Gertsamtkunstwerk

That New Year Thing

I can't believe I've got to go back to work tomorrow. God, my life sucks...

I haven't worked since the Thursday before Christmas. I resolved on the Friday I would do my ironing. I have discovered that ironing tires me out if I attempt to do it all at once. So, I thought, bit at a time, no pressure, no hassle. A few items a day.

Of course, I immediately saw a flaw in that. It involves leaving the ironing board out. Or lots of hassle in getting it out on a daily basis.

I thought,what I could do, is iron a few items a day whilst watching DVDs. An approach of genius. I have a database of all the operas I have on CD, DVD etc. It currently stands at about 500 items, including about 150 operas on DVD (or waiting to be converted to DVD) that I haven't played. If I played one a week, that would take me three years, even assuming I don't acquire any more. One a week may not seem a great many, but that total doesn't include concerts documentaries etc. Nor does it take into consideration that I actually want to watch many of my collection again, and maybe again.

This post isn't really about ironing and watching DVDs. I could provide a list of things that I felt two weeks ago would be ideal ways of filling the long blank boring hours when I'm not at work and not with my lover. Tidying up various parts of the house, editing an enormous backlog of photographs, establishing and maintaining social contact with various people who live outside the internet.

Sometimes, cocooning, chilling and resting are attractive occupations!

It's 2008

My excitement is almost palpable.

I lie.

I am the soberest I have ever been at this time of a January 1st since the 1970s. Maybe even the 1960s*, who knows...Right bloody boring Christmas and New Year, with my Dearly Beloved working far too many hours in a sh1t job that thankfully he has now served his notice upon. At which point I shall write reams...

2008 is turning out to be a peach of a year so far. Suburban South London has been re-enacting the Battle of the Somme in their gardens carefully manicured and concreted-over, with decking and water-features, natch. Exactly how dull must your life be that you mark this auspicious occasion by letting off incendiary devices and, doubtlessly, exclaiming "Ooh! OoH!". Indeed, my feeling of ennui at being stuck in on New Years Eve is tempered only by the relief that I am not out there, forced to join in artificial jollity whilst being overpriced for a meal prepared with slapdash pressure and served with the zero care and attention. I saw in the New Year by timeshift viewing a very crap film, The Girl With the Pearl Earring. What a pile of pointlessness.

I have watched a considerable number of films this break, and that one takes the biscuit as far as rubbishness is concerned. I was most impressed by Das Leben der Anderen. History Boys was entertaining, and to some extent thought-provoking, but utterly unrealistic - not least in the sense that I doubt any state school in 1983 could afford to provide a Seventh Term Sixth Form. Sorry, not realistic. Although clearly the way to be accepted into Camford University, especially in a subject such as history where relative maturity of thought is expected. Meet the Fockers was rubbish but was worth watching for a good Dustin Hoffmann and a superb Robert de Niro. Naked Gun 331/3 has begun to pale a little on the sixth or whatever viewing. There seems to be an accidental Robert Redford minifest going on on channels diverse. I have watched the Great Waldo Pepper - surprisingly good, living up to my positive memory of having seen it decades ago - and still have Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All the Presidents Men to go. Somehow I missed Barefoot in the Park.

As for telly in general, I think I have avoided most of the dross, and, flicking through the Radio Times, I espied plenty enough of that. I watched Ballet Shoes, and whilst I enjoyed it I was disappointed. I must have read that a billion times as a child, and one of the most satisfying aspects, as with the dozens of other Noel Streatfields I enjoyed, was the detail in the finely honed prose, much of which had to be cut out for a 90 minute drama.

I watched Romeo and Juliet and The Tales of Beatrix Potter but concluded that, wonderful though Carlos Acosta undoubtedly is, ballet isn't for the small screen. It kind of has to be experienced live, I think.

Much the same thought went through my head on watching La fille du regiment. Yes, the performers were wonderful, Natalie Dessay and Juan Diego Florez in particular. But it seemed such a trivial little story, and the full glory of the production, especially the scenery (which, surely, will be clapped when it turns up at the Met in the Spring) was lost on the small scene. and as for that aria, nine High Cs? So what? It really doesn't ring out from the TV at all.

Carmen also lost a little in the televising but gained so much in the intimate shots of the wonderful Jonas Kaufmann, who really inhabits this role. I am so looking forward to seeing in him in a couple of weeks, sadly only as Alfredo the Wimp in Traviata, but later this year as Cavaradossi, the eponymous hero of Puccini's opera of the same name. And, reportedly, he returns in the autumn as Don Carlo, which is splendid news for me.

It was nice, but ultimately disappointing, to watch To the Manor Born. I think what really worked in the series way back when was the chemistry between Audrey and Richard, and the element of suspense of 'will they won't they', whereas in this episode, because she walked out on him, there was very little of them together, and one was inclined to think that probably the walking out was a common occurrence in their twenty five year marriage.

I also got round to watching the serialisation of Oliver Twist. Imagine my ignorance when I thought it was all over after the first episode, because that more or less coincided with the treatment in the musical. And I kept wanting them to break into song, especially "Who Will Buy?". It's a lot deeper than I realised from the Musical. I really ought to read books, you know. But then, when they serialise books I have read, such as Cranford, I realise how little of it I actually remembered from reading it. I think I read too fast, taking very little in. I don't know if one is supposed to re-read classics, or to read them very very slowly,savouring each passage as it comes. I do remember reading Bleak House. God, that book did go on. And on. And on. I think it took me six months to read the first half, and then I managed to read the second half in a week or so. Dickens would have benefited from editorial brutality.

And with that I must retire. It seems the bombardment has all but seized and the only sound to pierce the night sky is sirens and more sirens. At least I'm not waking up in a police cell for the New Year. I can't remember if that's one of the Forty Things To Do Before Forty. I certainly won't be seeing in another New Year in my Thirties. You cannot begin to imagine how relieved I am!

* I'm joking, not a drop of alcohol passed my lips until 1974

Iphigenie en Tauride, at the Met

I didn't know this opera at all four months ago. So it was little short of lunacy to book myself, and then also Jimmy, a ticket, to go and see it, not at the opera house a bus ride away, but at one three and a half thousand miles away. As it happened, I already had a DVD, purchased as part of the seemingly ongoing Del Prado part works of Opera on DVD. Plus, I had also purchased a ticket for the Royal Opera house's production (jointly with Chicago and San Francisco) of the same opera, with some of the same cast, but not, crucially Oreste.

So, by the time the Met production opened I was not entirely unfamiliar with the opera, having in the interim downloaded two more recordings off t'internet. I did consider listening to the opening night over the web, but it was on at 1 am my time, midweek, at a time when my body was instructing me to go to bed at 8 pm (and then wake up at 5 am, but never mind that...), and there seems to be no way to set up a timed recording from the Met's streaming. So, it was only five days before Departure Day that I got to listen to this particular version, when it was broadcast on various radio stations, including BBC Radio 3 as part of the Met Broadcast season. And then I couldn't stop listening over and over again. There is a fundamental flaw in repeat listenings to a live recording, mainly that every mis-step is implanted in the brain just as surely as the music. By mis-step I mean all the things picked up by the, reportedly, very close miking, including the wheezing of the conductor, the overloud prompter, stage noise, audience noise and so on. At least I was able to satisfy myself that it was likely to be a very good performance, at least vocally, although considering the situation of my seat I was a bit worried that things like the wheezing conductor and shouting prompter might encroach on my ears, live. I also already knew that this was going to be no period interpretation, unlike at Covent Garden when it was the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment playing on proper old-fashioned instruments. In actual fact, the presence of modern instruments bothered me less in practice than it did in theory, with the strings in particular giving a vigorous work-out and abandoning the slushy 19th century approach. I did miss the period oboe though, at one key point.

I have to confess that I am thoroughly confused about the difference between the versions for Oreste as a baritone and as a tenor, and short of sitting down with both scores, or playing excerpts, almost phrase for phrase, I don't think I can work it out. Still, with baritone Keenlyside straying into tenor rep, and tenor Domingo veering to baritone, I would love to have an analysis of the crucial differences between their respective fachs.

So, I arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center NY NY way way too early but in plenty of time to pick up tickets (and additionally purchase more for the next day's Romeo et Juliette).  I took my seat just minutes before the curtain was due to go up,. becoming increasingly excited, and also nervous. But so far, no suggestion that he would cancel, and why should he, but you know, I live in fear of sod's law. I assess my seat, Row A of Orchestra, not bad, not bad at all. A bit to the left, which was slightly disappointing, but I had perfect sight lines. I was next to the double basses and in line with the harpsichord.

The curtain rose, for some reason it was a red curtain, not the usual mustard-coloured one that is so familiar from videos and they seem to insist on calling 'gold'. I was utterly disappointed at the total absence of Applause for the Scenery, despite me being in the opera house that is known internationally as The Place Where They Applaud the Scenery. There are some wonderful photographs of the production which, together with the recording of the Met broadcast, will serve as a memento. To me it's a crying shame that this wonderful performance was omitted from the simulcast schedule and thus not committed to video. I see no indication whatsoever that Plácido is going to sing this role again, anywhere, but I fervently hope he does,  and preferably in Europe.

I have now reached the stage where I think that this opera is quite possibly up there in my Top Ten. I am so very unfamiliar with the work of Gluck -  a couple of years ago I attended the (would you believe it?) UK premier of his La Clemenza di Tito and was stunned by its gorgeousness. But Iphigenie en Tauride is even more gorgeous. I would go so far as to say that Act II is as good as any other act in any other opera.

Of course, there is a clue in the title as to who the main character is, Iphigenie, played by Susan Graham, who never left the stage during the entire performance. The other two main characters are Pylade (tenor, Paul Groves) and Oreste (baritone, tenor,whatever, Plácido Domingo). And there are some other minor characters, too.

So, the set was divided into three. Approximately two-thirds consisted of the temple, with an altar and a statue of Diana dominating, this is where the action in Act I and for most of Acts III and IV happened. Another approximate third, which was in front of me,was the prison cell where I ought to have known Oreste and Pylade would be held. The balance was to my extreme left and seemed to serve no purpose except as a place where guards and dancers etc distracted from the main action.

It was not actually until Act II, when the blokes were flung into jail that it suddenly dawned on me - directly in front of me, not more than a few feet away, my view totally unrestricted , Plácido Domingo was singing whilst rolling around the floor in chains. I'm not a bondage freak by any means, but trust me, opera doesn't get any better than that (insert big grin!). Remember, I was on Row A of Orchestra. This was pretty much the view I got.  He spent a lot of time rolling around on the floor, falling to the floor, and on his knees on the floor. Looking at him throwing himself round stage, and, especially, listening to this unbelievably gorgeous voice, I did have this thought 'I can't believe he's 67 next month' and then I thought 'so what, just enjoy what is before your eyes and ears'. And actually, as is so often the case, I didn't really spend a lot of time thinking 'That's Plácido Domingo right in front of me' compared to the amount of time I was thinking 'This Oreste is bloody good'. And time and again it happens, despite me being so familiar with his voice, I hear a sound that is breathtaking in its beauty, a phrase that makes me subconsciously think 'does singing get any more beautiful than this?'. Not that he was going for constant beauty of tone; there was as much drama as beauty. Especially in the Mad Scene when he's being played by Klytemnestra's Furies. (Jimmy said he was wearing kneepads, I can't say I noticed but Jimmy is motivated by grudge or jealousy or something...). I have to say though, that I was concerned about his chest hair. I wasn't sure whether he had shaved it, or covered it with lots of make up, but it didn't seem as prominent as it had done in Die Walkure or, indeed, in the photos on the Met site (which I guess were taken at the Dress Rehearsal).

Impressed as I was by Plácido, it would not be fair to attend this and not heap praise on Susan Graham. Once or twice, it seemed that she was struggling to hit a couple of high notes, but that didn't in anyway diminish a wonderful performance, vocally and dramatically. Fiendishly  difficult passages, a range of emotions coming out in her vocal acting, and an utterly convincing stage performance that never had me thinking 'that's Susan Graham' but always 'Iphigénie'. And Paul Groves also gave an excellent performance, a sweet voice, and whilst not an overwhelming stage presence, he certainly impressed.

Also worth mentioning was Diana as played by Michele Losier. Completely stunning in appearance, she had two moments in the opera, at the start and at the end. Both times she descended to the stage on a wire, the first time, she managed to take Iphigenie away with her (as they flashed back to events fifteen years earlier) and at the end she got to fondle Oreste, not that I was jealous, of course not. She sounded good and looked stunning, a bit Goth in her get-up and drop dead gorgeous. Jimmy claims that at the curtain call, Plácido grabbed her, but I think he's just making that up, motivated by grudge and jealousy, because I never noticed and I didn't take my eyes off Plácido in the curtain call.

The low point of the opera was the choreography of the dance in between Acts I and II. At one stage it seemed like the bastard offspring of the worst of Cossack dancing and the best of morris dancing, if that doesn't imply that Morris dancing has a 'best', which it doesn't. That was a shame because the personenregie was excellent (helped no doubt by the presence of excellent acting singers).

Although I was disappointed by the absence of Scenery Applause, I was delighted that a smattering of people in the audience applauded when Plácido made his entrance, regardless of the through-composed nature of the opera. Because that's another thing 'they' do at the Met - but I was a bit disappointed it was isolated culprits, not the audience as a whole ;-)

I didn't go backstage or whatever to meet Plácido afterwards. I had thought about it and decided not to, despite so many people saying that he would be delighted to see me, having travelled from London. It struck me after Die Walkure that there's actually a conflict in my mind.  Seeing him on stage, not just because he's so good in that particular performance, but because of his legendary status, is a special treat. However, because he is such an approachable, down-to-earth, likeable person, with a total absence of divo mannerisms, it almost breaks the spell of him being a Legend, because he doesn't have the attitude of a Legend.

Particularly because I was in a strange city and a strange opera house, I thought it would be nice, for a change, to be in a position where he's not that nice man who is so approachable and affable post-performance but an exalted Legend appearing at the Exotic and Legendary Metropolitan Opera House. I would respect and like him less if he was any different personality-wise, yet conversely, because he's so nice, it does break the spell of the performance slightly. It even struck me the next day, when he took to the podium to conduct, appearing avuncular or maybe grandfatherly was a big big contrast from how I had previously seen him, as a warrior king (albeit in a dodgy wig).

I realise that this review is impressionistic. It's difficult to remember every detail, now at eight days' remove, and on just one viewing. I am terribly disappointed that this won't be available on video. I don't think I shall ever forget the impact of the performance, but with the inevitable ravishes of time, the clarity of my memory will fade. I suppose it was a pretty brave decision of him to take a new route in his career like this. He has nothing to prove, and potentially a lot to lose. But it was also a clever decision, I think the role suited his voice perfectly and his dramatic impersonation was lacking nothing. I realise it's entirely unfair to make comparisons with Simon Keenlyside, who was obviously under the weather when I saw him in this, but of the two performances, I would rate Plácido's above Simon's.

Romeo et Juliette at the Met

I tease, I shall write a review of Iphigenie en Tauride after R&J, although R&J was the second opera I saw. I only managed to secure tickets the night before, when collecting our I en T tickets at the Box Office. It had been consistently sold out since public booking opened, but I had been repeatedly reassured that I would get returns, or failing that, find someone by the Lincoln Center fountain selling tickets on the day. We managed to secure tickets in the Dress Circle which was okay. Yes, it would have been nice to have been directly behind the conductor but that wasn't going to happen.

This was the performance that was broadcast on the radio and to cinemas in various places, not least Clapham Common. I was ruing the irony of going all the way to New York and not being able to see a performance that was being shown seven bus stops from home. Not that I would travel to see Plácido conduct, but if I had been in London I would have travelled to Clapham Common to see the cinema screening. And, as I was in New York, it seemed silly not at least to try.

I woke up on the Saturday morning thinking 'I'm going to see the World's Greatest Singer conduct?' nothing against his conducting, honest, but It's a singer and a person I admire him, not especially as a conductor. Apart from anything else, except at the extremes (brilliant or atrocious) I really can't judge conducting performances by anyone. Then I thought, get a grip, woman, you will be seeing your hero. And if that isn't enough, there is the minor fact of the leading singers being Roberto Alagna and Anna Netrebko. There aren't many opera stars bigger than them.

Other than the big 'numbers' I don't really know this opera, and, don't tell my mother, I really don't know the story either. Oh sure, I know the basic plot-line - heck, I've seen West Side Story and that film - Shakespeare in Love, isn't it - but I've never actually seen the play on which it is based.

I had mixed feelings about the performance. I still can't comment on the conducting. It seemed fine to me. Some people on the net have mentioned minor issues, but I don't know. Jimmy, an expert on conducting /g, thinks that Plácido should conduct with more passion and less intellect. He did run that one by the women sitting next to him, but they basically told him that Plácido is beyond criticism! thank goodness I wasn't sitting near anyone like that. The women to my left (mid fifties, I'd say) screamed like schoolgirls when Plácido took his curtain calls. I thought 'hmm, I can do that too' so did!

I don't really know what to make of the production. I liked the scenery, although I didn't applaud it, not even at the start of Act 4 when the curtain opens on the Famous Floating Bed. The basic set for the first part (Acts I-III) was a rotating cut-out circle with an astrological clock on it. At all times the scenery was worth looking at. I was really not so sure about the production itself. It seemed to be a game of two halves. Utterly boring when neither of the leading roles were on stage, and springing to life when they were. Hon mensh must go to Isabel Leonard who almost stole the show as a very vivacious Stefano,and also to Robert Lloyd who was captivating in the small but crucial role as Frère Laurent.. But the rest were dull. i was especially disappointed by Nathan Gunn, who is supposed to be a Big Star but really didn't make it past the footlights dramatically and whose voice didn't carry to where I was sitting. I will admit that, under an overhang is not acoustically a good spot in any opera house, but I had no trouble hearing the aforementioned four stars. As for the chorus and general line-up of comprimarios, well, they were never better than adequate and at times risable. I was particularly underwhelmed by the personenregie of the chorus. They seemed to deliver every chorus number rooted to the spot, and on the one occasion they moved, it was in sync (almost!) one step forward, then another step forward. Just like a school production. And I'm afraid that the rest of the cast was forgettable.

It was of course the Roberto and Anna show. When they were on stage, especially together, but also individually, they forced me to take my eyes off the conductor. Both of them superb at the dramatic portrayal. Also, it was Officially Roberto Alagna's turn to wear the impossibly tight trousers. There are lots of photos in the Met database but I must draw your attention to this. There doesn't seem to be any photos of his rear view, which is a shame, because it is so rare to see such a perfect derriere, especially on a man who won't see 40 again. Still, it will be shown on TV in the spring, and, presumably a DVD will be out in a year or so.  It was actually the first time I have heard him live, and his performance confirmed what I had already decided from DVD etc. He is a natural stage performer. Singing-wise he seems brilliant in all the 'in-between' bits but when it comes to the big number notably Ah! Lève-toi, soleil and Nuit d'hyménée, he is less impressive. Bizarre. I also noticed during that duet, when Anna hit the big O#, she couldn't keep her eyes off the conductor.

Ah, yes Anna! Is their any singer that so divides the aficionados as Ms Netrebko? Indeed, is there any singer about whom I am so conflicted? I am a massive fan of hers, and yet there are plenty of sopranos, let alone other voices, I would rather hear. I suppose because she is so praised, and so criticised, one has unreasonable expectations of her. I'm tempted to say, she's nothing special, when I actually mean, she's nothing perfect, and there are no perfect singers, not even Señor ChestHair. But she is mighty impressive. I couldn't find a flaw in her perfomance, although I have read that she fluffed the Je veux vivre. Maybe she did, and I can't plead ignorance of this arietta, but I was distracted by someone's funky disco thud thud ringtone going off, not once but twice, a few rows in front of me (and again after the interval...if I could have identified the culprit, foreign country or not, I would marched up to them and flung their blasted cellphone over the parapet. And a funky thud thud disco ringtone, puhlease, I was the youngest person in the audience and I eschewed funky thud thud long before I got a cellphone - and I was a relatively early adopter...). But it's as they always say - you have to hear her in the house. Her physicality and stage presence adds to an already impressive vocal performance; opera's a visual as well as an aural artform. If you think Dead Divas on scratchy 78s are vastly superior, stay Shut In with your Mapleson Cylinders and STFU. I enjoyed Anna's performance. Jimmy was annoyed I left the binoculars in the hotel room. As if I would have let him have them to gawp at Anna when I could have been using them to gawp at Plácido.

Overall, a satisfying performance, and I was pleased to get to hear Roberto Alagna who is persona non grata at ROH and relegated to Proms in the Park. But it wasn't the best performance of the year nor even of the weekend. But I shall certainly watch it when it comes on the TV.

Incidentally, Plácido was wearing a lounge suit to conduct, which I suppose is appropriate for a matinée, but it seemed strange. I suppose I tend to prefer my conductors in either full evening dress or Mao-style shirt a la mode of Elder and Pappano. but if he had turned up in jeans and t-shirt I would still have been gawping him at every opportunity. I couldn't help notice how the spotlight picked out his bald spot, which, for his age, isn't especially noticeable (someone once told me that when men lose their head hair it gravitates to their chest...), but did seem so under the spotlight. Sigh. Ah well, such is the lot of conductors - they get to display their irresistible conductors' shoulders but also their bald patches.

Update: I've thought a bit more about what I wanted to say about Plácido's conducting. I think, if it hadn't been him, I wouldn't have especially noticed him, which is a good thing, I think. I noticed him because he is him, if you get me. I noticed that sometimes he had both arms moving in sync, which is probably not a good thing, but at other times they moved independently, which is a good thing. I also noticed that he pointed a lot to cue people in, instrumentalists  or singers. And that he can't really stand still on the podium. He was dancing along to the music a lot of the time. Not in an irritating Seiji Ozawa sort of way but just on the spot, as if he was enjoying the music.

New York New York...

...so good they named it twice. Or something...

I am just about recovered from my long weekend in the Big Apple. Well, I did recover physically a while ago but there has been a certain amount of catching-up, and anticipation of BahHumbug Day, to do.

It was non-stop excitement and non-stop.

When the Victoria Line decided to conk out at Victoria I thought that that was a foretaste of problems to come, but, actually, that was the only thing that went wrong in the entire trip. And me knowing Victoria like the inside of my hand, I was able to get to the secret taxi rank whilst thousands queued at the well-known one.

Instant check-in at Heathrow, and then time to get something to eat. Surrounded by paparazzi, as it happens. I was chatting to the paps, they were awaiting the Spice Girls. Which was sort of exciting. I am not disappointed at not seeing them, although it would have been mildly interesting to witness the process. As it was, I engaged my cynicism gene. I am almost positively certain that if they had wished to slip in discretely, it would have been within the powers of Heathrow to afford them VIP treatment. But presumably, the paparazzi in pursuit is their lifeblood, all carefully co-ordinated by a PR machine.

We joined the security queue just at the right moment, when the man started asking people on flights at 1630 and 1635 to step forward (we were on the 1635). It amused me that other people had been standing for half an hour or more in vain. Suckers...And by the time we had finished in Duty Free our flight was being called. The flight over was without incident. Because we had booked our tickets separately, we were not initially seated together, but that was changed at the gate. I was sitting next to a slender woman who was sitting next to her small daughter. The seats in front were taken by a large number of children of Primary School age and below and there were quite a few more small children in our part of the plane. I was slightly apprehensive at the implications, but every child was impeccably behaved; I only really noticed the presence of any small children when, at the precise point my ears began really to hurt on descent, a wailing came from a few rows back!

Immigration was a pain. Literally. We queued for a very long time in a room without any seats. I amused myself by eavesdropping on the Italian cabin crew being very very rude about French people. I always feel it is unwise to make assumptions about the language skills of random people standing nearby!

Regarding my criminal past, I had been advised to lie. In the event it wasn't necessary. The green slip of paper merely asked for details of criminal convictions involving drugs, moral turpitude or imprisonment of more than five years. As I don't know what moral turpitude is, and the others certainly don't apply, I did not lie and have a clear conscience. As we went through, the Homeland Security Official asked us if we were a family. I said yes, he asked the relationship, I said living together and engaged. He said 'you're not a family - yet'.

Insolent sod, I thought, how dare you pass judgement? Would it make a difference if we have bred, would the presence or otherwise of products of breeding be material? What do you say to gay couples who are 'civil partnered' or married? I deferentially replied "If you say so..."

As we strolled to the taxi stand, I reflected to Jimmy how nice it would be to visit a foreign country where we wouldn't be constantly harangued by people trying to get you into their shop or restaurant. However, we were immediately confronted by taxi touts who kept telling us how long the taxi line was. I must admit it did look long, but illegal taxis are the oldest trick in the book and a constant in every tourist destination. I can't believe that people still fall for that one. Just when I thought we might be stood there all night, a cavalcade of twenty taxis turned up. The driver hands a slip of paper to an official, who hands it to me. This has the driver's badge number and instructions on how to complain. The official told me, what a friend had already told me - the fare to Manhattan is $45 plus $4 toll plus tip.

And we were at our Midtown hotel in fifteen minutes. I repeat, fifteen minutes - JFK to Manhattan. Is that a record? But even in that time Jimmy managed to get travel sick, so all he wanted to do was get a beer to settle his stomach. (Alternative medicine?) The area around our hotel didn't seem very salubrious at that time of night but we fell upon a Plastic Paddy pub. We stepped outside for a cigarette and I suggested he looked up. He was peering at the signs over the pub so I said "Up! up!"

"That's tall!" he said. Yes, I said, that's the Empire State Building. It's quite famous for being tall!

As we turned in at 1 am, I reflected that my body didn't seem to know that it was 6 am body time. I am good at that adjustment at the start of a holiday, totally useless at the end.

For me, all that mattered on the Friday was the tickets we had to the opera. A heady mixture of excitement and sick with nerves, trying not to think of all the things that might go wrong - Plácido cancelling, me not being able to find Lincoln Center, us being captured by the White Slave Traders and being whisked away to a seedy part of Outer New York. Or New Jersey. Every time I received a text I was sick with nerves in case someone was letting me know Plácido had cancelled.

But we did manage to do a bit of Fifth Avenue - wandering around Lord and Taylor, peering at the Christmas Tree and Ice Rink in Rockefeller Plaza, and popping into St Pat's Cathedral. I then decided to flag down a taxi and say "Take us to Greenwich village, somewhere where there are restaurants." An entirely random decision, but I wanted a decent lunch. Himself was having severe motion sickness, but the taxi set us down outside a Plastic Paddy Pub so that was alright. He was Himself after a beer.

We strolled around looking at menus outside restaurants, eventually deciding on a Spanish one that looked attractive. We went in and asked for a table, the hostess said 'fifteen minutes' which was fine by us. I then noticed a framed photo just inside the door. Presumably of restaurant management posing with a rather famous Spaniard (clue - he's a singer and conductor). Jimmy groaned 'I can't escape from That Man' but conceded that it was probably tantamount to a recommendation. And we certainly had a fine meal, which set me up nicely for the walk back to our hotel. Over thirty blocks, did I complain? And all for his Travel Sickness, otherwise I would have hailed a cab.

We managed to get a lie-down before getting ready to go out. I was nervous about my ability to navigate the Subway, about how long the line at the Box Office would be, and still sick with nerves in case I had come all this way only to find a rare Domingo cancellation. In the event, the Subway was unproblematic and we arrived with more than an hour to spare. Before we had even entered the opera house I already spotted a familiar face. I commented to Jimmy "I keep seeing that woman, at Covent Garden, when we went to Berlin, and now here. I think she follows Plácido around the world..." I don't know why he gave me a strange look.

After Iphigenie en Tauride (yes, I will write a review later, don't fret) we were both hungry. For some reason we ended up at Hard Rock Cafe at Times Square. By the Restrooms I spotted Billy Joel's motorbike. I was sort of impressed until I remembered that the first time I had visited the States I had spent some time with my Aunt's God-daughter who often used to spot Billy Joel in the local supermarket. Having noted 'Allentown' on the flight route map, I embarked on a Billy Joel Tribute Weekend. When trying to decide which way to get the Subway at one point
I said 'Uptown, because I'm an Uptown Girl.' A song I later heard in another Plastic Paddy Pub.

On the Saturday we had a big breakfast before heading to Lincoln Center for Romeo et Juliette (review later, I promise). Himself was moaning, I didn't come here for Bloody Opera, to which I said 'Fuck You' because there was no way I would have organised the trip without the opera, he decided to tag along later, knowing full well what my plans were!

After R&J I phoned Pampano and reserved a table. Because of Jimmy's travel sickness and my misreading of the Subway map I decided that the only way to get there was walking. I'm sure at some other time it would have been a pleasant stroll, but at approximately five pm on a Saturday ten days before Christmas? Do me a favour! When the sidewalks were reasonably clear people decided to walk really slowly, strung out across the pavements. Grr, Bloody Tourists I moaned, forgetting I wasn't in my own city, where I hate Bloody Tourists. Also, my superb navigational skills hadn't taken into consideration that we would be crossing Fifth at Rockefeller Plaza. Nor having to pass Santa outside Radio City Music Hall. Grr, BahHumbug, it's only a man dressed up as Santa, you don't have to have your photo taken with him, not if you're blocking my route!

Pampano was definitely worth the walk! We started with cocktails and Guacomole, which set us up well. At the waitress's recommendation we took the Signature Dishes - Tacos de Langosta and Huachinango, with Platanos Fritos. Hmm, Snapper and Plantain, very Sarf London - but not exactly served Sarf London style. My only criticism was that there was a bean in the salad that I didn't especially like. Broad bean I think, I'm not sure, but I have never cared for its taste. But one can't blame a restaurant for serving an ingredient I have never liked! For pud I had an almond tart; Jimmy had ice cream, which passed his formidable ice cream test. After the main course we stood up to pop outside for a cigarette, the waitress was really worried, is anything wrong. Not at all, we assured her, just popping out for a cigarette! When we had finished, and I was in the restroom, Jimmy was telling the waitress why we were there, and wondered if if I could take any memorabilia away, so she suggested he asked the hostess for a souvenir wine list. I now have a wine list from Pampano, so maybe next time I see Plácido, I might ask him to sign it! We only really went there because it's his restaurant, but, you know, we know a thing or two about restaurants and about food, and I would recommend it to anybody (except vegetarians!). I suppose it helps if you're a fish/seafood fan but there is some meat on the menu. Everything was just perfect, the service, the decor, everything.

On the Sunday after another hearty breakfast, we did a rapid fire attack on the menswear department of Macy's. I was not entirely convinced that Jimmy was getting the bargains he believed he was. Sure, he was getting Calvin Klein shirts a lot cheaper than he would at home, but personally I see no point in paying a premium for a brand. At least they don't have a logo on them.

We then met up with Richard off the internet, whom I have met a couple of times in London. We agreed to meet outside Carnegie Hall, I asked how to get to Carnegie Hall. Disappointingly, he said, 'Get the Subway to 57th and 7th' whereas the real answer is 'practice, practice, practice...'! He had a number of suggestions at what to do, but by that time my body had declared walking to be totally impossible. First of all, owing to my desperate flight from Macy's due to an unfortunate need to retch (JFK, the Met restrooms, foot of the Empire State building, Richard Tucker Square, Macy's...I picked my retching points in NY well...more impressive than Millbank, Brixton Hill, Streatham High Road, work, home, but I'm over the retching now, funny how the hormonal side-effects linger weeks after the main event...), we needed the loo desperately, so we sneaked into the spa at Hampshire House (I believe there are some celebrity residents of Hampshire House*...)

We then went for a horse-drawn carriage ride around Central Park, which was not necessarily the most obvious thing to do in the snow and biting wind but actually was a bloody good idea. Central Park in the snow! I have seen it, crowded, in exceptional June heat, and now, nearly deserted and snow-covered, looking really quite different! We then went for a guided (by Richard) tour of the Upper West (and some of the Upper East) Side, parts of Manhattan I had not previously seen. Being a local, he sent packing one taxi that wouldn't let Jimmy sit in the front; sitting in the front and looking ahead was much better for the avoidance of travel sickness! It was interesting seeing parts that I have not seen before, over to Riverside, with the residences of various rmo/Opera-L denizens being pointed out, and the former residence of Zinka Milanov.

We tried to get into the Tavern on the Park, but there was a long wait for tables, so we just walked round. Talk about kitsch, in a really over the top, inyerface, but somehow, apt way. On balance, it was probably better to go to a restaurant near Lincoln Center (although I only had chocolate cake). Lisa Gasteen was at the next table; I almost broke my golden rule of not approaching celebs off-duty, but I just remembered in time. She was eating with another woman, whom I fondly hoped was a Valkyrie; I like the idea of Valkyries popping out for late lunch/early dinner together, it seems a sisterly thing to do!

We parted from Richard and went shopping in Macy's again, Jimmy picking up his purchases, and me going into major shopping strop. I didn't especially want to buy loads and loads of clothes, partly because my weight has ballooned recently and needs attending to, but I thought I would at least look for trousers. To my dismay it was not possible easily to locate trousers, being that everything was sold under its brand name, and I really couldn't be arsed to look through floors and floors of really bad taste 'designer' outfits and even worse chav-crap in the hope of finding a pair of well made and fitting trousers I could locate in five minutes in M&S/Next etc. So I declared I hate shopping and we returned to the hotel. We were planning to go out to eat in one of the many local Korean restaurants, but somehow got watching TV documentaries on Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson. I felt quite ill afterwards, but mainly from the adverts which were largely for prescription drugs or for low sodium foods all guaranteed to get you pathologically worried, especially considering it seemed necessary to list all the possible side-effects. I began to feel I was suffering from all the side-effects of taking medication for bi-polar disorder and Erectile Dysfunction. I am sure there is a totally insensitive joke to be made about someone with bi-polar and ED, but I can't think of it right now. Still, it was better than watching the news (it's just a snowstorm, so, the country's grinding to a standstill, what's with the weather obsession /g; or the battle between one right winger to win the right over another right-winger to challenge the right-winger in a contest to see which right-winger of which right-wing capitalist party gets to be President /vg).

We finished off shopping in the morning, or rather, Mr Grumpy did. He didn't want to see the bloody Statue of Liberty or go up the bloody Empire State Building. For someone who doesn't think much of New York he gave the plastic a good bashing. I didn't. I looked again for trousers, but there was very little in my size. My trouser size is just about the average for a British women. I refuse to accept that the average American woman is any smaller (And maybe even a bit bigger). Perhaps the shops had been inundated with average size women over the weekend. Perhaps American shops manage stocks like British shops do - in some delusion that everybody is a stick insect - result, lots of stick insect clothes (8-12 UK, 4-8 US) left on the racks as the 14-20/10-16 sell out to average shaped women. May I apologise now to clothes manufacturers for having a perfect hourglass figure with hips.

Our journey to the airport took considerably longer thanks to standstill traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Although I have been to New York before I was nevertheless shocked by the extent of traffic congestion. It's the eternal paradox of Western Society: the more one is dependent on motor vehicles, the less pleasant a way it is of getting around. I personally don't see the attraction of sitting for hours inching forwards in heavily polluted jams getting nowhere slowly. But each to their own, I suppose. We were disappointed not to spot a single stereotypical grossly obese American person, but I suppose New York is like London - the relative attractiveness of public transport/walking provides a shocking contrast with the car-dependent lard-arses in the sticks. I'd be totally gross if I drove everywhere, even though I walk a lot less than I used to, I did prove, twice, this weekend I can hoof it, and at speed if needs must.

Our return flight was excellent, we even arrived a little bit early. There had been a mix up, with me and four other people down for a very low fat rather than veggie dinner. In a not dissimilar circumstance coming back from Sharm, Excel Air's response had been, tough starve, or else maybe you'd like a lot of stale bread rolls. American Airlines attitude was - fine, we'll get you a Premium Cabin veggie meal, but please be discrete or everyone will want one! I have to award AA cabin staff a special award for being the least ostentatious power-crazed prats I have ever travelled with (although I have in fairness to be nice about the Airtours crew coming back from Goa who were two down after one was needed to supervise the violent druggie in handcuffs and one to supervise the desperately ill woman below stairs). Going through Immigration was a cinch, and we were back home two hours after we had touched down.

Bizarrely I took very few photos. I think I am going through a seriously non-photo stage of my life. It will pass.

As we landed at Heathrow Jimmy declared he never wanted to go on another long distance flight. I decided that our next holiday will be in Norfolk (except for operatic trips to Barcelona and, hopefully, Madrid) then when Moaning Jimmy gets the wanderlust, we will travel Business Class. He wishes to revisit Australia and also go to South Africa, and I have decided that he will. But not for a couple of years yet.

* including You Know Who, I believe...

Knock knock

I am still here. For some reason, I haen't felt like blogging or doing very much at all on the internet. No particular reason. No illness, psychological distress. I have not been especialy busy although I have not exactly been scratching round for things to do. Not even a phase i'm going through. Barely even a mood. A bit of writer's block, but not of calamatious catastrophic proportions. It will either herald a dawn of uber-prolific blogging, or else merely mark an interlude between periods of intermittent posting. Plenty of missed opportunities to cast onto the internet pithy witty observations and profound analysis of stuff, stuff both in my life and in the public domain. Other opportunities will crop up, no doubt, whichmay or may not be blogged.

Met blogs Iphigenie en Tauride

MetBlog » Blog Archive » The First Rehearsal Photos

Die Walküre in Barcelona

Damn, I've just gone and bought a ticket for a concert performance of Die Walküre at the end of May. It's not a bad cast, though...

Estate agents

Bloody nerve!

Next door is up for sale - again. I say again, because he seems to put it up every time the lease runs out with the current tenants. I heard some shouting outside my house today and saw that some sharp-suited halfwit bloke with a Mini Cooper was yelling into his phone right outside my place. I went outside and asked him to stop shouting outside my house. He babbled on about having a 'client'; I said I couldn't care less, he has no business shouting outside my house, he's behaving suspiciously and if he doesn't clear off I'll call the police. Which sent him into a panic...amazing how frequently mention of the word 'police' scares non-EU citizens. He did explain that he was a 'Real Estate Agent'. I suggested that either he ought to make phone calls inside his car or else get a new phone if he has to shout into it. If I had been a bit more quick-thinking I would have pointed out the breach of confidentiality involved in holding client conversations where they can be heard by all-and-sundry.

I mentioned this to Jimmy, who said 'how much?'. So I did a quick google and found out (£330k -as if...'this little period gem which is set in an increasingly popular area of London' pfthhhwa!). I was aghast to find that next door is being advertised with a full-frontal picture of my house, presumably because our garden is pretty and cottage-like and next door's is a barren mess. Jimmy told me to get onto them and complain - otherwise we'll have random strangers knocking on the door or nosying around when we're not in.

It really is a bloody nerve. I've asked them to take it down from the www. Perhaps later in the week I shall call in and inspect their paper publicity, too.

Still, if you have that sort of money to spare (I don't), there's a nice little cottage for sale in Clapham Park (sic), semi-detached to a lovely couple who don't row very often and rarely play Wagner loud past midnight (only when very drunk).

Manchester United

You know, I don't think I have ever had a blogpost before with that title. Which is bizarre. So is the fact that I actually don't mention them very much on this 'ere blog. That is partly to do with the fact that, being a total Jonah, it is very difficult for me to watch them. I haven't seen them live in years - the last time I saw them live Eric Cantona was suspended after his heroic karate chop at the same ground, a match I had missed because it clashed with a Central Services Committee followed by Full Council in an attempt to set a budget when we were a hung council. 1995, I think.

I don't watch them on TV as often as I might, because of things getting in the way. And me being a Jonah, even through the cathode rays. I had a massive sulk at the start of the season. The season started too early. And in some ways, not early enough. We had a disastrous start to the season. I was contemplating a blog post after our two draws and two losses, when we finally won, saying "look like the football season's just begun..." Then we lost to Coventry in the Mickey Mouse Cup, and I knew it was going to be one of those seasons. Yeah, it was like we remembered how to win, but it was always boring 1-0.

Then suddently, 4-0, 4-, 4-2, 4-1 (2-2 at Arsenal was a bloody good result even though I was gutted when they equalised so late) and 4-0. What's this lads? A bit of FOUR play...cringe

Blimey, we've qualified for the knock-out stage of the Champions League already. Not only that, we've got maximum twelve points, which is more even than Barcelona and Arsenal. Oh bugger, Arsenal. Our eminence gris. We'd be looking bloody rampant if it wasn't for them. Oh my god, Manchester City are only two points behind us in the Premiership. That's scary ('thirty one years and they've won f*** all, City is our name').

I enjoyed the match this evening!. My expectations and hopes are rising...by my age I should know better. Too often they've been dashed...Oh wait, we've been here before. Am I in fact the most miserable pessimistic football fan ever? Or am I, in fact, Kipling-esque, meeting with Triumph and Disaster and treating those two imposters just the same.

There's another six months to go yet. Oh the anguish...

The Ring

Tomlinson Rescues Royal Opera's 'Ring'

A good summary review based upon the cycle I also attended.

The apparently ageless Placido Domingo reprised his familiar Siegmund, running out of steam a bit at the end of Act 1 but otherwise singing with ardent enthusiasm and the breath control of a tenor half his 66 years.

I filled in my happy sheet today - the Royal Opera House, like training courses and hotels, requests feedback on performances. I decided to have a moan about the bad way that soft drinks are served. I suddenly realised at the start of Act III that I really wanted/needed water. £2 they charge for it. And they had no chilled bottles....If I had realised in timeI would of course have got a £1 bottle from the newsagent, chilled.

Siegfried

It's a week since I saw this, and it's about time that I wrote a review. But I have been either tired or busy ever since, except at work, but writing long reviews of long operas isn't the smartest thing to do at work.

I have somewhat ambiguous feelings towards Siegfried as an opera. I don't feel the same emotional involvement as I do with Die Walküre, I don't have the same feeling of light and hope that I do for Rheingold, and I don't think the orchestral music is as glorious as is Gotterdammerung.

And, having sat through this a couple of years ago and not really enjoyed it, plus it was coming so soon after a glorious and special Walküre, so my expectations were very low.

I enjoyed the vorspiel (incidentally, I have had an amusing 'search request' for 'vorspiel foreplay' - I suppose it is a literal translation, but I don't think they carry the same actual meaning...!). It opens with a curtain down, covered with various equations, like differential calculus or maybe thermal dynamics. Mime (Gerhard Siegel) wrote E=mp3, which made me laugh, but no one else seemed to - perhaps the seemingly complex equations confused people, which is ironic, because I bet 90% of the audience can read musical notation better than I can.

I promptly fell asleep, to wake with a jolt at John Tomlinson's entrance as Wanderer; the scene between him and Gerhard Siegel as  Mime passed quickly enough. Siegfried is basically a whole sequence of duets. I enjoyed the Forging Scene.

Taken overall, Act II was a real highlight. A lot of people thought that the staging was naff, with a stag and a doe being wheeled on to reprsent Siegfried's parents. I didn't mind that. I loved the slaying of the dragon scene. Both Peter Sidhom (Alberich) and Philip Ens (Fafner) acquitted themselves well in brief appearances. And I more or less enjoyed the Woodbird scene, although being near the top of the Amphitheatre, I think I saw more than the director intended of the puppetry. I liked it when Ailish Tynan was lowered on a wire to actually be the woodbird. I thought she sounded gorgeous.

The first scene of the final act will stay in memory for a long time. It is an amazing piece of theatre. The stage is dominated by a slab which spins at some speed (and always on a tilt). Onto this were projected abstract images of clouds and so on. John Tomlinson's vocal performance was good, his dramatic portrayal was amazing, and Catherine Wyn-Rogers as Erda was memorable.

The second scene wasn't bad, either. And then the final scene started. I was pleasantly surprised at how pleasant John Treleaven as Siegfried sounded in his monologue at the beginning. I even had hopes for the Love Duet. Sadly, my hopes were dashed. It was really really awful. Treleaven absolutely murdered it; Lisa Gasteen finished it off. She was so  bad in this, a significant contrast with her performance on Die Walküre, and, as I was subsequently to find, in Gotterdammerung, as I had also noted in the original exposition of the production, that I can't help but wonder whether she is being dragged down by her singing partner. It is such a shame because it ought to be one of the musical highlights of the Ring.

And it completely ruined the mood for me. For the second half of Act 1, all of Act 2 and for the first scene of Act III I had been indulging in serious crying. It really is an indulgence and a great catharsis. It's not like my tears of self-pity or of exhaustion, and it's not like crying at a funeral. Crying at an opera (or a film etc) is a form of entertainment, because the sub-conscious knows that the emotions are manufactured and finite, with no consequences. And yet, the Love duet, I couldn't cry.

Overall, I enjoyed the performance much more than I thought I would. This is largely due to the way it was written (thank you Wagner!) and also to the orchestra. I'm not really sure what to say about the orchestra and its conducting. There was no place where I sat up and thought - gosh, I have never heard it played that way before. I feel that I have heard the opera, the cycle, sufficient numbers of times to know when something is going spectacularly badly or well, but other than the occasional duff note or chord, somewhat inevitable in live performances of this length, there was nothing that really hit me. I suppose that that mean that the interpretation was bland; I can't really say. I am not sure that I want an interpretation that is so idiosyncratic that it challenges my comfortable familiarity. And I can't say I have any great expertise in assessing orchestra or conductor, except that I know when something gives me a warm feeling or leaves me cold. I was tending to warm feeling.

On the buses

On Monday I caught two buses up to Camberwell, changing at Brixton. On both buses there were people in wheelchairs. I only really noticed because the bus takes a bit longer at bus stops when it has to let the ramp down and take it up again. I saw a few people in wheelchairs in and around Kings College Hospital, but that's to be expected. Back in Brixton, there was someone in a wheelchair in Marks, and I saw a further two on the way home. This morning I noticed a bus in the bus station with its ramp down, I then noticed someone wheeling away. And this evening there was someone on my bus in a wheelchair. I have seen a further three people in wheelchairs, not including a woman at work I often chat with. I don't think that in my entire life before this week I have experienced four people on buses in wheelchairs, let alone four in one week. I wonder if there's a week of Direct Action going on or whether it's just that having noticed one I am more aware of others.

I was stood at a bus stop not far from work. I noticed a man and a girl standing there. She was about seven or eight, him very early twenties. I thought he's too young to be her father, then I thought, maybe not. I didn't especially notice or judge him, although, in retrospect, I reviewed whether I had done so subconsciously. He was black, wearing a baseball cap sideways, puffa jacket, looked a bit, not rough, but not exactly posh. As I made to get on the bus, he made the girl stand back and let me on first. Naturally, I expressed my thanks.

Upstairs on the bus two fairly posh nicely spoken white boys, about 12 or 13, were listening to some hip hop on the phone of one of the boys. Oh god, I thought, I'm glad I'm only going a few stops. The black man, with an unmistakable Sarf London accent said, "Turn that crap off..." "Why?" asked one of the boys. "Because it's crap..." said the man. They complied.

Speaking as a feminist...

Williams makes criminal age call

for all sorts of reasons I'm not getting into the detail of this, although I always find it a relief on the rare occasions that the bigwigs of Organised Religion comment on matters of morality that are nothing to do with Religion's Sexual Obsessions.

I have been meaning to post for a while on the issue of jailing women.

Rowan told the Sunday Telegraph women with young children should only be jailed as a "very last resort".

and I think this is almost certainly the correct wording. A few weeks ago I had reason to read the Corston Report, and most of it made total sense and is clearly an excellent report.

But one aspect jarred - the assumption that was written into it that 'woman' and 'mother' are interchangeable synonymous terms, when it is obvious from 2001 Census, from less official statistically valid data collection and from anecdotal observation that only a small proportion of women are mothers of children (I'm excluding mothers of adults).

I discovered a few weeks ago an appalling tale about a chap I know call Steve. I say 'know' but he is barely an acquaintance, albeit one I have been slightly acquainted with several years. He has a daughter who is 8; the girl's mother died about 7 years ago. Steve is a single parent. I encountered his daughter at a great-nephew's christening a few months back. That weekend, the daughter was staying with 'Aunt S and Uncle P', a couple who are close friends of Steve's and slight friends/good acquaintances of me. I didn't ask the reason why. Turns out Steve was in the nick on remand. I know Steve to be a decent and gentle bloke, although I don't know anything of his past. His case came to trial and he was found guilty of ABH and bound over. He had got involved in an altercation and had shoved the other bloke, who had fallen over and banged his head. Not big not clever but on a scale of heinousness, this barely registers. I don't feel afraid that Steve is at loose in my community. I am just shocked that he was banged up. So was the magistrate or judge or whatever, who declared it an outrage that he was imprisoned on remand. I know that Steve is a good father - I know that from observing him when his daughter was little. I know that from chatting with his daughter this spring (yes, I know her name, it's fairly unusual, no need to publish it here). I think Steve is a good bloke.

I find it appalling that Steve's responsibilities as a lone parent were not considered when he was remanded. This is nothing to do with childcare being a feminist issue, but being an issue for society. I have total respect for Sue and Phil for looking after the child; there again, I would hope all decent people would do the same. I know there are plenty of blokes banged up who don't give a damn for the children they so ignorantly or carelessly fathered, but there are plenty who do. And I think that any compassion (and bottom line pragmatism) that saves mothers from prison should also apply to fathers. As a feminist I have always argued that childcare is not a feminist issue, because it is irrelevant to the lives of most women and extremely important to that of many men. Also, I don't see why rules should be about 'child'care when an increasing number of people have responsibility for dependent adults or elderly parents etc. I think it is easier to arrange respite or foster care for children than it is for dependent adults with complex needs, and even though the majority of carers are (probably) women, it still isn't a feminist issue, but a problem for specific individuals and a challenge for society

In praise of John Treleaven

The Covent Garden Ring Cycle was beset by withdrawals, due to offspring's broken finger, severe colds, even a cover had a broken arm. One by one the characters got killed - by brother, in a row over a ring; by a brother-in-law he had cuckolded; by Wotan; in childbirth; stabbed for being a dragon;stabbed for being a mean gnome; and it was only after 15½hours that John Treleaven succumbed to being stabbed in the back.

Throughout three acts of the eponymous Siegfried, when he was barely off-stage at all, into the Prelude and 2½ acts of Gotterdammerung, I think we can all agree that John Treleaven gave 110% in effort. Totally energetic, absolutely unflagging, through four cycles (including the Preview Cycle), 25-30 hours of singing above a large orchestra, and there was never a time I couldn't hear him; I'm sure that applied to Cycles 0-2, too. The Royal Opera House selected him to play Siegfried, something he did with absolute commitment, in the performances in Autumn 05/Spring 06, too. And for that, I have to give him total respect.

I feel I ought to say that, because it seems cruel to criticise him. From what I saw, he was totally professional throughout. I have little time for singers who are obviously not trying. No one can level that accusation at John; he was very trying. I don't think he was up to the job, but he was appointed by the Royal Opera House. Appointed and retained. I hope he hasn't been reading the reviews, because he did what we all hope we can do in our respective occupations - gave everything to a job that was beyond his capabilities. I think we can all look ourselves in the mirror when we know we have tried our utmost at a difficult job. It does us no good to find out that people found us lacking. Apparently, he has a substantial career throughout Europe. Perhaps that is in smaller houses than Covent Garden. Perhaps in houses with less exacting standards. And we all know that Siegfried, especially in Siegfried, is a bastard part to sing.

I just feel I ought to say all this, rather than letting my reviews dwell too much on him. I do not want to disrespect the man, when his performance indicated that he is an honest committed performer of much integrity.

Let's just say that I find his voice unremittingly ugly. Let's just say that I found that his wobble/squawk unpleasant on the ears - before I had even attended I was drawing parallels with a dislocated shoulder. His singing was akin to a dislocated shoulder, unfortunately the NHS wasn't handing out free pethidine to get through. Some singers get compared to chocolate, velvet, crystal. John Treleaven - a dislocated shoulder. Another commentator said - and I quote

I would rather have watched 12 hours of a radio-controlled squid than the performance of a Mr John Treleaven

Bizarre as it may seem, the radio-controlled squid was actually an option at Another Opera House...in keeping with Monteverdi's wishes, I'm sure.

But without John Treleaven we would not have had Siegfried, and would have had a rather lop-sided Gotterdammerung with a massive hole in it.

And what a glowing testament to Wagner that not even Mr T could ruin his music...well, except for the final scene of Siegfried, but I suppose I just have to live with that. And I'm not even going to comment on his acting. He has massive stage presence. He has an innate musicality. It seems clear to me that he has a deep understanding of the score and what notes he ought to be singing. The fact that he couldn't hit many of them is entirely beside the point.

Right, I've acknowledged the elephant in the room; hopefully I can review the two operas now.

It's all over...

The Ring Cycle 2007 has come to an end. Eight emotional days. (Plus my bonus Die Walküre, of course). A couple of weeks ago I read something somewhere, sadly can't remember where, which suggested that attending a Ring Cycle  is a voyage of self-discovery. I have to admit that I was sceptical. I thought that I would gain a great deal of enjoyment and learn more about the actual operas. And I have. I don't think it's been a life-changing experience, but I would definitely agree that it's been a voyage of self-discovery.

Over the weekend I shall write reviews of Siegfried and tonight's Gotterdammerung, and I haven't forgotten my Die Walküre, curtain-call photos. Of course, my personal highlight has been Plácido as Siegmund, twice. You would not expect me to say otherwise. And meeting Plácido, a few times! But I will concede that this was John Tomlinson's Ring. I am so happy to have been proved so totally wrong. I had a little on-blog argument about JT's wobble. And yeah, he wobbled. He failed to ring out on the high notes. His is not a beautiful voice.

But OMG what an amazing performance! Utterly stupendous. Dramatically, all round sheer excellence. But that doesn't begin to describe it. You can't do convincing dramatic in opera without having the score in your bloodstream, without knowing the music, interpreting the music. People say "Voice first..." I say horlicks. John Tomlinson proved that it isn't necessarily about bel canto but about living and projecting the  role. Monumental. And if he doesn't get the appropriate award (Olivier award??), there is no justice in this world. This evening, he joined the curtain calls, despite not being in Gotterdammerung (he was dressed in a suit) and the house almost without exception rose in a standing ovation of tribute (I spotted maybe six people still sitting in the Amphitheatre).

My personal Ring journey began three years and eight months ago. Since then I have had the rare privilege of attending three different Rings, all within Zone 1 of London Transport. I suspect that this sequence in such a short period is unprecedented in any city and unlikely to be repeated. Lucky me! (And no, I never seldom considered myself part of a three ring circus!). In that,  I only missed the Proms Siegfried.  I can chalk up 4 Rheingolds, 6 Die Walküres, 3 Siegfrieds and 4 Gotterdammerungs. And now I feel bereft. For the first time in my recent opera-going life, I don't know where my next Ring Opera is coming from - although I've got Parsifal in December! But my life has been enhanced by that experience, and I believe that my self-knowledge has too.

It has been tiring and emotionally draining being at a Ring Cycle. I am rather pleased that nothing else has been going on this week. I was fortunate that most of my work this week has been downloading reports from the accounting system, which is about as dry as it gets, and although requiring concentration doesn't require emotional or intellectual input. Tomorrow - today - is Arsenal vs Manchester United, on Monday my lover has a minor operation. But this week has been Ring Ring Ring.

There have been a few people who have been a big and important part of my life this week - Mandy, Mo and Raffe, who have done the cycle with me, plus of course Anne Marie. Other people I have seen around and repeatedly:  a mother and son from Zurich;  David and Frances whom I chatted with at Rheingold and then kept seeing in the distance;  the familiar-faced smokers out on the terrace;  and, of course, the people sat near me - we even had our own little saga:  what would Rudolph's excuse for being late be this time - Easy Jet, M25, "I've been in the West End since 2pm...", and Rudolph's delightful colleague who I have chatted with but we never exchanged names. The man with the crutches, the woman with the cushion, the Irish women with their dry 'alternative' commentary. And the favourite of the Upper Amphitheatre, the noisy sweet unwrapper! I've spent more time with these people than I have with my work colleagues and most certainly than I have with my partner! And to the bloggers who have been there, too - especially Mostly Opera, Intermezzo, boulezian and Tales of a Cultural Hedonist (I think I was the only person who blogged ENO's Das Rheingold; opera blogging has come a long way since then). And a special thanks to my mother, who hasn't phoned during this special time ;-)

I don't suppose I will ever forget my first Ring Cycle. I don't know when I shall do it again...I expect something will happen in that great year of 2013 (or will my ambition be a Verdi cycle?)

A murder outside my house

This isn't funny. The Wimbledon Guardian, which presumably is also the Streatham Guardian, says that the police are no longer regarding it as suspicious. So why were there two police officers on the corner this evening, stopping and questioning people, although not me, perhaps because I don't fit a description, anyway I have an alibi, and I quickly put my ear to the ground, as one does in a neighbourhood.

The man killed is a Jamaican alcoholic homeless man who drinks his ten cans of Super. I'm supposed to know him, can't actually properly place him. Stabbed, I'm told. My source, who has had his ear to the ground all day has jumped to the same conclusion as me - the gangs that have been hanging around in an intimidatory manner for months outside the Knights Youth Centre. Place should have been shut down months ago, whoever runs is out of control. Jimmy's just told me he's seen deliveries going on there. And when deliveries happen you get desperate 'youths' who'll do anything for money. Include, it seems, stab a desperate alcoholic homeless man. At quarter to six in the evening. Almost broad bloody daylight. Time of day when people are moving around, coming home from work, bumper to bumper traffic on the South Circular, dropping into Tesco.

Live in an urban area long enough and you don't notice a lot of stuff. Police have been swarming the area recently, some clamp-down on car thefts (frankly, if that's their operational priority I'm appalled). Often you see police parked up outside places. Don't get involved, don't ask questions.

But what can i do, what can I say, someone got murdered outside my house yesterday, and it hasn't actually sunk in yet. I'm feeling quite calm right now, but I'm not sure that's going to last.

Very close to home

Road collapse death 'suspicious'

Not Streatham, actually...

I was annoyed that the bus carried on instead of turning left to drop me off near my house. I had a long walk (or so it seemed with achy legs etc), to find that the police have sealed off Streatham Place up as far as Carphone Warehouse. It's giving me the creeps reading that. I'm glad I was out. Jimmy's heard a rumour it was a shooting. But you know what rumours are like.

Capsule review of the mythical Act III of Die Walküre

I say 'mythical' because people keep telling me that there is a third act of Die Walküre but for some reason I rarely get round to playing it at home.

I meant to write a long review last night, but Real Life got in the way, in a pleasant way.

So, Act III Bloody Good. I cried. Magic Fire Music beautiful. Pyrotechnics worked. I cooed.

Tonight is Siegfried (I'm taking a book,and some ear-plugs), but, hopefully by the end of the weekend I shall have edited and uploaded some of the photos from the Die Walküre Curtain Call

The second interval...

We gathered on Floral Street, in the rain, to queue and to wait. Plácido had said that he would be by the Stage Door at the second interval; him having said that guaranteed that many other people also would be, a lot more than last week, actually, probably word had spread. not only was it wet, it was also cold, but even though I had my umbrella (in contrast to a previous occasion), my coat was in the ROH cloakroom - I had not envisaged waiting outside for so long. Still, that gave us plenty of time to discuss what we wre going to say. I decided that I was going to say nothing, simply go down on my knees and worship ("Again?" someone asked...). Intelligent questions would  be such as "When are we next going to see you in London..." - incidentally, last week, Mo asked him about the Albert Hall concert. Nothing has been fixed yet, no indication of dates, but it's likely to be a zarzuela evening. Less intelligent questions could be 'When are you next going to perform with wonderful Katherine Jenkins?'.  We contemplated what an obsessive-fanatical total fan would do at this point - I know what you're thinking, but honest, I do retain a sense of perspective. Besides, there comes a point where obsessive-fanatical-total fandom becomes very disrespectful. However, if I were that sort of person, I would not have been standing out in the rain. I would have run out of the opera house at the second the conductor's baton fell, heaving with me my large collection of CDs, DVDs, pictures, magazine articles etc to be signed. I would present to him a love poem I had written especially - or perhaps a narrative of a fantasy scenario -  and a list of my future engagements when I shall be next slavishly following him. I'm telling you, we were waiting a long time.

I felt rather proud of my bullying skills, as I took the rearguard behind Anne Marie, Mandy and Raffe, all of whom I had bullied into accompanying me in star-stalking. We had to wait quite a long time just inside the door-to-the-street. The man on the door said that it was 'no flash photography', so Raffe took a couple from side on, and I was going to, but then someone else came to clarify that it was 'no photographs', so I didn't. Instead I just gazed on His Gorgeousness, who was looking especially gorgeous. He was still in costume, his hair and beard dyed, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. I had one of those delicious moments when, despite the fact that I do rather fancy him and I know that I fancy him, and I'm very familiar with his appearance, I experienced a frisson of surprise at how attractive I find him.

Slowly we wended our way towards the front of the queue, anxiously looking at our watches as the time for the curtain for the mythical Act III drew closer (don't fret, I did go to Act III, and will write it up in due course).  The order was Mandy, Anne Marie, two elderly ladies we had let in before us, Raffe and me, and I think there were at least a couple of people behind me - the remainder of the queue was the other side of the glass door.

Anne Marie approached him and said she had seen him in Washington after Die Walkure, but she had felt too intimidated to approach him. "Why?" he asked. I didn't catch what Anne Marie said, but here's her report from that evening . He asked her where she was from; he asked her where she lives. She then produced a score for him to sign, he asked her her name and signed her score to Anne Marie. He then asked her whether she was a musician. She explained that she is a violinist, and waggled her violin case around, so he said -  remember his delicious Spanish accent and his gentle way of speaking,

"Let us make music together..."

which caused certain of us to laugh and say "Ooh...!",  to which he said sternly,

"I said music," (at which point I felt suitably told off - or not...!). We just laughed again.  Of course, if I had had my wits about me, I would have said,

"Well, Plácido, you've been killed off and don't appear in Act III, and Anne Marie doesn't actually have a ticket for the performance, so you've both got time" but I didn't have my wits about me, so I didn't say that...missed opportunity or what...! Naturally, afterwards, I did try teasing Anne Marie, saying 'get in there, girl!' but as she quite rightly pointed out, he is passionate about promoting young musicians.

Of course, after that, any intelligent questions that might have been in my mind completely disappeared; instead I said what I have been wanting to say to him for a long time, which was to thank him for introducing me to opera. and he took my hand, which was really nice, and I was happy. And I got back to my seat in time for Act III!

People often say you shouldn't meet your heroes; by this they mean that if you idolise someone and then you meet them, it can be disappointing to find out that they are not as you believe them to be, that you can get a nasty shock if they turn out not to be likeable.

Fortunately for me, I hero worship someone very special, someone who, it is almost universally acknowledged is a very special person.  and is unfailingly courteous to fans. For example, appearing at the Stage Door like this, after a long and arduous performance - he is under no obligation to, and it must be quite tiring to then spend an hour signing autographs and welcoming so many people.  It's wonderful that he does, and I for one am extremely grateful as to how approachable he is. And it's wonderful to get the opportunity to tell him - however inadequately - how much he means to me.

And yet, paradoxically, the fact that he is so approachable and so down-to-earth, a good laugh, who comes over in such situations as relaxed and laid back, nice and friendly, actually just confuses me, because he's a complete legend in the music world, 58th Greatest Living Genius, and he is a consummate performer. Even on days like today when he didn't sing as well as I have heard him sing previously, he was still marvellous:  the singing, the dramatic portrayal, the stage presence, the charisma were truly something special. He's earned the right to act like a divo, but he absolutely doesn't, which just makes me admire him even more. And yet I am confused between placing the musician on a pedestal and being fairly informal with the person. I don't know how much longer he will be singing for, probably not more than about five years (but who knows...) and I just feel even more determined to hear him as often as I can.

Die Walküre (Cycle 3) Act II

The lights went down and Antonio Pappano was cheered to the podium. The curtain opened to reveal John Tomlinson as Wotan performing an act very close to furniture abuse - rifling through a pile of books on the floor and flinging them away. I presume this is Valhalla,, although it bears an uncanny resemblance to The Hundings' place back on earth. I suppose this retrospectively underlines Hunding's religious devotion, perhaps this included careful perusal of the Ancient Norse Mythological version of Hello magazine. There was the same table, set exactly as it had been in Act I, with even the overturned chair in the same position. The chaise longue was also there, now upended. At the back we saw a smashed window, on the left hand wall at the back was a lopsided bookcase. Wotan's pile of books was in the centre of the stage, next to a hole in the ground, similar to that which had led from his old gaffe to Nibelheim, and perhaps most importantly, the double helix, its lowest horizontal being the roots of the ash tree of life. And there was red rope.

I proceeded to get an attack of the stupids in quite spectacularly brain-dead style. I was confused by the music, which sounded a bit like the Ride of the Valkyries, and there were various Valkyries dancing around. I actually thought for a moment that somehow I had missed Act II and we were actually in Act III. How likely was that to happen? Then Wotan addressed Brunnhilde - Lisa Gasteen - and told her to saddle her horse and ride off into battle to ensure the Wälsung wins. I snapped to, and realised that of course it was Act II. We see Brunnhilde  being playful and carefree, her 'Hojotoho's prompted by Wotan's playful goading with his spear.

Next,  the interminable scene between Wotan and Fricka. It's quite a difficult scene because it is extremely important dramatically, explaining why Wotan has to behave the way he does, the nature of the relationship between Wotan and Fricka, his wife and the goddess of marriage, and a discourse on free will. But nothing actually happens, the vocal writing is possibly the least interesting in the entire opera, and it was not especially beautiful listening.

Rosalind Plowright portrayed Fricka convincingly, but I just didn't find her voice particularly attractive. John T is dramatically and physically the incarnation of Wotan, but parts of his voice are totally shot to pieces. I did pause to consider that Bryn Terfel would have sounded like in the role (I have heard him sing it three times) and while I will concede that if he had been bothered to turn up he would have hit every note and on pitch and sounded beautiful, but Bryn Who? wasn't missed by the occupant of my seat. Sir John T did a marvellous job of covering up for the areas where his voice is past its best. In some passages, rather than sing, he declaimed in a way that was not speaking, not parlando, and certainly not singing, but, you know, it really worked. And throughout, his acting was total and intense.

Fricka left and Brunnhilde arrived for what seems like a very long scene. I have a very weird habit, or talent, or weakness of managing to be awake and asleep simultaneously. So, I can be fully aware of what is going on on stage and yet have absolutely no control over what is going on in my head, so I am watching the action, listening to the music, incapable of reading the surtitles and unable to intellectualise what I can sense, whilst totally unconnected thoughts, scenarios and hallucinations are flashing uncontrolled through my mind. It is different from when I am falling asleep and is different again from when I am actively day-dreaming or fantasising. So I can't tell you a great deal about that scene, although  reading  through the libretto tells me I didn't actually  miss any of it, never actually drifted away.

I came dramatically back to a state ofcompos mentis when Wotan dramatically issued the curse onto the son of the Nibelung, and was witness to the poignant dialogue when Wotan, against his own will, orders Brunnhilde to ensure the death of Siegmund, in accordance with Fricka's decree and against the will of Brunnhilde herself (but she has no free will, anyway).

Dramatic music heralds the return of Sieglinde and Siegmunde, hauling themselves though the wilds of the Rhineland and across the stage with only the red rope, which Brunnhilde had attached to the chaise longue, to guide them. The exchange between them is intimate and sad; the love between them is true, but wrong, and doomed.

The most amazing music of the evening creates a palpable frisson around the theatre as an orchestral interlude introduces the second great scene of the opera. I'm not sure whether it's quite correct to describe Brunnhilde's comment as a Chat-up Line, perhaps more of a come-on, indeed, literally, a summoning of Siegmund to accompany her Nur Todgeweihten taugt mein Anblick; wer mich erschaut der scheidet vom Lebenslicht., basically,whoever gazes on me is doomed to die...I can't quite remember the exact translation used in the surtitle, but it sends a chill through me every time, and definitely qualifies as one of the better invitations of the evening.

It's an extraordinary scene, one that is given poignancy by being acted with utter dignity, poise and restraint, the slow question and answer, that makes me well up with tears as I write about it, his hope that in Valhalla he will find his father (still not realising that his father Walse is in fact Wotan in disguise, that Brunnhilde is also his sister); and the dignity and heartbreak of  "So grüsse mir Walhall, grüsse mir Wotan..." Unfortunately, this was not the vocal highlight of the evening, and, with hysterical over-reaction being not just my forte but also my default mode, I actually thought for one ghastly moment "this is the end of a long and beautiful career". The next phrase was long and very beautiful, and I breathed again. He recovered well, and when he got to "Zwei Leben lachen dir hier: nimm sie, Notung" he was powerful, dramatic, amazing. But in that passage, one of my very favourite, he had sounded strained and struggling, a bit phlegmy, perhaps not helped by singing in a kneeling position.

After that scene the final scene is almost a let-down, as if it was almost an afterthought by Wotan - fling in a Mad Scene from Sieglinde, but a bit of a half-hearted one; oh, better make sure we kill off that Walsung Boy, who's now a dramatic inconvenience. As I wrote in a previous post, I do get a secret pleasure (okay, not so secret because I've written in on the internet on a blog that's getting a lot of search requests today for 'Die Walküre'  - patience, please...) from that death scene. A small dramatic device which speaks volumes is when Wotan pauses to look at the corpse of Siegmund, conveying regret, sorrow, knowledge that his own days are limited. Very clever...

Blinking again into the light, a dash to the Ladies, where I discover my mascara has streaked all down my face...hmm, how did that happen...and then outside onto Floral Street, which, to my surprise, is all dark. Damned clock changes.

Die Walküre (Cycle 3) Act I

I was sick with nerves 'audience fright' as the curtain opened, half of me so looking forward to this, the other half absolutely petrified that I had built my hopes and expectations so high that I would be so sorely disappointed. Almost certainly the last time we will hear Plácido sing Siegmund in London.

This opera has become so infused in my bloodstream over the past couple of weeks that I now have to say it is my favourite. Over and again I keep playing it, almost to the point of obsession. I would actually have to try very hard (or get a score or something...) to make Act I any more familiar.

This was my fourth time seeing this production of Die Walküre in the Royal Opera House, and having seen it little over a week ago, there were no surprises. A lot of people have criticised it, and, I suppose if your preference is for literal naturalistic productions, I can see why it is irksome. Act I is set in Hunding's house,where Sieglinde, Hunding's wife (and property) also lives. As you look at the stage, this consists of a chaise longue on the left, and a long table on the right with - I think -two chairs next to it, one either side. At the rear of the stage is a box, suspended above the stage and slightly at an angle. Entwined around this is a giant double helix from floor to ceiling.

The first scene focuses on a stranger stumbling into this house and encountering the woman of the house. Tentatively, shyly, they converse, introducing themselves to each other, each telling a part of their recent history - how he has fled, his spear and sword smashed, from his enemies. Refreshed by the mead she offers him, he says he must be on his way and not let his bad luck spread to her house. She says stay, you can't bring any more bad luck to this house, he says, I call myself 'Woeful', which as conversations go isn't exactly going to feature in 100 Best Chat-Up Lines...But you can tell they are drawn to each other in a mysterious magical rapport.

Then Hunding arrives, and makes sure we know who is Boss by throwing his axe into the kitchen table. Sieglinde explains how this stranger stumbled in; Hunding offers hospitality, and begins to quiz the stranger abut who is. This prompts a surtitle which isn't supposed to, but, invariably makes me giggle (inwardly), translating 'Friedmund darf ich nicht heissen with 'I can't call myself "Peaceful"' (I wonder how this translates in Spanish opera houses...). He goes on to tell his life story which is really quite moving - heartbreaking, indeed. Slowly it emerges that the stranger and Hunding are enemies, and Hunding is obliged to challenge him to a fight, but in the morning, so as not to break the laws of hospitality.

I think what I find engaging about this scene is that because so very little actually happens, it is all just tale telling, filling in of back history, the director might be tempted to fill it with extraneous actions and superfluous props, get the singers to over-act. This did not happen here, with the music being allowed to speak for itself, to set the atmosphere, to highlight key milestones, such as the arrival of Hunding (his hunting horn sounds). The singers are liberated to interact with each other in spare movements, reflecting their hesitancy and shyness.

Scene 3 is possibly the greatest scene in the whole operatic repertoire and it opens with remarkable staging. The stranger is alone on a barely lit stage, left to ponder and soliloquise on his situation and his fate, how he has stumbled into the house of his enemy and has been challenged to a fight. He remembers the sword that his father promised he would find in his deepest distress; in distress the ringing call of Walse! Walse!" accompanied by an increasingly agitated orchestra signals the start of twenty minutes or so that pass in the blink of an eye, the acme of perfect opera writing.

He ponders on the feelings that he has for this woman, the realisation that he is love. It think it is at this point that he hits out at the ladder, which is lit in bright colours. I am puzzled about the ladder; it is the same place as the ladder that allowed Wotan and Loge to descend to Nibelheim, is this breaking of the ladder symbolic of his breaking with his father, who, although he doesn't know it, is Wotan in disguise. But, officially, we don't know that yet, either, so maybe it merely emphasises that he is different from the world of the self-centred gods and those that believe in them, such as Hunding.

The stranger, who calls himself Woeful, because he cannot be called Peaceful retires to the chaise longue to settle down for the night under his cloak with a real dead animal round the neckline (which I hope in this day and age is a fake real dead animal). Sieglinde tiptoes in, saying she has drugged Hunding's drink. she offers to show him a sword and recounts how this sword was left by an old man who had crept into her wedding - her Forced Marriage to Hunding - and had left the sword embedded in the tree. At this point we hear the Wotan leitmotif, telling us what the characters are ignorant of - the identity of the mysterious figure with his hat pulled down over his eye. She hints that she knew who the stranger was and for whom he left the sword, which none of the guests could pull out of the tree. She longs for that stranger today, and if she could find the 'friend' for whom he left the sword, she would embrace him as a hero. The stranger responds that he is the friend, and wishes to make her his wife, in what must count as one of the better Chat-Up Lines of the evening.

The door bangs, and rose petals float down on a joyful Sieglinde; those familiar descending arpeggios begin, the stage is bathed in light, the Stranger climbs the short ladder to the box and sings Winterstürme, such a beautiful piece of music. As I let the music soak into my consciousness, I used to ears to focus on the gorgeous tone of the singer, on whom my binoculars were focused and I watched him intently. A single rose petal fell and he caught it in his hand; I was not sure whether this was an instinctive reaction to a minor - very minor - technical hitch or whether it was carefully choreographed; either way, it worked. He delivered much of the aria standing against the wall of the box, his body in the stance of an awkward teenager overcome by the power of first love. Sadly I had one of those 'misread surtitle moments' where I mistakenly misread 'Springfield' instead of 'Springtime', which is what happens as a consequence of a certain Wagnerian tenor guest starring on the Simpsons...

The scenes moves on relentlessly increasingly climatically, with the characters having realised that they are twin brother and sister, with her naming him Siegmund, and proclaiming the sword to be his, the sword he pullsout of the tree in a semi-climax, but we are not finished yet, the climax is yet to come, with the most amazing music creating an erotic and joyful atmosphere, and Siegmund offering Sieglinde the sword as a wedding gift, and declaring that she will be his sister and wife, and that the Walsung bloodline will increase (which is a startling but persuasive Chat-Up Line).

Why am I writing all this, when the synopsis is so readily available on-line? Because I want to relive and remember for ever the strong emotions I experienced whilst enjoying this act. Strong emotions brought on by the opera as written and as performed?

No review is ever fully complete without a run through of singers' performances. Stephen Milling was thoroughly scary as Hunding, his voice resonant and dramatic. A rather two-dimensional character which presents opportunities for acting the 'baddie'. An yet it is important to be restrained, not to over-act. Stephen got over to me that Hunding was not an evil baddie. He was master in his own home, he treated his wife as a chattel, and he sought revenge in tribal (or 'Postcode', as we call in it in Inner City London) conflict. The only overtly religious character, he's a simple product of his environment and lives according to his code of right and wrong - which is quite different from Siegmund's.

I enjoyed Eva Maria Westbroek's performance as Sieglinde. I didn't detect any major problems in singing and I would be more than happy to hear her again in this role or in others. But I did find her voice without much interest, I detected no inherent beauty. And whilst her interpretation of the role was more than satisfactory, I didn't find her stage presence to be especially convincing. Good, but not great.

As for Plácido, I have to say that I have heard him perform this role better than this, on several occasions. He really was not at his best. But Plácido Domingo performing at below his best is still something very special. I have to single out the finishing 'Wälsungen-Blut!' as being underpowered and cut short, especially in relation to the amazing climax if last week. But, as was pointed out to me, it's the overall performance that matters more than any particular note - and I certainly don't want to turn into one of those freakish-idiotic high-note obsessives who appear to ignore 99.99% of what an opera is about in order to focus on a point-scoring contest.

And the overall performance vocally and dramatically was splendid. Like last week,I went through a variety of emotions/thoughts. I do not see there thinking 'ooh, it's Plácido, he's my hero' - absorbed in the opera, I view him as Siegmund. Then I hear a beautiful note or phrase, that familiar way he has of caressing his throat around the notes, astounding low notes, the feeling and expressiveness he puts into how the notes sound, sometimes riding the orchestra like steel, sometimes softly caressing my ears, and I gulp with pleasure. I love the way he throws himself into the character. I can peer at him through my binoculars and reflect on how gorgeous he looks, a handsome man with a fine physique. I can marvel at the way he flings himself lithely round stage. I can even note when he seems to be walking with some stiffness in his left knee (which I suppose is the price one pays for falling to the ground so frequently in a performance). But most of all I see a lonely unhappy young man who has faced many adversities in life, I can see the joy as he tastes the happiness of real love. And I am moved.

And then it's time to go blinking out of the auditorium, emotionally in shock, not fully able to process thoughts, heartbroken that once again it was over so quickly, unaware of any physical discomfort I might be suffering. And a little bit of the magic fades, as one has to negotiate narrow corridors of people who feel it is their duty to block the passage of others. I overhear snippets of conversations, some reflecting my own inability to articulate, some fulsome in praise. Others, who have somewhat missed the point...including one woman saying to her companion "so, the brother, that was Domingo...?" How I wanted to say "So, you've just spent the last 65 minutes listening to the Greatest Singer that has ever been on an operatic stage..." and the 58th Greatest Living Genius "...and you didn't realise...?" But one doesn't, does one...!

Tenorial rolling on the ground...

I have this theory that the ultimate way to judge a tenor is by his ability to fall to, and roll about on the stage floor*. When I watch Plácido on DVD and, of course, on stage, I pay particular attention to his flinging himself around the floor of the stage.

Yesterday, at Die Walküre, I tried eespecially hard not just to notice but also to note. Even so I am not sure that I have a full and comprehensive list. I am assuming that the reader is reasonably familiar with Acts I and II of this opera, and isn't too fussed about me pinpointing exact places in the libretto.

In Act I, when Sieglinde is going on about how this stranger with his hat pulled down over one eye turned up at her wedding and planted this sword in the ash tree - and suddenly - Nothung appears, suspended high above the kitchen table, on the double-helix that dominates the stage, Siegmund falls to his knees to gaze in wonder, knowing - hoping - that this is the sword his father promised him in his hour of need.

Later, after Siegmund's glorious Winterstüre and Sieglinde's beautiful Du bist der Lenz, they are in the ubiquiotous Covent Garden wonky box suspended above the stage, under the aeroplane propeller symbolising repressed female sexuality, and are embracing in the realisation of their new-found love, and he sinks to his knees and buries his head in her thigh. Then, a bit later on, in the thrill of young love she is reclining on the dramatically significant chaise longue. He is on his knees beside her, then he joins her on the chaise longue, and then later, again he is on his knees on the floor.

As Act I reaches a climax he leaps onto a chair and onto the kitchen table in order to pull Nothung out of the ash tree. I did think for a tiniest split of a second that he might lose his footing, but he recovered. But his leap from the table to the chair to the floor was even more precarious, but thankfully, he made it...! (For those that keep score of such things, the chair was knocked over in the process).

In Act II, after Wotan's long monologue, Siegmund and Sieglinde return, her fleeing from him in her shame. By hauling themselves along the red rope strung out across the stage, they find themselves in front of the up-turned chaise longue and somehow, they are on the floor. At the end of that scene Sieglinde finally flees, and Siegmund tries to follow her, but instead flings himself from standing to lying on the floor in one easy move, head first, I think, and then lies motionless throughout the long and beautiful orchestral interlude that precedes Brunnhilde's return to announce his fate. His fate is, of course, to be butchered by Hunding. Obviously, when a man gets an axe in his stomach, it is necessary to collapse onto the helix/ash-tree roots that lie more or less horizontal about a foot above stage, to pause momentarily on the helix, and then roll from that height onto the stage and over and over about twice, rolling down stage to come to a halt at the feet of Hunding.

I was extremely satisfied with these manifestations of tenorial falling-to/rolling-on the ground, as demonstrated by the consummate performer of such moves. In fact, I was utterly thrilled at a perfect display of what I adore. I have to say, though, that in the Sexagenarian Ladder Climbing Contest which forms such an important part of this Saga Ring, he comes a distinct third to Messrs Langridge and Tomlinson.

* obviously, I don't really mean this - it's voice first...!

A Valkyrian Ride

I think my review of Die Walküre is going to take more than one blog entry. I only hope that I can capture everything I have to say without writing great tedious detail.

The day didn't start very well. Keyed up and anxious, struggling with the concept of 'time', I found it difficult to settle to sleep, sitting bolt upright, checking whether I had set my alarm, reacting to sounds outside and starting at the creaking noises of an old house. Awake at 5.30 am, or 4.30 as it now was with the clocks gone back, I slept fitfully until alarm went off, probably getting no more than three hours sleep all night. Which was not a good start to the day.

I had allowed myself plenty of time to do all that I had to do, include make that long and difficult transition from being technically awake and 'up', and actually functioning in a rational state. I left the house in plenty of time; when I got on the bus I thought I would phone Jimmy to tell him I was on my way out, only to realise I didn't have my phone with me. I have done this a few times recently, and I feel naked without it, which is sad...I then realised that the nail varnish on my right thumb had wrinkled and creased, which is my own fault for trying to apply some from a bottle which is old and should have been thrown out (but I do like the colour, a ruddy burnished autumnal old gold). Both these facts upset me, although I told myself that if the worst catastrophes that can befall one are a phone left at home and badly applied nail-varnish, life isn't that bad. My journey went extremely well, but for some reason I started hyperventilating as I waited for the lift at Covent Garden station. Which is pathetic. I'm not in the habit of hyperventilating, perhaps once every couple of years, or less, and there was no reason for this. Deep breaths of air, and some desperate drags on my cigarette helped a little, but by the time I arrived on Floral Street I was still discombobulated and anxious.

There were plenty of people hanging around Floral Street, waiting! I was joined by Mandy, Anne Marie and Mo, and we waited for Plácido, wondering if he would arrive on foot, despite the rain. He did, and, of course, was surrounded by a throng of admirers. Of course, I didn't get anywhere near him and I was disinclined to use my best bus-boarding skills and notorious sharp elbows to push other people out of the way. I did take a couple of photos, but they are far from being anything special. I think I spend too long trying to frame the 'perfect' shot rather than just shooting and hoping...we are talking about moments, here. But it was nice to see him and good to find out that he would be around during the second interval. It's very good of him of to be so approachable; because he is, people wait for him. I really do think that if he decided to play the superstar and sneak into the theatre avoiding the fans, all reasonable people would understand.

No longer feeling anxious, a warming and soothing coffee was in order, and then it was time to go to the Royal Opera House for the First Day of the Ring of the Nibelung (Das Rheingold is merely a preliminary evening). One of the aspects I enjoy most about attending Wagner operas, and I suspect that this is even more in the case of a Ring Cycle is that one can pretty much guarantee that nearly everybody is there because of a love of the music, or, at worst, slavish devotion to a particular singer  - and in my view, if you have slavish devotion to a particular singer, it's probably bet also to have a liking for their repertoire. There appears to be an absence of people dressed up to be seen, an absence of people on an early-date-to-impress, and even though I am aware in my head of being a Wagnerian newbie, I don't feel a need to apologise for my inexperience. And most of all is a sense of excitement and anticipation.

I went to my seat and, as expected, my right hand neighbours were the same as for Das Rheingold. But on my left was a new neighbour, we got chatting and it turns out that she is Stephen "Hunding" Milling's manager. I said he had come up in conversation earlier and we were wondering how tall he was. She said didn't know precisely but 'very tall'. Beyond her was someone I visited a few times years ago for Audit purposes, and I often see in the Royal Opera House etc and sometimes on the bus near work. So I said hello, and then I apologised for my ability to remember faces and names from years ago (I'm not so good at recent faces and names...). She said she was due to be writing a review for Wagner News.

The auditorium lights grew dim, the audience chatter went quiet, very quiet, Tony Pappano was applauded onto the podium, and Die Walküre was due to begin. Following my less than wonderful Rheingold experience I tried to lower my expectations, but I just couldn't do that.

The curtains opened...but that is another blogpost!

Das Rheingold

Oh dear!

That's all about me, that comment. Totally bizarre experience. I have been looking forward to this Ring for..how long? - tickets bought 1 November 2006. Season officially announced Spring 06. Saw Rheingold January 2005. It's been a long time.

Cycle 3 began on Friday 26th with Das Rheingold.

In the morning I played the Solti Rheingold, for maybe only the second time on the stereo I got earlier this year, volume loud. Was I excited or was I excited.

It kicked off late, which only serves to increase the tension and excitement. We had already been told that Philip Langridge was suffering from a throat infection but would sing anyway, so I wasn't expecting any cast changes. And there weren't any.

We started in total darkness - total except for the green 'Emergency Exit' signs, the yellow and red lights of the desk in the cockpit (lights? surtitles?), and one tiny ring of gold through the curtain. Sonorously, those low E flats start. Hold onto your seats, we're in for 16 hours of Der Ring des Nibelungen, a journey into the unknown.

The curtain opens on the Rhine, with the most gorgeous mise en scene. A spiders web effect fades to reveal the naked RhineMaidens, bathed in a tasteful blue/green muted light, gambolling and playing in the Rhine. Yes, in the Rhine. And then Alberich appears. I could have sworn last time he slid down a slide in his dinghy. But maybe I have false memory.

The drama unfolds. The music plays. I am bored rigid. I try listening to the music. I try reading the surtitles. I watch the action on stage. I listen to the singing. And finally, two and a half ours later, it's over.

Absolutely no explanation as to why I felt that way. No nicotine cravings. No desperate need to pee. No indigestion or thirst. Cold almost completely gone. No real discomfort despite the cramped seats. Perfect view of the stage. Acoustics excellent. Orchestra in fine form, an intelligent and sensitive reading by Tony Pappano. A superb performance by Philip Langridge as Loge (throat infection not apparent in his singing) , a masterful performance by Peter Sidhom as Alberich, a compelling dramatic portrayal of Wotan by John Tomlinson, whose vocal weaknesses (lack of top, absence of any real beauty in the voice) are easily forgiven. No real weak links - Frieia and Erda made no impression, Froh was wobbly, but those parts are insignificant. Not a dull moment in a production that I like. (Okay, I don't know why there is a model aeroplane, or lots of red rope, or a giant egg timer, but they don't interrupt or contradict the overall logic of the production).

Some amusing effects, especially down in Nibelheim, the big scary dragon grabbing Wotan with one hand from the wings, and Loge with the other, from the other wing. The toad hopping along the front of the stage. The amazing entrance of the giants, with their unforgettable music and their giantness projected onto the rear of the stage. I kept looking at my watch - when is this going to end? The music that takes us across the Rainbow Bridge into Valhalla should be making me cry. Finally, a chord that gives me goose pimples, makes the (non-existent) hairs on my arms stand up. But I didn't care about the characters, I don't really care what happens to this bunch of self-absorbed manipulative you know whats. And it troubles me that I'm putting the blame squarely at Fricka's door. She wanted the Big House, she persuaded Wotan to go into hock over it. Why should I blame her? He's a free agent, he's the one with a will. He didn't have to succumb weakly. Who's the greedy one, her with her lusts for the big castle, or him, desperate to pay the mortgage and thus greedy for the gold? And those Whinemaidens. Entrusted to guard the gold, they failed. Losers.

This post is all about me, and how a very good performance of a beautiful opera, experienced in pretty good physical and mental state, can somehow just leave one cold. Weird.

I hoped that this was not a harbinger that my enormous expectations would be sorely disappointed.

Guess who I saw this afternoon...

Actually, that really doesn't work well as the heading for a blog post if I insist on using categories on said blog. The answer is obvious before you've even read the post title.

So all that remains is for me to tell you the circumstances in which I saw Plácido Domingo this afternoon. Do I make it seem that I was just going about my normal boring Saturday afternoon business and just happened, just by chance, to meet him.

Or do I tell the truth?

On balance I think it better to tell the truth, because otherwise it would actually seem that I was stalking him. And would I do that!

I suggested to some Ladies Who Like Opera that it would be a splendid idea to meet up for afternoon tea in a certain hotel in the West End of London. I like Afternoon Tea. It's a very civilised thing to do. Two of the Ladies had previously had Afternoon Tea there. I had previously had it in two other top London venues, but never there. The fourth is visiting from foreign parts. (They can identify themselves if they wish; I never feel entirely comfortable reporting the identities of my companions, because that becomes their lives, rather than mine, that I'm writing about). I could pretend that this was an entirely random decision, but I don't think you'd believe me. I chose that hotel, on this Saturday, because I had reason to believe he is probably staying there. But although I hoped - dreamed - that I might see him, I didn't realistically expect to, and would not have made any effort to try and make this happen (despite my light-hearted question as to whether anyone knew the internal layout of the hotel).

I had originally suggested 4pm, one had countered with a 3pm suggestion because she is on call from her office. In the event, the hotel could only offer us midday-ish, or 5.30pm. I chose 5.30, because midday is just too early for afternoon tea. We arranged to meet in the hotel reception, allowing a few minutes grace. Three of us were in there, one absorbed in responding to an on-call call vis a vis her office, the other two of us discussing a matter of recent news coverage.

I just glanced beyond the Lady with whom I was conversing, and, to my surprise I saw this man I recognised. He smiled at me even before I went through that the split second process of thinking 'Oh my god, it's him!" . I said Hello, he said Hello, and he continued on his way, back into the body of the hotel. I leaped out of my seat and ran after him yelling "Plácido be mine!".

I actually can't remember how I then reacted except I was feeling pretty gob-smacked. No doubt he now thinks I am stalking him, with a group of friends, which, I suppose, I am, although, I stress, we did have a booking for Afternoon Tea, and I have a not inconsiderable bill to prove the fact. One Lady and I were exclaiming over the fact that we had just seen him, then and there; the Lady with the phone was annoyed that she had totally missed him. And then our fourth Lady arrived, almost as if choreographed, and I felt bad (but not very bad), breaking the news to her that he had walked through Reception just moments before.

Of course, I realise that this must read as very silly to some people, and I am fully prepared to hold my hands up to being a bit like a starstruck teenager. But I do know there is a line to be drawn. I don't have any intention ever of hanging around his hotel for hours on end on the off-chance. I jest about racing after him, but I would just never do that, I think it's an ill-mannered intrusion. And tomorrow, I shall hear and see him perform one of his signature roles, and I have every confidence it will be a wonderful performance, because that's the main reason I like him. The fact that he also happens to be an extremely lovely person, too, is a delightful bonus.

Identity Fraud

Well, it's not really. It's bizarre.

A few weeks ago I received a card through the door from the postman for a package to be collected from the Delivery Office. The name of the addressee was not familiar so I checked with my neighbours, whose name I don't know, but it was unfamiliar to them. I thought maybe I would go and collect the package and find out, but then I thought, I would need proof of being the addressee, which I don't have, so I thought I would contact Royal Mail, but I forgot.

This morning I received a letter addressed to an unfamiliar name and I connected it to that package. I opened it and read it as being a payment reminder from a Chocolate firm who are doing some heavy marketing right now.

I phoned them up (I don't want credit black-listing for a £10 debt that isn't mine) and they were very sensible and co-operative, understood what I was saying, didn't make accusations, and said they would remove the details from their database. I commented it was bizarre behaviour, because, presumably, a normal fraudster would want access to the goods. If the postman had knocked louder, and if I hadn't been in a deep sleep, I would have accepted the package and then investigated whether it belonged to a neighbour (my religious nutter neighbours have a bizarre habit of giving my address to mailing organisations - through lack of clarity rather than deliberate stupidity, I think). I would probably have ended up eating the chocolate - oh, come on, this is chocolate! It can't be a postal insider job, because that scam falls down with the attempt to deliver. It's not a senseless act of random kindness, because the bill has landed on my doormat. And, despite the title of the post, it's not Identity Fraud.

The man who answered the phone said that they have had a few like this, they think it's a prankster, which must be very annoying for them. The only rational explanation is that it is a rival hell bent on destroying them. And indeed, there was recently a news story about a rival having to sack a chocalatier for deliberate sabotage of this company's product. So perhaps I am the innocent victim of industrial sabotage. Which is rather exciting! If I could have predicted being a victim of industrial sabotage, I wouldn't have predicted the chocolate industry!

Now, of course, I have the letter demanding payment, I could theoretically go to the Delivery Office and claim the package. But that would then make me a criminal, and I think that interfering with the Royal Mail is a far more serious crime than mere petty theft. I am also wondering whether it's a crime to impersonate an imaginary person.

I'b god a coad

Jimmy thinks this is hilarious because I *never* get colds. I certainly don't get man-flu. I was fine in my first meeting of the morning; in my second, I had to leave the room to get a tissue. and it steadily progressed from there.

It's very confusing. It's not strictly true I don't get colds. They come round every couple of years or so and linger for a day or two, so by my advanced age I have some experience of the common cold. But this is almost a novel experience. Apart from a problematic nose, my other symptoms are aching limbs, feeling very hot in the office and extreme tiredness. And what are they also the symptoms of - Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. And yet I am feeling very energetic. Which is weird, because the overheating, aching limbs etc usually knock me out. Tired and energetic. V. confusing. and v. annoying, because what usually completely knocks me out each month has been survived elegantly. Sods bloody law.

Last time I got a cold, I announced on blog, back in the days when blog was a personal journey through my life, that I was retiring to bed to read Roy Jenkins on Churchill. I got mocked for that. I think I shall just retire to bed and cuddle up with the teddy bears - mind you, they always have a habit of coming down with whatever affliction is affecting the human residents of Gert Cottage, so I'm going to end up with two teddy bears with colds, and being male teddy bears, suddenly it will be 'flu'. And trust me, teddy bear man flu is not a good thing to be nurse to.

Hunkentenor Stalking Part II

The second interval found me drawn irresistibly to Floral Street and dragging Mandy with me. Various people were queuing outside the Stage Door. We lingered back (I like being at the back of a queue). I made Mandy come in with me. We stood patiently and obediently in a queue, allowing all the people in front of us to go and meet Plácido before us. Well, actually, Mandy wasn't going to, but I made her, I bullied her!

He was standing behind the desk beyond the Stage Door, which is a very sensible place to meet fans. Far more sensible than out in the street where everybody tends to jostle a bit. He had requested 'no photos', which, obviously, is a bit disappointing, but I do think that it's very very good of him to be so kind as to let us meet him in this way, and I am immeasurably grateful for opportunities such as this. I think quite a lot of people, like my mother, like some colleagues etc, can hardly believe how easy it is to meet him, how approachable he is. Nor can I, for that matter. I really don't think he's under any obligation, he could play the big superstar divo and be remote and unobtainable. But he's not like that

He was still in costume, and looking lovely. I decided I would ask him for his autograph. I was very nervous, which is silly, because he is not that sort of person. And then I asked him a question, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but I'm not so sure in retrospect...I asked him - pointing out that he does a lot of rolling around on the floor on stage - whether he does the same off-stage. He just smiled at me mischievously. I may have misinterpreted but, you know, I think, that was a yes! And I narrowly avoided walking into the door this time! We had debated whether we should ask whether he wanted a beer (the back door of the Nag's Head is just across the road) but in the end, we didn't.

And then I went home, to savour my memories of a thrilling performance and to enjoy my memory of meeting Plácido. A fleeting meeting, a pleasant memory. I realise it's a bit silly wanting to meet one's pin-up hero in such a way. Ultimately, it's meaningless. I suspect that there are people who hang round Stage Doors and so on, who think that their fleeting encounters with celebrities equals friendship, or hope that somehow, in some way, it will lead to something more meaningful. It isn't and it doesn't. And, at the end of the day, what makes the experience special is the act that it comes after a sensational and memorable performance of a wonderful wonderful opera!

Die Walküre Cycle 2

I have to confess up front that I did not stay for Act III. I realise that this is heretical and hypocritical, and completely wrong, but, in my defence, I will say I was sitting next to the second smelliest man who has ever walked into the Royal Opera House and by the end of Act II he was deteriorating badly. Also, and more importantly, I have been warned by diverse and numerous people of the need to pace myself and not 'overdo it' for the Ring, and for perhaps the first time in my life I am actually listening to sensible advice. (I am on a warning about sickness absence at work) So my 'review' can only be of Acts I and II.

Die Walküre, the first day of the Tetralogy, following the prelude that is Das Rheingold. The Ring as a whole is among my very favourite operas; Act 1 of Die Walküre is without doubt my single favourite act of any opera, and over the past few days I have played about six different versions, some of them more than once, and each time I am disappointed when it ends - at little over an hour it is way too short. Short, but perfect.

It starts with a storm scene in the orchestra. I was so busy watching the strobe lighting effect that I didn't consciously register the amazing double timpani that comes about halfway through the vorspiel, quite possibly the best few instrumental bars in the whole of the Ring Cycle - except for the first 130+ of Rheingold, obviously. Oh heck, my Ring reviews are going to see me go through a raft of definite absolutes...!

And then the singing starts! At which point I realise that my binoculars, slung round my neck, are still in their case, and I have to, micron by micron, unfasten the velcro and discard the case. Then I realise that through the binoculars the stage looks very far away...yeah, I'm using them upside down. Then I realise that the four pieces of glass are grubby; the lower ones from sticky finger prints, the higher ones from make-up that comes off from around my eyes. So I have to set to and clear them, whilst never taking my eyes off the stage or my ears off the music, especially the singing, especially the singing of Siegmund. The seats in the Amphitheatre at Covent Garden are very closely packed, and any excess arm movements are very annoying to one's neighbours. Fortunately, I am blessed with permanently erect nipples which are very handy for cleaning binoculars. And I'm sure that's way too much information.

I expect the story is familiar to all those who have read thus far but if not, a brief synopsis. Musically, it is very familiar to me. Most of the different recorded versions I possess feature the  same singer as Siegmund. And suddenly, my ears tell me that there he is down there on stage. I can see him, which is wonderful enough. Even better, I can hear him! At this point I get very confused about my feelings. This man, whom I hero-worship and thus think about a lot, and find rather attractive. This very nice person I met briefly an hour and a half previously. This Voice which I hear so frequently on CDs and DVDs and mp3s - he's there. I'm scrutinising him closely through my binoculars, thinking how lovely he looks. Watching as he moves round stage, gazing with lust at his lovely thighs. Then I pull myself together. concentrate on the opera. And I then kind of forget all that meta stuff and sit back to enjoy a splendid performance.

I don't think that where I was sitting (P52 of the Amphi) is at all good acoustically. Sadly, I'm in a similar position for my Complete Cycle; however, I soon adjusted to that. I think if you are far back in the Amphi, the sound gets muffled by the overhang and the distance; if you are going to be far back, you are better off on the sides because - I think, I might be talking total rubbish - the sound reflects off the walls. But when I got this ticket a few weeks ago, it was the only one available on the website. For example, the orchestra sounded relatively muffled, which is not how Wagner should sound. That having been said, it's important to note that much of this Act is not heavily orchestrated - it's a kitchen sink drama.

I have seen the production twice before as well as on the TV, and can't really add much to what I previously wrote, except the noir aspect did not bother me this time around. At the time I wrote that, I was unfamiliar with the term 'Furniture Abuse' although I had seen it plenty of time in action. Hunding is responsible for it all in Act I, I think, the most spectacular being the bit where he comes home and flings his axe into the kitchen table. He also knocked over at least one chair. I thought Stephen Milling was well scary as Hunding, I also liked his voice.

I have ambiguous feelings about Sieglinde. Like Mostly Opera, I am very much a fan of Waltraud Meier in this role (and just to clarify, I posted this fact to a newsgroup on Friday night!). So Eva Maria Westbroek was fine in the role. 'Fine' seems like damning with faint praise and isn't meant to be. Again no specific criticisms, vocally pleasant, convincing acting; she acquitted herself well.

And the main character of Act I is Siegmund. This is the point where I get hyper-critical. Plácido Domingo was not perfect.  I adored his performance, and yet, I felt compelled to dwell on the minor flaws. This might be partly a function of my acoustically poor seat, and a result of absorbing myself in so many recordings in such a short time. So it's like I can spot each note that is less than perfect. Which is an unfair way to write a review. I think his voice does take some time to warm up; the first twenty minutes or so contain a lot of recitative (I know that that isn't the right technical phrase but whatever...). But those minute criticisms aside, I just loved him so much. Such a beautiful voice, I could have happily listened with my eyes shut. I spent a lot of time with my binoculars to eyes, watching him. Watching him move about stage like an impetuous troubled young man, expressing the anguish and loneliness of this young man called Woeful. At one point I did ponder the athleticism of someone who is rumoured to be 66 years old, bounding around stage, and then I thought - don't dwell on it, that's what he does.

If Act I is my favourite part of the entire Ring Cycle, Scene III is probably my 'Desert Island Bleeding Chunk'. The pinnacle of great operatic writing. Everything works so well. The orchestra is gorgeous, the use of the different instruments to make different sounds, to create mood. The libretto is moving, as Siegmund describes his need for the sword and his emerging love for this woman Sieglinde. I felt privileged to be in that place, listening to this very great singer performing one of his greatest roles, and revelling in the gorgeousness of his voice.

The scene builds musically and dramatically to Winterstürme - I read the other day that Wagner knows exactly when an aria is called for - and this becomes the most gorgeous love story between two lovely characters. During  the opening descending arpeggios of Winterstürme, when my heart is racing, I manage noisily to depress the plastic on my water bottle. A depressed water bottle has to un-depress, again noisily, and I was convinced the two 'cracks' rang round the auditorium; certainly interrupted my focus on the aria, requiring a metaphorical self-flagellation. This is I think the sixth time I have heard him sing it live, I can't possibly calculate how many times I have heard him sing it on record, and it surely must be a signature aria

And from Winterstürme, the scene moves on relentlessly, the most amazing music, fantastic interpretation, leading up to the point where Siegmund leaps onto the kitchen table to take down Nothung. I couldn't actually hear the line 'Braut und Schwester bist du dem Bruder' and for a fraction of a nano-second my heart stopped and was in my mouth, and then the most amazing 'So blühe denn, Wälsungen-Blut!' pinned me back in my seat - wow!!! And suddenly Act I was over. Over an hour and it seemed like minutes. Minutes where my attention was focused on what was happening in front of me, and I didn't get the slightest nicotine craving (whereas for, say Boheme, I'm wanting a cigarette after the overture...).  My mind and emotions overwhelmed, intelligent thought not possible.

Half an hour and a stiff gin not sufficient to let me pull myself together for Act II, but soon it was time for it to begin. The confrontation between Wotan and Fricka. I was disappointed in Rosalind Plowright; having thought her glorious in this role two years back, I was not so taken this time. John Tomlinson as Wotan was bloody good. Of course, this was the Cycle he was down to do anyway, so I was not in a position to think 'he's not Bryn'. I don't think John has a particularly beautiful voice, and as everybody said after Cycle 1, it's not what it was, quite a lot of strain at the top. And yet, the dramatic portrayal was so total - not just the fact that he was Wotan in his physical and stage acting, but somehow, despite the vocal flaws arising from age, he was, vocally, Wotan to me, so I'm now seriously looking forward to seeing him in Rheingold, Walküre (again), Siegfried and Parsifal.

We had stand-in Brunnhilde, Susan Bullock, on account of Lisa Gasteen having a severe cold. Susan had flown in from (strike-ridden) Paris, arriving at lunch time, and, obviously not having had time to rehearse (that having been said, I refuse to accept that the ROH has no contingency plan for the indisposition of a singer in a major role. Susan Bullock has - reportedly - made quite a name singing Brunnhilde in lesser houses, so I expect that she was probably officially on standby and had walked through the role). Last minute substitute, saving the show, should always get a bit of leeway (for example, when I saw Das Rheingold in January 2005, the very ageing and wobbly Donald McIntyre sang magnificently from the pit whilst Bryn mimed on stage; Cycle 1 Walküre had Stephen Milling miming whilst Clive Bayley sang with a broken arm from side stage). But I can safely say no leeway was required for Susan Bullock. In the opening of Act II she was splendid as the frisky teenaged Brunnhilde. She did more than enough to impress me in the opening scene with Wotan. In the second scene, she was splendid, an excellent foil to John Tomlinson's excellent Wotan.

And there was more to come!

I can't say I care very much for the staging in Act II. It seems that what I assume is Valhalla is an exact replica of Hunding's House in Act I - how likely is that - even with identical furniture and an identical smashed window at the back. I did fall to pondering about the various props - the red rope is deeply significant, as is the model aeroplane. Significant of what I can't quite remember, but I'm sure it will all become a lot clearer when I do my full cycle. Especially when I manage to identify the 'crashed aeroplane' and 'red string' leitmotifs. In any case, I can usually overloook silly sets (as long as they don't obscure the action) if the personenregie is credible, and if the cast - as well as being good singers - are credible actors. We got all that!

Scene 3 sees the return of the twins, and is incredibly moving, Sieglinde in her delirium, the tenderness between them, as they take rest in front of the upturned sofa in Valhalla. I mock that slightly, but despite the apparent silliness, the sofa acting as a windbreak creates this incredible intimacy as they lie together on the floor, with some rolling.  If you're not crying by now, you've got a heart of steel (or your binoculars pinned close to your eyes).

The music leading into Act 4 is amazing. Quiet, and you can hear a pin drop in the absorbed auditorium, People forget to cough, we all know what is coming. This music moves us onto a different place, a higher plane. With the stage almost in darkness, we hear Brunnhilde sing "Siegmund! Sieh auf mich! Ich bin's, der bald du folgst." At which point I am destroyed emotionally by such poignant beauty. What follows is so imbued with emotion and was for me the highlight of the entire evening - the  Todesverkuendigung, which will be a musical memory that stays with me for ever. Dignity and love vs dignity and duty - extraordinary in every respect. The music is incomparable; it was sung perfectly and portrayed indescribably. It just doesn't get any better than that. And Plácido and Susan were just amazing together. I would pay good money for an illicit in-house recording of that!

And the final scene. Almost an anti-climax after Scene 4, although culminating in a very spectacular death-scene, exemplifying the fine art of tenorial rolling on the ground by its finest exponent, rolling onto the helix-ash tree and rolling off again, and rolling across the stage. Makes it looks so easy! An hour and a half has passed so quickly and I'm wrung out! There had been other instances of tenorial rolling on the ground. (And, for the record, chest hair was also visible), but I can't quite recall sufficiently well to catalogue here.

Fabulous. Bring it on again, I can't wait! I've got Walküre next Sunday, and before that I've got Rheingold, which I love the tone of the entire work. I am so so so excited.

And quite apart from the music and drama, it's great to be with people. As well as Mandy, who I hung round with, I also met Simon, who I often bump into at events, and I was delighted to meet for the first time Mo, with whom I have communicated over the months. Also,  a lady whose name sounds like 'View'. It's nice to go alone to an opera but know you're surrounded by friends!

As a PS, when I got home I watched Have I Got News For You, which had earlier recorded. One of the main stories was the resignation of Ming Campbell as leader of the Lib Dems. On age grounds, apparently. Although the Mirror helpfully rubbished that Who says you're too old at 66?, with a helpful list of people born in 1941

Susannah York and Joan Baez (Jan 9) Faye Dunaway (Jan 14) Placido Domingo (Jan 21) Neil Diamond (Jan 24) Paddy Ashdown (Feb 27) Vivienne Westwood (April 8) Ryan O'Neal (April 20) Bob Dylan (May 24) Delia Smith (June 18) Chubby Checker (Oct 3) and Jesse Jackson (Oct 8)