Gertsamtkunstwerk

Creating a memory

Last week, specifically on Midsummer's Day, we set off from our holiday accommodation in Bridport to Studland, beyond Weymouth and Portland.

As we approached, the sky clouded over, and I referred to my alternative list of rainy day activities. Indeed, when we first ventured out, it was in kagouls. Later, the day brightened immensely, we spent some of the afternoon lying on the beach, and when we walked out to Old Harry Rocks, I was sweltering in just a t-shirt.

We left Studland at just about 6pm; I had to remind Jimmy that we still had four hours daylight. We made good progress along the road, with Classic FM on the car radio.

The road from Dorchester to Bridport, the A35, runs for some time along what is effectively a ridge, which rises steeply up from the sea and surrounding countryside. The previous evening we had hit a thick patch of fog that extended for several miles and reduced visibility to just a few metres. Roadsigns warned of this, but I didn't expect it in June - I was later told by a local that this is not unusual.

In contrast, on Midsummer's Evening, the sky was clear and we could see for miles. As we rose out of Dorchester, Classic FM started to play the overture to Tannhauser. An amazing piece of music that becomes more frantic and orgiastic as it progresses, and as we progressed. We drove past Bridport and into the village of Chideock, before turning off down a narrow and twisty lane to the hamlet of Seatown, fronting the sea in the shadow of the golden Cap. As we drew up in the car park, Tannhauser overture reached its stunning climax. Epic!

A spectacular view and amazing music. It really doesn't get better than that. Unfortunately, the pub we intended to eat was packed full of people, so we went back and ate elsewhere, which was very good.

I will not be moved

Often at stations, there's a lot of people going one way and very few going the other. It's usually the case at Vauxhall Tube in the evening - many people arrive all at once on a train from North and Central London, and transfer to SouthWest trains to the suburbs. Meanwhile, the likes of me drift into the station in dribs and drabs and in much smaller numbers. In that situation, there are widely observed 'rules': those in the minority stay close to one side, and the flood of people in the opposite direction leave a narrow but clear path.

I entered the platform just as the crowd surged off the train. I could have crossed to the train, but only by ducking and weaving across a seven-wide stream of people on the platform. Anyway, I don't like standing in middle carriages; I prefer to walk down to the front and almost always get a seat.

I walk close to the wall and concentrate on people coming at me. One by one, they move slightly to my left, their right, so there are still six lanes of people leaving the platform,  and one lane for me, and my followers, to enter. It's instinctive, automatic and efficient.

Until I encounter HER. One particular woman. I would say maybe late-40s-early-50s. And tall. Remarkably tall. Initially, I thought she was trans, because of the height and the slightly-overdone-not-quite-right parody of femininity. I expected her to move over. She expected me to. I couldn't really, because of the other five or six lanes of people pouring along the platform.

So I stopped.

She was aghast. She had to stop, too.

She glared at me, and moved her weight onto the front of her front foot, fully expecting me to step aside. I didn't.

So, from her lofty height, she looked down and laughed at me. With sheer utter contempt. At which point I realised she was almost certainly a woman. An actual woman parody of femininity.  I stood my ground. She walked round me.

Afterwards I reviewed the events, trying to identify if there was something I should have done differently.  There wasn't. From her point of view, I should have moved out of her direct route, but I would have been trampled by the person next to her, or the one next to them, and so on.

If she hadn't laughed, I would have shrugged it off, assumed she was in a daydream 'miles away'. But that laugh. She was affronted by my impertinence. How dare I not move out of her way! Especially me, a foot smaller than her, not an insecure fashion victim smothered in garish make-up, but quietly negotiating my way through a crowd.

 A lot of people would have moved out of her way. Many don't stand up to bullies. I tried to fantasise in my head that she is universally loathed and thus unhappy, but it doesn't work that way. She'll have legions of like-minded friends who sit in suburban winebars sneering at their imagined inferiors, and having a good laugh together. I could pretend they're not really happy, but they are, because they don't even consider abstract concepts, and they can't empathise, so by believing they're happy, they are.

I must increasingly resemble the sort that won't fight back. A mixture of gender, my (lack of) height, and that I rarely travel in a group. Age is also a factor.

I want to end this on a triumphant note about how I stood up to a bully and won. But I didn't really, because she'll be picking on someone else soon enough, and I'll be picked on by another one just as soon. I can see why people give up and give in. It's upsetting, it does undermine one's self-esteem. It's easier to be passive and to stand aside. But that would depress me just as much.

 

On getting tickets

I made my mind up several weeks ago that I didn't want to go to either of the 'Domingo Celebration Gala' performances at the Royal Opera House this coming autumn. I knew that demand would well exceed availability. I learnt a long time ago that assuming or expecting something to happen makes the disappointment even greater than if you've psychologically prepared to cope with it.

The past few months have seen some periods of uncertainty in that section of my life we can firmly call The Real World. Fortunately, with good outcomes. I'm sure everyone has life experiences which put the getting or not getting tickets firmly into perspective.

Various bits of 'intelligence' from several sources made me realise that my chances of getting tickets were pretty low. I actually pondered last week whether even to bother trying, because the 'bother' and 'trying' would amplify the disappointment.

I have read somewhere, and damned if I know where, that Plácido will perform Il Postino in Chile next year. I decided that would be my reward for not getting Gala tickets. (Jimmy and I had considered Chile as a destination one Christmas, until we saw the cost of flights - more than South Africa!). Especially since I reluctantly had to return the Tamerlano tickets to Liceu Barcelona. And didn't get a ticket for the Madrid Iphigenie en Tauride.

And yet, simultaneously, I recall last summer, I remember vowing that a ticket for this gala would be my Holy Grail. In the future, other tickets would matter, but I would ensure a sense of perspective remained in my life. I have seen people with all sorts of interests and hobbies  - politics, and football, as well as opera, where it takes over their life to such an extreme, nothing else matters.

I even got to the part of rationalising that I wouldn't mind missing the galas if that were to be the case, but what would really irk me would be other people talking/writing about it. Almost like, when you're little and you want the latest trend toy, not because you can envisage the hours of fun to be derived from it, but because every other girl in the class is (allegedly) getting one for Christmas.

I haven't slept well for the last two nights. It's connected to a silly little summer cold I have picked up from Accounts and which is now circulating round Audit. Yet, to my surprise, despite my sleepnessless, I wasn't fretting about tickets. I was totally resigned to not getting any to Plácido's gala. I was primed to make jokes about selling my soul for a ticket. And when I sneakily joined the queue 25 minutes before opening time, there were already nearly 800 people ahead of me, so I did the sums and knew I was screwed.

At quarter to nine I had bought a ticket for each of the performances. I decided to skip the seating plan and just go for 'Best Available'. It now seems a bit churlish to say that the seats aren't great, when they are very good, a few rows back in the Amphi, and better than the seats I had for the Ring Cycle. And, of course, most importantly, inside the Royal Opera House, for Plácido's Galas.

And of course, I want to be there; of course, it isn't just because 'everyone else' will be. I hyperventilated and had to lie down ten minutes afterwards. I didn't even bother booking for the other productions on sale - although I returned this evening to do so. It matters. Matters so much.

It's very dangerous to use absolutes such as 'never' or 'ever', but I have pondered quietly today and vowed that from this day forth, I will never feel hard done by when, on occasions, I don't get tickets that I want but feel I'm entitled to. Because I've got tickets for 27 & 30 October. Though I'll always want more of him.

 

The "Facebook" concert - Plácido in Toronto

I had originally planned to stay up on Saturday night to watch this 'live' as it was streamed on Facebook (dread word), but a 1 am start (my time) was delayed until a 2 am start, and I figured I wouldn't get to bed until at least 5am. (At which point I am showing my age...!), and I certainly didn't want to 'do an Alfie Boe' and fall asleep.

I saw that it was avaialble to stream from 4 June to 12 June and decided that I would forego the frisson of 'live' in order to watch when I was actually awake. I tried to watch on the Sunday when I had hours of leisure time, but it just wouldn't load. I tried again on Monday night, and it was available, and I decided to watch it after I'd done something or other, but I realised I was fidgety and restless, so here I am on Tuesday evening, still light outside with a lovely midsummer glow of endless light evenings and lazy nights.

And blogging my thoughts as they occur to me - more or less! (I know the format of the concert, I know when's for writing, and when's for staring at the Full Screen Streaming!). No note-by-note micro-hyper-analysing!

Also, I don't like Sondra Radvanovsky's voice. I see no further need to comment negatively on it. To me it's an ugly sound with no subtlety, very little differentiation in tone and unremittingly loud. By all accounts she is a very nice person.

I didn't pay much attention to the opening number, obviously programmed as an ice-breaker, because I was running around setting things up, brewing tea etc. Sorry!

Plácido began with O souverain!, which is amongst my favourite of the pieces he does in concert. I think he often chooses it as a opening number as a sort of prayer, (which really isn't me, but I'm fine about that), and I do very much think that it's apt. A moving performance, although vocally he wasn't at his best.

The kindest thing I could say about the Father -Daughter Boccanegra reunion duet is that I am salivating at the prospect of hearing him sing this with Angela Gheorghiu at the O2, should be worth the price of admission in itself. Unfortunately, Strident Sondra continually drowned Plácido out with her wobbly scream, especially when he was singing piano (ish). I don't have a score in front of me, but guess that if he was singing mp and she was singing fff, the score probably said mp. So when I heard his cadenza, I was stunned by his beauty.  I'm sure this duet has probably looked like a mother - son reunion before, but, really, Sondra, d'you have to look so matronly? She's younger than me!

Then she sang La Mamma Morta from Andrea Chenier.

Plácido sang Nemico della patria (also from Chenier), which I have to say is one of the most boring arias I have ever heard him sing. Not a reflection on him, and certainly not on the impassioned performance this evening. I love love love the story of Andrea Chenier perhaps almost more than nearly any other opera, but sadly, for me, the music doesn't match it, and especially not this aria...must dig out my DVD with all those tenor arias!

The orchestra and chorus under Eugene Kohn performed the Triumphal March from Aida. What's not to like about this piece? I'd be interested if anyone reading this actually dislikes this piece (rather than, merely, tired of it being played too often as incidental music)

Act I ended, as Act I should, with Già nella notte densa, which entirely changes the tone of this blog. He began, she took over, she mildly irritated me, I hoped that maybe we'd get this at O2, don't know if Angela sings it.

Then, while dear Sondra was squawking her bit, he just gave her a look which made me think 'You charmer, you seducer'. And then he took over the vocal line, and reader, I have to say, I was knocked sideways, in bits, on the floor. I became entirely oblivious to Sondra/Desdemona, not even an irritant, not even wallpaper.

Such a compelling portrayal of Otello, captivating, spellbinding. And as it finished, I had to bring myself out of a trance where I believed I was watching a man in his forties in full Otello costume. Amazing!

Act II opened with Mira, d'acerbe lagrime from Il Trovatore, which was well delivered from both of them, despite sharing all the drawbacks of the Boccanegra. I also felt that Sondra hadn't been treated kindly either by her hairdresser or the cameras. I don't consider her beautiful or pretty but she is striking, and I just didn't get that this evening.

Then Poet and Peasant, a Suppé overture - a sort of guilty pleasure for me. I like it, though I don't find it in the slightest bit profound and can't say much more than I like it!

Some Enchanted Evening. Oh, Plácido...please sing this at O2. In fact, scrub that. Plácido, just be half this wonderful at the O2 and I'llbe able to float home...! I was watching a film the other day and this came on, sung by some crooner - for all I know someone who was famous for singing it - and I just sat there thinking 'I wish that was Plácido singing!'

I Could Have Danced All Night. I actually preferred Sondra in this to her operatic stuff, and she certainly compared well to many genuine MT divas, let alone operatic ones I have heard.

DAMASCENE CONVERSION! KLAXON KLAXON

Gert absolutely loves Sondra Radvanovsky in Musical Theatre numbers!

Tonight from West Side Story, probably my favourite musical, anyway, but they were steaming! They were so loving this, and the chemistry, whether stage or real I don't care...there's a look that Plácido gives, which is one of the most wonderful feelings a woman can experience. And then he sings... 'Sleep well and when you dream
Dream of me', I just whisper, "Yes, I will".

Then Sondra sang I Want to be a Prima Donna, which I've never heard before, but I thought was jolly, and wouldn't mind hearing again.

Before Musica proibita, Plácido gave a little speech, more a chat, really, where he stopped just short of over-doing the cuteness. I don't know this song; Google suggests strongly to me I ought to!

Sondra sang O sole mio in a satisfactory matter. They duetted in the delightful Non ti scordar di me

Next came the climax to the concert proper:

No puede ser. I think I may have mentioned, perhaps repeatedly, how much I love the timpani in this, which is true, but also ridiculous. What I love most about it is Plácido. I heard a note, and he sounded a bit strained, or tired, and a few more notes, he sounded croaky, and then he was fine, and I remembered, the man is 70 years old and I'm moaning, one note is strained. I tell you, if he happens to sing this at the O2, there is a possibility I might scream like a schoolgirl groupie!

As I had planned, I went to get my bedtime milk and tablets after this (I know how to live!), and realised I had an entire cup of tea, cold and abandoned at my hand, next to the PC. Which is quite a statement of how engrossed I was in the concert!

Before singing Vissi D'Arte, back in her opera voice, Sondra mentioned how she delighted she was back in her hometown - her hometown being where she lives, not where she grew up (I had a discussion with someone a ocuple of weeks back where I insisted that Sondra had a Canadian connection!).

I don't really understand Spanish, but I assume from the way Plácido sang Besame Mucho that it's Spanish for 'something moderately filthy, in a gentlemanly way'. Sí?

 Sondra sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Not quite Judy, but pretty damn good.

Plácido sang Granada as only he can. Wonderful. What more can I say. Together they sang a number called If I Loved You, which I don't kow, but how could anyone not enjoy that?

Then Lippen schweigen, which is even sexier in English. He has.no.right.being.so.meltingly.seductively.sexy. And it's a jolly good thing the camera did plenty of facial close-ups because otherwise, the way he moved round stage, and, most of all, sang, Iwould have assumed he was about forty, and I would have developed a crush on him or fallen in love or something. Which would never do!

The concert finished, somewhat to my surprise, with the Hallelujah Chorus, Plácido conducting. (I like my Handel to be delicate, on period instruments, but once in a while you can't beat a belting Hallelujah, with added fireworks!)

To summarise, I would strongly urge you to try and get to watch this before it disappears on Sunday. It costs USD 15, which is a bit steep if you're on a budget, but from my point of view it's money really well spent - don't hesitate, this is a really good concert. In my opinion Plácido is in exceptionally good voice and is on good form, holding nothing back.

My only criticisms are that I can't find a way to keep it for posterity - I'd love it if they released a DVD - and sometimes the picture pixellated though it was mainly very sharp and clear. Obviously, that fault could be occurring at my end, on my lappy or router,  or at the exhange, but it did diminish it slightly.

BlackCreek preview: Plácido Domingo and Sondra Radvanovsky

Domingo and Radvanovsky Deliver the Magic at Black Creek

Concert review: Domingo and Radvanovsky open BlackCreek

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In match between Rexall Centre, traffic chaos and bone-chilling cold, new concert venue squeaks out a victory