means from A to B. I didn't expect there to be so many people out strolling or playing. No organised football matches but a couple of disorganised ones. The tennis courts were full. The playgrounds were also full, and there were numerous family groups out for a walk either with or without children. I did notice that the overwhelming vast majority of small children were accompanied either by Dad or by grandparents, which is a bit unusual, although very understandable. And there were more than usual adults-plus-parents groups.

Always interesting watching people. One Dad was out with two toddlers, on little bikes, on the narrow path that goes round the pond. One of the small kids was in my way, so I slowed down. I then decided to see what would happen if I rang my bell. Nothing. Not a problem, we were approaching a wider part of the path. Then Dad said "Out of the way, B." And I was like, no problem, I'm in no hurry.

But then later I was on a double path. It is clearly painted as being for pedestrians on one side and cyclists on the other. That didn't seem to bother one three-generational all male group, who felt it was their right to string out across the path. This isn't about me being on a bike, this is merely about me coming in the opposite direction; I would have thought that if your party is strung out across the entirety of a path, irrespective of how it is marked, and there is someone coming in the opposite direction, it is incumbent on the party to move to let them by. So I rang my bell, and the child, about seven, threw a rubber toy at me. My instinctive reaction was to flinch and duck, and Dad was embarrassed and fulsome in his apology. Which was fine. But then Grandad announced "We also have machine guns..." I suppose this was his attempt at humour but I did feel it was a bit misplaced. I accelerated at speed muttering  "And I've got an effing hot temper and a foul tongue". I don't think they would have heard me, but I'm not sure I would have cared if they had.

And then further along a similar divided bi-function path I saw a dog-walking woman on the cycle part. she looked as if she might have been wanting to overtake a three-generation family group on the pedestrian bit, but she was walking more slowly than them. I rang my bell in good time; she had plenty of time to move. I'm not saying that I rode at her fast but I think my slipstream sent her reeling. She gave me one of those glares typical of the sort of snotty dogwalker who thinks she owns the Common.

It was dusk, and although not yet dark, most vehicles had their lights on. I then discovered that the battery has gone in my back light, which is strange because I've only used it once. Not a good idea to ride on the road, so I rode on the pavement instead - slowing down and giving way to three pedestrians I passed. I dismounted and used the green man to cross the Thornton Avenue/Thornton Road/Emmanuel** Road/New Park Road junction. I was very nearly hit by a car turning left out of New Park Road. I was startled. It wasn't as if they had taken a liberty jumping a red. They had actually started off from stationary. I might be prepared to be charitable and assume they were foreigners who think that you can turn left on a red (but not too charitable - when driving abroad you should know the local rules of the road). But then I noticed that not one of them looked old enough to drive. It will end in tears. Theirs I hope, not someone else's.

I am now listening to Messiah. Liturgically incorrect, but who needs an excuse to listen to Messiah. Next is bath-time, then Carols from Kings. It isn't Christmas without Carols from Kings, even though I usually end up getitng annoyed with the insipid passionless delivery of the carols and the posh camp high church reading of the lessons. 

Incidentally, did anybody see that programme about 10 Best Sacred Christmas Classics. It was on BBC4 and will be repeated again. It is worth seeing, for a gorgeous mix of Handel, Bach, Britten and churchy carols, and some fascinating insights and stories. Unfortunately, it also included Katherine Jenkins who had absolutely nothing to say. Unlike other celebs wheeled out, especially Billy Bragg and Michael Portillo, she just used it an excuse to talk about 'me me me'. The closest she got to discussing the music was reference to singing the solo in Once in Royal David's City and her fear of going out of key (a reasonable fear in that piece!). But it's always 'me, me, me'. Perhaps even sadder is the forum for her sycophants (owned, controlled sanitised and censored by her - former - record company). The programme was flagged up in advance and a few have said they watched it. But not one of them has commented on the actual music. I shouldn't be surprised, because it ought to be obvious that KJ fans epitomise Thomas Beecham's famous quip that British people don't understand music but enjoy the sound it makes.

** topical!

Talking of Panic Attacks...

It seems that having panic attacks isn't common - only 200,000 people have them. But amongst that number is the Real McHoy. I can't say it's ruined my life. But I don't think it's ruined his, either.

Like thousands of Britons, Olympic hero Chris Hoy was plagued by panic attacks. Then he found an unlikely cure... | Mail Online.

Xmas-phobia

I hate Christmas. I have done for very many years. For almost all of those years I have been trying to decide whether this is due to some deep psychological problem stemming back to my childhood (my mother, regular as clockwork, flying into a foul temper on Christmas Eve?).

I have to tried to rationalise it in terms of commercialism and capitalism, in terms of Christianity hijacking a Pagan Feast to manipulate and brainwash the populace. I have criticised it in terms of financial pressure - especially on parents of small children - to spend far more than they can afford on things that are over-hyped and over-marketed. I have criticised the pressure, partly media and partly peer, to have a Good Time, to raise one's expectations far too high and, inevitably, to be disappointed.

I have criticised the myth that no one works on Christmas Day when in fact very many people do. I resent the fact that I am forced to take several days off work whether I like it or not, at a time that is not of my choosing, in weather that is possibly not ideal for going out, at a time when many things I would otherwise  enjoy are closed (and on Christmas Day there's no transport to get there). Not that I think that work is more important than hedonism, far from it, but I would rather have an extra ten days a year off when I want it than be forced to take time off to participate in enforced false jollity or take trips out the same day as everybody else on other Bank Holidays...of course, this is predicated on other employers being enlightened and allowing staff time off to celebrate Christmas should they so wish,  assuming that they are not delivering public services.

I have tried to rationalise these things. I have tried to evangelise my way of thinking. Well-meaning people have tried to explain to me that there are ways of coping. But the simple truth is, Christmas induces in me a mixture of panic attack and depression. And it's not that I tend to do panic attacks or depression in the general course of things.

I have today come to the conclusion that what I actually have is a full-blown phobia to Christmas. Like many phobias, it has a shred of rationality in it but is largely irrational and disproportionate. Try telling someone who is scared of spiders that they are harmless and our friends. It doesn't take the problem away. Their general response is 'But I'm scared of spiders'. It is pointless and insulting to try to argue with them rationally. They may be very rational people otherwise but they are arachnophobic. I have looked it up on the net but my favourite source isn't particularly forthcoming. I did read something that suggested that normal people never have panic attacks, so I may have to revise my above statement - perhaps I am prone to panic attacks but just regard them as part of life and something to be dealt with, something that generally urges me to get organised or to act. Oh god, maybe now I'm suffering from Hipovikipediofactophobia...

Quick reader poll: do you have panic attacks?

I do. This month alone, I had a several panic attacks thinking about packing for Valencia. I had a panic attack as I approached the opera house in Valencia on Saturday  (I almost always do when I am due to see Plácido - is this normal?). I had a panic attack on the Tuesday as our taxi went through Clapham on the last leg of the journey (what if the house has burnt down/been burgled). I had a panic attack on Saturday when I knew I had to get to Streatham to shop. I had a panic attack earlier today packing a parcel to take to the Post Office. I had a panic attack an hour or two ago about writing a shopping list for cooking on Thursday. I'm going to panic as I approach Sainsburys tomorrow evening.

I am going to have to live with the fact that I have Xmasphobia. I have to accept that I am alone and that actually everybody else gets pleasure trailing around precincts and high streets looking for cheap tat to give to people to show their appreciation. Everybody else loves tinsel and blow up Santas climbing over balconies. Everybody else loves crap telly, spending time with people they don't like, and other family members, too. Everybody else adores the fact that every shop they venture into - even if it's just to get bread, milk and soap powder - is playing the same jolly jolly musically bereft horribilisation of commercial Christmas pop (or worse, tinny unconvincing carols). Everybody loves writing cards and wrapping presents. Everybody savours the prospect of queuing for up to half an hour to check out at the supermarket. It's just me that doesn't. I'll stop complaining now, accept that I'm in a minority of one and resign myself to my once-in-a-decade look at Eastenders on the Day Itself.

I feel I ought to wish you appropriate Season's Greetings, but that would be as sincere as a Cynophobic hoping you enjoy Crufts!

Contes d'Hoffmann at Covent Garden

On the 10th December, which seems an awfully long time ago. Perhaps my NYR should be to write stuff up, at least in draft form within 24-36 hours!

I did say that I would write up this performance in some detail but I am not really sure what to write. It's not really an opera requiring great contemplative insight. It very much revolves around the main role, ETA Hoffmann.

 The Prologue starts in a tavern during the interval in an opera. Hoffmann's student friends beg him to entertain them. He is quite drunk. After singing an aria about a deformed dwarf called Kleinzach, and carrying out a mimic of him, he decides to tell them the story of his three loves.

And thus rolls out the next three Acts, all following a similar pattern. Hoffmann, accompanied by his lesbian best friend Nicklause (Kristine Jepson) goes to visit his women in turn. Each has a more or less benign character acting as father or lover; there is the recurrent baddy, who also features in the Prologue (and Epilogue). This is sung by the same singer throughout, in this case Gidon Saks. His role is to thwart Hoffmann at each turn. And of course, there are the women. Sometimes these are also sung by the same singer but not in this production/this performance.

I didn't really change my opinion about any of the singers. Katie van Kooten (Antonia) was simply dreadful, on several occasions my seat-mate and spontaneously turned to each other and winced as she stupendously missed the note, or squawked, or simply sounded really ugly. Acting wise she seemed to bring nothing to the part. Ekaterina Lekhina was generally fine as Olympia, very convincing as the mechanical doll, and most of her tricky colaratura was well executed; it's a role that forgives wayward notes! Christine Rice was splendid but luxury cast as Giulietta, who is described as a courtesan, but is the sort of courtesan who works in a brothel. Gidon Saks was patchy. At his best in the Antonia act where he played Dr Miracle in a suitably scary way, he was at his worse in Giulietta Act as Dappertutto, particularly when he made some fairly horrible noises in his Scintille, diamant.

The best known music in the opera is almost certainly the Barcarolle, which is both Belle nuit, ô nuit d'amour, a duet for Nicklausse and Giulietta and also an intermezzo before the Antonia act. It's a favourite of compilation discs compilers and ClassicFM and is certainly a gorgeous tune.

But, really, the main purpose of the opera is the tenor who plays Hoffmann, and it's probably reasonable to say that the main reason for this revival was as a vehicle for Rolando Villazón. And he was excellent, both dramatically and vocally. He seemed really to get inside the role, displaying the various aspects of Hoffmann's character that unfold Act by Act. He is a very physical actor, throwing himself around the stage. There was much satisfaction in the area where I was sitting when he thre himself to the flor, knocking over a table in the process. Win double!

It's always nice when you enjoy a performance very much, and then go back again and enjoy it even more. And that's what happened! I had been slightly anxious when Rolando had withdrawn the previous Thursday, but he was in top form at this performance. There are sometimes when I hear something in his voice and wonder whether he is straining. It's one of those finely balanced things - sounding gorgeous is not far away from sounding strained. But definitely none of that then.

   

 

Arena Pal

I took some photos at the curtain call. Hopefully I shall have some time this week to sort through them. It's not like there's anything interesting going on this week!

Justice delayed

I think I have managed to make myself thoroughly depressed by reading the Press today and watching television about miscarriages of justice belatedly righted. Largely about the Rachel Nickell case, but also Babysitter not guilty of murder. 

There has been a lot written about police incompetence in both cases, incompetence that is tantamount to criminal in itself. I won't add to those words. Too easy to jump on the bandwagon, be wise in hindsight, not really know what was going on. I don't mean that public servants should not be hold accountable. I just don't think that they should be put on trial by tabloid newspapers and their ignorant semi-literate commenters.

The Rachel Nickell case seems so very long ago, and yet I remember it so clearly. She was just about the same age as me, living really not very far away. By chance,  she had been at the same school as a friend of mine. The day it happened was Bowling Night. Someone said that someone they knew, and I knew of, was a friend of hers. I have subsequently realised - especially with the connectivity of the web - that such connections are commonplace and not significant but perhaps at the time they took on a deeper significance. It struck me last night that I have never been to Wimbledon Common (except a brief visit as a child). I wonder if subconsciously I chose to avoid it,  deeply subconsciously thinking her killer was still on the loose.

Reading about the Nickell case, and particularly about the way that Colin Stagg was framed and his life destroyed was the way the tabloids crucified him. I have seen no apologies from any newspaper about their despicable campaign of hatred, as they brayed for blood. Last night's TV programme included footage of some ghastly Mirror journalist who almost admitted he had got it wrong but clearly had no regrets and indicated no desire to apologise, yet he, like his colleagues on supposedly rival newspapers, made money out of vilifying an innocent man and agitating a mindless mob. I don't think any of them would have been happy unless Colin Stagg had been hanged and possibly drawn and quartered, preferably in public and with live coverage on downmarket telly (Channel 501). Add in Suzanne Holdsworth, convicted without a shred of evidence and plenty of exculpatory evidence. I think that anybody who still supports capital punishment is not only fundamentally immoral but also thick, for who amongst us can really guarantee that we or those we hold dear will not be set up for murder irrespective of our innocence?

And yet the tabloids keep on braying and apportioning blame, usually with very little knowledge and even less insight. A few disparate thoughts - in one thread in the Guardian someone asked why the murder of Samantha and Jazmine Bissett didn't get the media coverage at the time, and someone responded that it coincided with the second day of the trial for the murder of Jamie Bolger.

Then I look at a couple of current cases, Baby P's mother and Karen Matthews, as well as Robert Napper and god knows how many other 'evil monsters' eg Michael Stone (who killed Lin and Megan Russell) - what these perpetrators all have in common was that they had a really shit childhood, growing up in 'chaotic families' as we're supposed to call them now. I am not being some woolly liberal and trying to claim that this somehow excuses their behaviour (although I do ponder how possible it is to apportion blame to someone who is so deeply disturbed as to be totally out of kilter from normality). And Martin Narey of Barnardos pointed out that Baby P, had he lived, would almost certainly have turned into one of those 'feral teenagers' within ten years, had he lived. 

Most of the halfwits commenting in the Daily Mail try to make some party political point using their oh-so-predictable shorthand, which only encourages the no less halfwitted David Cameron to make party political points, claiming that they were victims of a 'broken society' caused by a Labour Government, conveniently forgetting that the ghastly mothers were also victims of a broken society, being 'in care' under Tory Governments. It's too simplistic to go into party politics, there are fundamental problems in society, where far too many children are growing up in conditions really beyond the imagination of the rest of us, and while many just have miserable hopeless lives, others grow up to be the 'monsters' so easily villified by the sensationalist newspapers who are themselves without scruples or ethics.

The Sun reviews La Boheme | The Sun |Showbiz|Film|Movie Reviews

The Sun reviews La Boheme | The Sun |Showbiz|Film|Movie Reviews.

Sort of deserves a post in itself, just for that headline. The Sun finds it boring...but of course, it's Bloody Boring Boheme. But I suppose I shall find myself in a cinema watching it because I love Rolando more than I dislike Boheme.

Hallelujah

Deborah Finding: Let's stop being so precious about Hallelujah | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk.

Suddenly, it seems that the entire media has gone Hallelujah mad. I think I can say I was well ahead of the curve, with my post back in October

Oreste

Monday night, in Valencia...

It's over...

That was gorgeous. I spent most of the second half with my binoculars fixed on Placido. He's so unbelievably gorgeous but also so fascinating to watch, with such interesting facial expressions even when the action isn't focussed on him. We had a substitute Iphigenie after the interval - at least I think it was only after the interval, like I was paying that much attention to the sop. There had been an announcement beforehand but I didn't understand it - well, enough to know it wasn't the announcement I dread. More anon.

Half-time report

Placido is really on tonight. That 'mad' aria is practically unsingable but he managed... His stage presence is so intense. Nothing else matters. All my senses and every part of my being is focused on this young unfortunate, Oreste, lying in chains before me. I forget it's Placido. And then he sings and I remember and I just want to hug myself and wallow in that gorgeous sound. Gert, freezing but happy in Valencia.

I en T again

15 minutes to curtain. I'm in my seat in row 13, much nearer the front than you'd think and I'm pretty sure I'm right in front of Placi's prison cell. I am of course nervous as anything, even while I savour the anticipation.

Some photos from Iphigénie en Tauride

the roof of the Palau de les Artes Reina Sofia from inside the auditorium

Plácido throws flowers to the Ladies of the Chorus (he had been tossing them nonchalantly over his shoulder)

 

Iphigenie Acts III and IV

Plácido sounded completely gorgeous in  the second half. Overall, I have to say he wasn't at his not inconsiderable best. In Act II in particular, which is so pivotal, he was disappointing compared to how I heard him in New York. But he really did sound gorgeous in Acts III and IV and overall he was fabulous in terms of acting, stage presence, running a dagger across his throat, rolling on the floor, ascending to and descending from an altar, being in chains and flaunting his chest hair.

I have to say that the audience is the worst I have ever encountered in an opera house. Two fat ugly fur-wearing cows sat behind me decided that every time Plácido started singing, they would discuss this. One decided to unwrap a cough sweet, rattle her jewelry and provide a running commentary simultaneously. And to think that some beautiful animal had to die to make her look so ugly. Then there was the mobile phone going off,the constant coughing, the frequent conversations all around. In a shit opera house in a shit city where the food is so crap I'm actually pining for vegetables. Actually we're going into the old city tomorrow, which might be slightly better than this godforsaken dump that resembles Bournemouth on a bad day. A very badly designed opera house that may well look funky from the outside but is seriously rubbish inside. Considering it opened in 2005 you'd have thought they might have provided more than 8 cubicles in the women's loos serving the entire Platea (stalls), and it was pointed out to me that the lift only holds 6 people. It's generally very unaccessible (in terms of people with disabilities moving about and getting there if you don't have a car - it very clearly doesn't welcome people from out of town), the acoustics are crap, the refreshment offer is a joke,  the audience is made up of ostentatious peasants in fur coats. It's like sticking an international opera house in Derby or somewhere. I seriously wouldn't recommend going there unless you are really desperate to hear a particular singer

But the performance was excellent. I was really really knocked out by the orchestra, head and shoulders above the New York one a year ago, and the performers were, well, Violeta Urmana and Ismael Jordi did not erase memories of Susan Graham and Paul Groves whom I had the privilege to hear in two different productions with very different musical interpretations last year. As I say Plácido was not at his best, although there was one bit in where I just reacted physically to his gorgeous voice and was so glad I was there. He seemed to be a bit subdued, a bit phlegmy at times, as if he's succumbed to the coughing  that is clearly in pandemic mode round here.

Overall though, the winner was Christophe Willibard Gluck closely followed by Patrick Fournillier who worked marvels with the stick. And it is a lovely production - Stephen Wadsworth - even though I still think the ballet is a hilarious fusion of Cossack and Morris Dancing.

Oh, and no report from the Stage Door,  because there isn't a stage door, just vehicular access via a tunnel under the road.

Acts 1 & 2

At times the chorus of coughing - is Valencia consumed by consumption? - talking etc was interrupted by music. The orchestral reading is exquisite, Violeta Urmana is excellent in places screechy in others. Placido did not sound good to start with but he's slowly warming up...

Iphigenie Live Blog

5 minutes to curtain. I've stopped being sick with anxiety now enjoying the orchestra warm up familiar sounds and so excited!

Greetings from Valencia

I have decided I am never going to travel again. It is way too stressful. How anybody can seriously say that jet travel makes life easy. I was totally stressed all Wednesday afternoon, resenting that I had booked to see Hoffmann (that dissipated the instant that Rolando stumbled and fell onto stage!). I was so stressed out on Thursday thinking of what I had to do, but didn't start packing until ten pm.

We left the house just after 8.30 am GMT and arrived at our hotel just about 5pm GMT+1. It's a long day,and most of it spent sitting/standing around. As I went from Gate to aeroplane I fell spectacularly arse over tit and managed to jolt my right shoulder*, graze my left knee, bang both hands and sprain all my left toes - I slipped spectacularly on some thawing ice that lingered on the gang-plank. The Easy Jet staff were very sweet; one escorted me to a seat. Then I asked another if I could fill in an accident form. He said "You'll have to do it onli... I'll speak to my superior," then the head of the cabin crew came to take  my name and address, and explained - and I agreed - that the accident happened on BAA property and I should contact EasyJet to forward to BAA; he also said someone else slipped without falling and they made a general announcement to people to take extra care (I had a paid a bit extra for Speedy Boarding; head first, of course, came at no extra cost). I liked the way it was handled, low-key, no defensiveness from them, no need for me to get confrontational, adults conversing with adults. If he had come over all high-and-mighty I would have tossed the rulebook at him, but he didn't and doesn't it make his life and my life so much easier!

Valencia seems a nice enough city. Although very very weird. It's fairly old, and the glimpse we had coming from the airport was a sunbaked southern Spanish city.Then we get to the area we are staying, overlooking the City of Arts and Sciences, which is amazing, spectacular, innovative architecture, quite unlike anything I have ever seen before, just begging to be photographed. I booked a 3 star hotel but we got upgraded at no extra cost to its sister 4 star (so I ain't complaining). The downside is that it is a long walk to where restaurants are and the opera house, although very visible and relatively close, still seems a hike away

* if this had happened pre-shoulder repair op I would have needed an ambulance to cart me off in great pain and I would have been Destination Crawley hospital rather than Valencia

Rolando!

Wednesday evening, at the Royal Opera House Stage Door, I met Rolando Villazón.

After this was taken, he was very serious and very stern, and said that we must take another photo and I had to pull a funny face...

 

This wasn't so very long after I had turned to my companion in the second interval and said "You know, I think I've got a crush on him...!" (No 'think' about it!). I know this may come as a surprise to some readers, because I have adored him for several years now for several different reasons, but I've never had a crush on him before.

I really really really enjoyed the performance and he was superb - I thought he was good a couple of weeks ago, but he surpassed that tonight. Hopefully I will write a review this evening, because it really was a memorable performance.

Afterwards we were chatting, and I mentioned I was going to see Plácido in Iphigénie at the weekend. And guess what Rolando said (apart from the fact that he would like to see it but can't...) - they are discussing performing it together but have yet to decide on a venue. Now I'm not the sort of woman who begs, but I did say "Please, please, please can it be this side of the Atlantic..." (although I would travel, I just don't fancy Los Angeles. Washington, yes, but not LA. But I would, if that was the venue). "London!" I suggested (because that would suit me best).  And he said "London, why not!".

Afterwards, I was saying to my companion that it would be so ace if it was in London. Can you imagine, the two of them as Pylade and Oreste? It would be beyond heaven! She said it would be nearly impossible to get to tickets, so flippantly I said "I'd sleep with them, both of them, if that's what it takes." She said "In your dreams," to which, of course, I replied, "And only in my dreams..." ;-)

He also said he's hoping to do Rossini's Otello with Juan Diego Flórez. It would be excellent to see them together, and I might even endure Rossini for that, but I don't think I would dream of going quite so far for tickets.

Interview with Plácido

Plácido Domingo: «Cada mañana me despierto esperando poder cantar todavía».

Lovely man. And I'm going to see - and hear - him on Saturday. And Monday!

I'm just a teensy bit excited.

'Tis the season to be merry tralalalalala lala la la

It's Christmastime, there's no need to be afraid, at Christmastime we let in light and we banish pain.

Bah humbug.

I am really not into Christmas. I am not a Christian so I don't do the religion side of it, except that some of the best Christmas songs are a bit well, you know, religious. I'm not a Capitalist so I don't do the consumer bit of it.

If anything I am a Pagan. Not a real, initiated practising Pagan, nor indeed one who knows anything actually about proper Paganism. But I do like the Paganist concept of being in touch with the changing of the seasons and with nature, and celebrating significant times such as Yule. I believe that as well as being a Festival of Lights, Yule is also a time for eating, drinking and be merry.

There used to be  a time where I had so many parties go to. Get-Togethers, numerous permutations on the office Christmas Party, various permutations of Labour Party Christmas Parties, often a house party or a piss-up down the pub, and Private celebrations. This year is quite quite different. Jimmy is working over Christmas. Work isn't all that. I mean it will be nice, six of us on our team are going for a meal, but there has been a general consensus not to have a Unit wide one, nor is there anything organised on a grander scale. There is a get together for connoisseurs of operatic furniture abuse. And that is about it.

I'm kind of feeling nostalgic for the old days of the NAO. Not Financial Audit, obviously. Nor management by fear, not that crap. But the sheer alcoholic hedonism that took place between the early-December end-of-exams and Christmas. My god,  the times I was wasted. And combined with several Labour Party parties, I'm surprised I've still got a liver. One year I managed an section meal at lunchtime/mid-afternoon, a go to the pub to join several other post-lunch parties late afternoon/early evening and onto a CLP party until silly o'clock, with an Audit closing meeting and Full Council the next day. I lie about the closing meeting. And Full Council.

I used to have a very special skill especially at Christmas Parties. I could get very drunk very quickly. I could get very bladdered and still stay upright. I could get totally gazeboed, dance on the table, talk complete bollocks and still remain alive. I could carry on being that drunk for several hours, saying more and more incriminating things.

I have sometimes behaved quite shamefully at or after Christmas Parties. Well, I say shamefully, I have a bit of a secret to confess. Other than shooting my mouth off revealing the inner tortures of my Bridget Jones existence (this was when I was young, right), and, spewing up inappropriately...oh, quite a few of my readers have been to blogmeets, you get the picture...I have never done anything really bad.

I am beginning to regret the very many ways in which I didn't mis-spend my youth. I feel almost embarrassed admitting this, but I have never, in my entire life, as a result of a Christmas party, ended up have mis-judged unprotected sex. Nor have I even had well-judged protected sex. It's kind of embarrassing. I haven't even photocopied my arse or done a full striptease. I can live without the photocopied arse and the striptease, but I am regretting the lack of beer-goggled sex. The thing that is most depressing is that I try to imagine a situation where such a thing might inappropriately occur, obviously something like  an office party. Well, believe you me, it ain't going to happen at a sedate meal for six. It won't happen if it that becomes a wildly inebriated meal for six, or for forty.  I can't actually identify anybody in my entire workplace of 4,000 people whom I would target for inappropriate drunken sex. Well, apart from one of the Ministers maybe, but I mean, no, not really.  And that isn't a reflection on my workplace, she says carefully, not entirely sure who reads this blog. The truth be told, I actually can't be bothered to have wildly misjudged sex, even though I regret never having done so when I was young. 

So Christmas/Yuletide. No pseudo-Christianity, no orgy of capitalism (although, I went to Oxford Street on Thursday evening, it was so crowded, the queue to pay at Marks and Sparkles went twice round the shop, I wanted to go up to people, let them into a secret - there's a recession on, but I thought, no, why make it public knowledge), no real opportunity to get totally hammered and lie down on the floor of a leading Brixton bar-attached-to-a-night-club-not-at-all-far-from-the-Town Hall* and no opportunity to have a stupid shag with a random stranger.

* allegedly

Signage

I am on constant alert for fuckwittery in signage.  I do not blog sufficiently frequently.

Tescos round the corner from work has a sign in the windo explaining they have run out of large plastic bags becasuse Tesco hasn't delivered, and apologising. The sign ends "Please avoid being in confrontation with our CAs", which I assume means 'Don't get stroppy with our staff'.

I had to call EasyJet this morning, because, if  travelling to Spain from a non-Schengen country, one has to supply passport details in advance. Unfortunately the functionality of the EasyJet site doesn't let one do this online. So Icalled the EasyJet Customer Experience where I was told they were endeavouring to attend to my call. They did give that explanation of the non-Schengen thing, which I happen to know what it means, but I wonder what proportion of other customers do!

The best sign I have seen for ages from several months ago, spotted from a bus. It read:

STOP!

WACTH OUT!

GLAS BROKN

One could come over all spelling-pedant on this, but I firmly believe that its clarity and visibility, plus its context, pasted on a shattered pane of glass in shop door, visible from a bus, means that it served its purpose excellently.

The Waiting Room

Nothing on free-at-source TV, nothing recorded that we both want to watch, and yet an evening at home together with nothing much to do but watch TV. Flick through the list of films on Sky Pay-Per-View, and nothing much appeals. There are a couple that seem sufficiently promising to fulfil our immediate needs, so we plump for The Waiting Room. The on-screen synopsis describes it as 'beautiful and intelligent', which in some ways is all one really wants from a film.

And it was beautiful and intelligent. Apart from the characters who weren't all that, and the actors who were all very ordinary looking, except for the fact that the women were bizarrely androgynously flat-chested.

What was strange but nice about it was the location where it was filmed - a mixture of Tooting and Wandsworth Commons. The inaccurate moulding together of the two was not really a problem, even though it did seem strange to see a character leave Wandsworth Common station and walk down a path on Tooting Common to the bridge that carries the railway between Balham and Streatham Hill. It's not the first time I've seen such incongruous continuity but it's something  I can live with, especially because I know it works perfectly for the overwhelming vast majority of the audience.

And they - especially Tooting Common - looked gorgeous. It was shot in early autumn, and I was particularly pleased to see that they used exactly the same self-consciously arty shot that I uploaded as a photograph just yesterday.

Overall, I would give it a good solid three-and-a-half out of five. Definitely worth watching but possibly not worth making time to catch

Glowing reviews for Iphigénie

El debut de Gluck en les Arts - this mentions that, contrary to the tradition of Iphigénie being sung by a lyric, Violeta Urmana is a dramatic soprano. Funnily, though, the two occasions I have seen it live was with Susan Graham, so I've been wondering how a soprano, albeit an ex-mezzo (IIRC), will compare to a mezzo.  Really glowing praise for the Pylade, Ismael Jordi, which is good news, because I simply had notheard of him until I read of this production. They say he has a clear lyric voice and remarkable musicality. Praise, too, for Plácido Domingo, although questioning the appropriateness of a tenor in this role

su carisma y personalidad avalaron un nuevo éxito más

Una Iphigenia «made in Met»

States that the work is a masterpiece, even though it has not been treated as such by large theatres or the recording industry. Plácido fills every corner of the scene dramatically and vocally despite the limitations imposed by time on his vocal chords, and Violeta is superb especially in the second half.  The article speaks of the theatrical force of Gluck's opera and concludes by calling it great music and great entertainment.

Otro éxito formidable

Again, high praise for the opera: praising the psychological force of the argument, the speed of the action, and the vividly animated characters, with themes of isolation, paranoia and hope. And everything is brilliantly illuminated by seductive music.

Goes onto say how brilliantly the production draws attention to the text or music or both. As my google translation says 'not a single movement or gesture which is not contextualized insertion with a tight connection' and from what I remember from New York, I have to agree...

The cast of soloists is of the highest level: Violeta Urmana has presence, beautiful vocal colour, line and impressive powers of remarkable lyricism. Ismael Jordi is young but mature, and his voice and musicality show that he could be a major star. Plácido Domingo performedwith an intensity that would have been greatly admired two decades ago and sounds so frsh for one is sixty eight next month and has spent 52 of those years on stage

Apoteósico triunfo del jerezano Ismael Jordi de la mano de Plácido Domingo

Violeta Urmana with resounding and dramatic voice expressed the character of Iphigénie with tragic grandeur. Plácido Domingo, an artist par excellence, is the total singer. Everything is transformed by his presence, his voice strong and expressive. Superb vocal talent and great theatrical interpretation. Ismael Jordi was the big surprise. His heartfelt interpretation of Unis dés la plus tendre enfance, a beautiful, delicate and melodic passage, contratsed with his third act aria which he sang with bravery and heroically. Again, praise for his musicality.

Obviously, I can't tell to what extent these writers are bigging up a new (only its third season) opera house that is less important that Madrid or Barcelona , but definitely important, if you look at its list of stars. I absolutely agree about Iphigénie being a masterpiece that has received too little attention and praise. I have listened this week to three different versions. I am constantly surprised at how fresh and modern it sounds, and I am amazed at every twist and turn in the score, and every fiendishly difficult vocal run, gasping at the ingenuity of the writing and the virtuosity of the singing. One thing I can't determine from the reviews is whether the orchestra was properly baroque or whether it was a modern orchestra playing it as if it was from the 19th century. I hope for the former, because I think it sounds so much better on period instruments played in a baroque way. A lot crisper, much more rhythmic. Just, better. But it's such a gorgeous work I think I can bear it with modern instruments and too much vibrato.

I also hope that they do a recording. I would of course particularly like a DVD, but I could do with a better one than the one from the New York Met. I do wish they wouldn't dosuch close miking for their live broadcasts. The mikes pick up too much extraneous noise - the prompter, singers breathing, butterflies flapping their wings in China - that really intrude upon the sound quality which in any case sounds unbalanced

Iphigenie, further preview

The production opened tonight, will be over by now. I can't wait until a week on Saturday, when I see it.

Plácido Domingo en el Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía

Plácido Domingo afirma que cada día se maravilla por seguir cantando y que busca aportar algo nuevo a la ópera

  - every day he marvels that he is singing, and wants to continue to seek roles that bring something new to the operatic repertoire.  He says the score of I en T is very beautiful and interesting (most definitely!), and towards the end of his career it is a pleasure to find something in the new old.

Almost at the end of his career, but he is making plans for 2013 and 2014, which is excellent news (although we all have to accept that there are no guarantees)

Plácido Domingo se reencuentra con el barroco en 'Iphigénie en Tauride'

Plácido Domingo regresa al Palau de les Arts

Plácido Domingo rescata la 'revolución del Barroco' en el Palau de les Arts de Valencia

I will of course be looking out for reviews, especially tomorrow and Friday.

And before I see this live, I "only" have plans to see Carolyn Sampson in concert on Saturday and Rolando Villazón in Contes D'Hoffmann on Wednesday.