A recently acquired CD but one which can safely be said to be the oldest in my collection, recorded as it was in 1903 -04. Tamangno died in 1905, aged only 54.
It really is painful to listen to. This is one of those posts where I am going to state strong opinions and not only tolerate but welcome open dissent, because it is clearly largely a matter of taste, and there is no disputing, etc,
I see very little point in listening to these ancient recordings. There is some historic value in hearing, for example, Otello from the singer who created the role - although not At Verdi's choice. But this is somewhat diminished by the knowledge that Verdi never composed for a tinny piano and scratchiness in Niun mi tema. This is even worse in Di quella pira, where the piano sounds more like an end-of-the-pier hurdy gurdy.
This CD came cheap and this is only my second hearing of it. I cannot play it with Jimmy in the house. Not that that really matters, because I doubt that I shall play it again for years. It perhaps has some value as a dinner party conversation piece, but I no longer host dinner parties, and when I used to do so, conversation degenerated rapidly with inebriation.
I fully recognise that there is some intellectual value in listening to really old recordings such as this, and one can't really call oneself a tenor nut without a passing interest in the legacy of singers such as Tamagno and Caruso. It is said that it takes some time to get past the sonics on these early experimental discs, but I can assure anyone who says that I had plenty of practice in listening to scratchy 78s as a small child, to an extent that could have put me off tenors for life. When I listen to music, I want to hear the best, and the quality of recording is quite a significant factor in that (up to a point). I can't relax to this, I can't really appreciate the music, partly because of the absence of orchestra. Many times his voice sounds pinched, screechy and very wobbly. I have no way of knowing whether this was because this was the extent to which his voice had deteriorated by this stage in his career, or because of what is lost/distorted in the recording process.
I do not feel that I learn anything from listening to these, certainly not as much as I learn by reading a short biography of him. In 1902 Caruso received £100 for his first ten recordings. In 1903 Tamagno received a cash advance of £2000, plus four shillings on every record sold.
I do feel there is a macho search for purity in terms of historic recordings. Almost as if people prove their credentials by praising the performances with the worst sonics. People who prefer a live performance with an UHER mike held under a coat way back from the stage to a studio recording because it's more 'real'. People who record anything recorded digitally, or in stereo, as being false. Those who disdain anything that wasn't originally issued on cylinders. Indeed I have read a tongue-in-cheek comment that the best singers are those that never lowered themselves to be recorded, especially those who were wise enough to die before the birth of the Gramophone.
I actually have to cleanse my ears after listening to this by listening to some Verdi tenor arias beautifully and gloriously sung by a current singer and recorded on late(ish!) 20th century equipment in full DDD mode. Surely the way that Verdi would have wanted!
We went to a restaurant to celebrate my sister's 18th birthday, restaurant visits being rarities indeed. The service was excellent ie 9/10 although I'm no expert.
I played football with (my brother - then aged seven). We were drawing 6-6 but he handled outside the area, so I sent him off, but he showed dissent, so I booked him.
I went to the bus stop. I was just standing there, bored out of me mind, when this car stopped dead near me (because of the traffic queue). Imagine my surprise when I should see Gary Bailey
I went to bed with Dave Ward (A Piccadilly Radio disc-jockey). On the Flashline, there was a call from Walton Road "Susan and Jackie, Lisa, and Terry spotted flashing from Frances" Believe me, you had to be there...
I went to the doctors and sat in the waiting room for 20 minutes, so I read a Cosmopolitan Magazine. It had a feature on morning sex, which was quite interesting.
Next was French with Mrs K. she nattered on in French, and to be honest, I did not understand much.
At lunch I messed around with (friends). Sarah. also hung around, looking quite disapproving (footnote added two years later 'Not really like our Sarah!' - who turned out eventually to be a really good laugh)
In the double English lesson we read Wuthering Heights. I was the very first reader - by the way Sarah made AT LEAST three slips.
In Double Maths we studied straight lines. I seemed particularly thick.
In History, we discussed Russia in the 1860s. Mrs P is not as boring as everybody makes out (with a 1988-added footnote 'Just more so!')
In choir we sang 'Music Where Sweet Voices Die', which I adore, and 'Autumn' which is growing on me, even though Miss F reads 'p' as plonk and 'delicato' as elephant-like.
Instead of French was choir. From 1223 until 1330 we belted out O Praise the Lord, but at first, I DON'T think that Mrs B was too amused by our feeble effort. So together, she and Miss F.coaxed us into an enthusiastic chorus, and scolded the 1sts and 2nds something terrible. But the 16 3rds were paid ever so many compliments. Afterwards we went out on the Broadwalk (school playground, in effect), and messed around. I'm ever so slightly nauseated with C. and M. Sometimes I wonder whether the word 'quietly' is incorporated in their collective vocabulary. Goodness, don't I sound a bitch!
After lunch was Maths. It was unbelievably hot in the classroom (newly built, on the cheap, badly designed). I was literally poring with sweat, and no way was I alone. Those windows open so WIDE of course! Mrs N. and all the group looked like beetroots, and the aforementioned teacher of Maths did not bat an eyelid when I tugged down my tie, and undid my top button (we had previously had a relationship which involved her repeatedly sending me to the Deputy Head's Office for wearing make-up, which of course just encouraged me more to wear make-up to school).
Talking of batting eyelids, I suddenly realised in English today what makes S. appear so snooty. Her natural blinking action is very slow, and this makes her look disdainful, which I presume is usually far from the truth.
At lunch I went to choir (Bach) with Miss F. She was really awful, and the thirds were the only people who were praised - and that was grudgingly. It's a very badly balanced choir. the seconds consist of five fifth years, two L6 and twenty-to-thirty second years with their baby voices and obvious lack of effort.
In RE Miss C made me stand outside the classroom for laughing when she told me off for not turning up to Mass last week.
After break we had a full length orchestra and choir practice. I was so embarrassed doing the cymbals etc.
I caught the 263 and thought all the way into Manchester, with my eyes lighting up while passing a certain football stadium between Trafford House and Jubilee House.
I met K. and M. coming from Deansgate. We walked down to the Arndale, and back up to Peter Street. Eventually we were allowed into the Free Trade Hall, and when C. arrived, I gave her her present and card. Eventually Speech Day practice began. It was so boring.
I got ready to go out, and then went out to Speech Night. Every traffic light turned to red before our eyes. Speech day started. I went onto the platform and searched all round for the triangle beater. Me, Sally. and Mrs. B. were panicking like hell, and a second-year noticed it under the side-drum. The orchestral pieces went okay. I only made one mistake. My style is really improving, and I managed the change from side-drum to cymbals in exactly the right length of time. Choir was okay, I suppose. Then we had to sit through the boring speeches, and the not-quite-so boring prize giving. Oh god, Loreto Speech nights could warrant a very long blogpost in themself...
I watched the Late Late Breakfast Show. The video of Friend or Foe was shown...and then Adam Ant was interviewed!
In History we did the reign of Alexander III. Honest to bloody God, that P. woman is so boring.
In Cookery, Mrs M. was in a right foul mood, because out of the whole class, Katie. was the only person who had done the homework satisfactorily. We then had a test - I got 20½ on 30, which was fairly average.
In Maths we went through our homework. Despite the continual revision of differentiating, I do NOT understand it. which is interesting,because I grew to adore differential calculus and would happily carry out calculus problems for the sheer fun of them, seriously
At lunch I went to choir. We sang Praise the Lord by Haydn (German National Anthem). It is RATHER nice!
In RE we did yet more from Mark's Gospel. I am bored sick of Mark's Gospel.
On the stroke of half time Mr Brilliant Bryan Robson scored a goal! And now Valencia have to score two!
In the second half Valencia scored two goals. At first I was upset, but by the end of the eleven o'clock news, I was almost pleased. After all, we don't need our players hacked down in the European Competition - we want them saved for more important domestic games. Nor do we want our players booked for retaliation against the blatant fouls in the way that Norman Whiteside and Ashley Grimes were.
Daddy chauffeured me to Alty Station where I met up with my lovely friends. Later !, * and & arrived, and we all travelled together by train to Oxford Road. Then we walked down Oxford Road to the Free Trade Hall, and found our seats in the balcony for Beethoven's Missa Solemnis. It was an excellent performance - I think I liked the Gloria best. Mind you, I was not too impressed with the technique of the timpanist. His rolls are rather poor. Nope, I don't know who the soloists were, indeed it has come as a surprise to me that I have ever heard it live. I assume it was Hallé Choir and Orchestra. It won't have been BBC Northern Symphony Orchestra (as was) because I knew their timpanists personally)
The diary for this month contains passing references to me reading Lucky Jim, Sons and Lovers, and The Drivers Seat, but no mention of whether I enjoyed them, or any reflection on the content.
Earlier in the life of this blog, I spent some time typing up my 'old diaries' from the 80s. I did not do it specifically for the blog - sometime in the late 90s I thought it would be a splendid idea to digitise them. Not especially for archival purposes - paper has served archives well for hundreds of years - but because I imagined myself writing a best-selling novel based upon them.
That paragraph may actually sum up my entire life and personality. An obsession with archiving, an ability of genius proportions to imagine me successful, a disability of equally gargantuan proportions to put in the effort actually to achieve anything that approaches success, and a short attention span that means started projects rarely get finished.
But less of me, what about the 'old me'. Or the Young Me. The 1982 me. Fourteen years old, and just about to go into "Fourth Year", when various Boring Subjects are dropped in order to concentrate on O-Level Subjects. We had to do English Language (A), English Literature (A), Maths (A), French (A), Religious Studies (A) and PE (non-examined). In addition I did History (A), Music (A), Latin (B) and Home Economics: Cookery (B). Remember these were proper O-Levels. I additionally did Italian (C) in Sixth Form.
I spent a great deal of time writing diaries. At this stage they were written on paper salvaged from redundant exercise books from the previous school year. There are pages and pages of turgid detail; detail of celebrity birthdays, what was Number One in previous years, who I caught the bus with, what we did in lessons subject by subject, detailed chronology of football matches listened to on the radio. Very little of life and me. Very few anecdotes that capture the essence of being in 4P in 1982, no character sketches, few funny incidents, and a decided reluctance to do teenage angst. I have no doubt where the last omission comes from - an overwhelming awareness that what I wrote at 14 would come back to haunt when I became Prime Minister. I knew then that I had to deny my weaknesses for future electoral advantage. Not for nothing is my middle name 'Margaret'. Besides, in the spirit of Crossmann, Castle and Benn, my diaries were a narrative on the 'times' rather than the 'life'.
I am sure that my blog-readers don't need to know how many times I had toast and marmalade for breakfast.
But in following posts I will extract what seem to me to be the most interesting passages from 1982, 1987, 1992, 1997 (to the extent that it exists) and by the wonders of technology, I shall pull up the blog highlights from 2002.
One of my all time favourite works. And by that I mean Top 5. It is definitely something that every self-respecting music lover should have at least one copy of in their record collection. I expect everybody has at least part of it in their collection, because the final movement - or part of - tends to be in most compilations of "Best of what you can't live without" But contrary to what the typical Classic FM listener will believe, this actually has four movements. There is plenty enough written on the web, some of it by musicologists, so there is little point in boring with you all that.
I have three versions of this. As a hint I would say it's better to pick it on account on the bass soloist rather than any other voice type. For years and years my favourite version was the Herbert von Karajan version with the Berliner Philharmoniker, indeed this is the version that is recommended by experts as the definitive.
But just recently, a new version has overtaken this as my favourite. I got the CD because I had been to bothperformances where it was recorded in the Barbican and even though they rated as two of my favourite performances of 2006, I was, nevertheless, overwhelmed by the CD. In addition to the fabulous singing - especially the bass (baritone, actually) soloist, I would highlight the timpani as being particularly special. I also like the way that the orchestra plays - an absence of legato, not quite staccato but with more or less every note precisely articulated - as opposed to the von Karajan version where there is, relatively speaking, quite a lot of eliding of notes, seeming, in comparison, to be quite slurry. And I love the way the Ladies of the LSC push right to the boundary, where to go beyond would be screechy...high risk strategy, immensely rewarding when brought off properly
The final version I listen to is the first one I acquired, one that sits on a cassette I made after borrowing the vinyl LP from Nottingham library when I was a student. This was chosen for the tenor soloist, though this is not a work to be chosen for the tenor soloist! Sadly, for a number of years, this was the only Beethoven 9 in my collection, and due to the relative paucity of my collection, it is one that has been played so often it resides in my muscle memory. It is just way too slow,way way too slow, and really, that now makes it very difficult to play and enjoy. The total playing time is 78 minutes with the fourth movement being 28:34 (with twenty years of cassette stretch bringing it to 33!) Von Karajan and Haitink bring the 4th in at just over 24 minutes, with total times being 67 and 68. Despite my reservations I am going to buy the CD.
I can't really describe music, and it would be such an insult even to try to describe this. Music transcends words. It would be trite to say - I like that bit, especially when it does that, and oh, that bit too, trying to take it apart and analyse it, when it is a grand piece conceived out of the vision of an extraordinary genius!
It's a cliché when people say - and to imagine that Beethoven was completely deaf when he wrote this. As if somehow that is remarkable. It is of utter sadness that he did not hear it being performed by full orchestra, even when he was conducting, but I don't suppose a deaf Beethoven was any different from a hearing Beethoven, or any other composer. They have the music in their head and they write it down from there.
Recanting my sneer at Classic FM types, I have to admit that despite the first three movements being better than just about any symphony by anybody, the fourth outdoes just about the whole of the rest of the corpus of Western music. A magnificent combination of extraordinary words set to mind-blowing music. Definitely one of those pieces that is far greater then the sum of its parts, even though the parts are, in themself, quite magnificent. I read a quote the other day that whilst Mozart believed himself to be God* whereas Beethoven was reaching out to God. Obviously, one's interpretation will depend on the extent of one's belief in a Higher Power. I feel that this is one of the very few pieces of music that encapsulate that spirit, and one of the most inspiring pieces of music, as it culminates in a celebration of Joy!
It is definitely a piece for pumping up the volume, pumping it some more for the Final choral movement, singing along as loud as one can, with scant regard for tunelessness, especially if one does tunelessness well. And then wallowing in the moments of repose. Cathartic and adrenaline-forming. Pure joy!
One can have a lot of fun on YouTube watching - and of course, listening to the numerous versions available there, by necessity only short excerpts. It's also nice to read the comments. such as "Where can I buy a CD or DVD of this?" ( to which the reply is, "Just about any record store in the world"). At first glance, it seems the comment of an ignoramus - but an ignoramus wanting to learn, which happens to be my favourite type of person. And someone else "Magical. From a guy who loves hip-hop, this is the greatest piece of music ever produced."
Ones worth pointing out - Bernstein's historic changing of Freude to Freiheit at that historicBerlinconcert in the heady days of 1989.
And what a contrast with this clip under Furtwaengler from 21 April 1942. Think v. carefully about that date. Gallops along wonderfully whilst simultaneously making the blood chill.
So, if you've got an hour or so to spare, sit down and enjoy these videos, of Herbert von Karajan conducting the whole bang-shoot, with superb camera-work and editing, as well as great conducting of really great music, with soloists Gundula Janowitz, Christa Ludwig, Jess Thomas and Walter Berry. Some of the comments make me well up - I suppose the music contribute as well - as does the thought I suddenly had that it should have been Wunderlich singing the tenor part. Actually, I'm not really sure - was his voice of the right fach. I have to confess to being a bit of a Karajan fan, I sort of grew up on him, never live, sadly. There are so many recordings where he gets it wrong, but so spectacularly wrong. And the soloists - isn't Walter Berry totally gorgeous. And Gundula Janowitz, too. But I've just fallen in love with Walter Berry.
You won't get that hour of your life back, but trust me, you will not want it back!
I have to include this 1970 clip for sheer self-indulgence in the young tenor soloist who seems like he might have had a promising career ahead of him...!
Zipping through the operas alphabetically (if 'zipping' is synonymous with 'plodding'...)
I have a version of Gounod's Faust on DVD, transferred from a video-off-the-telly from three years ago. I have even tried uploading it to Rapidshare for wider enjoyment but for some reason I am incapable of producing discs suitable for uploading despite enormous amounts of helpful suggestions from numerous kind people.
I saw this production when it was revived a few months later with a less-than-starry cast, and my insightful review fully reflecting the subtleties and nuances of every aspect of the opera is available to be read.
The opening run had a very starry cast: Roberto Alagna, Angela Gheorghiu, Bryn Terfel, Simon Keenlyside, Sophie Koch and Della Jones. It really ought to be released on commercial DVD, but it hasn't been and rumour is that Roberto Alagna has stonewalled on his fee, which I think is euphemism for 'vetoed it because he looks a prat'.
I find this a very accessible opera, both musically and dramatic, and it is a crying shame that the fabulous production by David McVicar is not available to the general public, otherwise I would definitely put it into my category of 'excellent introduction to opera for a newbie'. The story is legendary; the opera is based upon Goethe's drama. Even ignorami like me are aware of the concept of the Faustian pact of selling one's soul to the devil - for the promise of a return to youth. The opera is almost a text-book example of how Grand Opera ought to have been written. I read somewhere that at one stage, it was the most performed opera worldwide, although there are people nowadays who look down on it as being a trivial work, an attitude I don't understand - perhaps because it contains too many bloody good tunes and is too damn entertaining. The tunes are tuneful, hummable and well harmonised and orchestrated. The characters come over as more than mere cardboard caricatures. Although, obviously, fictional, the story is paradoxically credible.
The opera begins with the overture, accompanied by a vision of Faust (Roberto Alagna) staggering round like an old man, and glimpses of Mephistopheles (Bryn Terfel) lurking, plus a ballet couple who symbolise the youth that Faust doesn't have...yet.
It opens, really, with a great tenor aria, followed by the arrival of Mephistopheles (henceforth Mephisto, or Meph, or Bryn, because it's too difficult to spell) dressed in brown - trousers, great coat, waistcoat and hat, resembling a Cavalier. The aria becomes a duet and Faust enters into a er, Faustian pact with the Devil (aka Mephisto/Meph/Bryn). In a chest, with a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs, starlet style, Roberto becomes young again, and cartwheels across stage bringing the duet to a rousing climax.
The next highlight is Simon "Shirtless" Keenlyside, fullly clothed, cast as Valentin, singing Avant de quitter (he's about to go off to war). This is a justifiably famous aria and is the reason why Valentin, not actually that big a part absolutely requires a top-drawer singer.
As the soldiers party as they prepare to go off to war, Meph is sighted in a fancy silver and red cloak, which he changes into an evening suit for the Cabaret L'Enfer, complete with Dancing Girls. By this point, Faust is mirroring his outfit.
We then have another famous aria Salut demeure chaste et pure, another aria familiar to anybody who has ever bought a tenor aria compilation. I don't think that Roberto sounds at all appealing in this; he is far too strained, and he looks it. Also, he seems to step out of character because *THIS IS A BIG ARIA*. He certainly is master of the embarrassed inane grin. He wanders wildly off-pitch, although the discrete cough at one point, followed by a distinct Frog later may be the explanation...the hazard of live performances being captured for ever from people;s TV.
Act I is intimate, Act II is full of crowds and choruses, and in Act II once again we have intimacy, particularly the love scene between Faust and Margarita (spied on by Mephisto, now dressed in a blue army uniform). If you don't look too closely you could almost believe there is on-screen/stage chemistry between Roberto Alagna and Angela Gheorghiu. Although Roberto shows a distinct lack of passion in the O Nuit d'amour, which performed well, is an outstandingly gorgeous duet. Fortunately, I do have a good version on CD, but not featuring Roberto Alagna, nor Angela Gheorghiu for that matter.
In Act IV Marguerita goes to church to pray for forgiveness. Amidst the liturgical music, Mephisto, dressed in priestly garb, arrives and tells her that her prayers are in vain; hell beckons. And we discover that it is Faust playing the organ. Bare-chested men dance in the background (symbolic of the hell that Marguerita might find herself in...?).
We then switch to The Soldiers Chorus, of the soldiers returned from war, another classic standard of upmarket compilation CDs. And a stonking good chorus it is, too. Included in their number is Valentin, who meets up with Siebel (the young disabled Trousers' Role character who has a massive crush on Marguerita and vowed to look after her in Valentin's absence). He pleads in vain for Valentin not to go to his sister's house. When he reaches there, he gets involved in a sword fight with Faust, who has abandoned Marguerita to her shame. Faust injures him, Mephisto finishes the job off with barely concealed contempt. By now, Roberto's evening suit is tie-less and with the collar unfastened). It is a very tragic moment in the opera, because despite the fact that Valentin, played by Simon Keenlyside is bleeding to death from a fatal chest wound, he never gets the opportunity to remove his shirt, which is,frankly, shocking. And, of course, is another Great Operatic Failure to Apply Basic First Aid moment.
Act V opens with Mephisto attending the Walpurgisnacht Ballet, whilst Marguerita languishes in jail for the murder of her illegitimate child. I can't help but notice at this point how Wagnerian the music is. Roberto has now lost his jacket and waistcoat and his shirt is untucked from his trousers. Bryn, meanwhile, removes his cloak to reveal that he is wearing a black sparkly evening dress and tiara.
I think the ballet is fun to watch, and the music is extremely familiar to me from a favourite cassette about which I blogged a bit ago. It sort of recaps the story, but in parody, or at least in this production. I'm not sure what it adds to the dramaturgy, but at the time it was written, the French absolutely demanded that every opera featured a ballet, often incongruously. Something to do with rich patrons and their mistresses in the corps de ballet, I think.
We then have a completely gorgeous aria from Angela - Anges purs, anges radieux - "Pure and radiant angels, bear my soul to heaven", and Faust finishes where he began, as an old man, presumably sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
It really is a fabulous show to watch, and an all round excellent piece of entertainment. Superb stage direction from the always wonderful David McVicar. Excellent stick-waving from Tony Pappano. A superb all round performance from a great singing actor, Bryn Terfel. Excellent vocal performance from Angela Gheorghiu, who is never less than reasonable and often very good on stage. Simon Keenlyside is dramatically brilliant, but seems a bit unsure vocally at times; at other times, gorgeous. Sophie Koch brought a memorable interpretation to Siebel and there was further strength in depth from veteran Della Jones and rising star Matthew Rose. So, in an ironic sense it was disappointing that the weak link was the eponymous 'hero' Roberto Alagna. Not his greatest moment captured on tape, and perhaps unsurprising if it is true that he has vetoed release of the DVD. He hasn't been back since to the Royal Opera House.
As for Faust the opera - what do I think?
It's a classic story and one that we learn a vague sense of long before we actually know the story - the sense that you can do a deal with the devil (for youth or something else that seems to be highly desirable), but, not only does the devil take your soul eventually, also that which is desired doesn't bring one the happiness one thought it would.
I am not sure how clearly this comes out in the opera. There are passages of sheer tragedy, not least that of Valentin, who survived the war only to be killed in a stupid fight. And of Marguerite, her shame redeemed only by death. And, perhaps most of all, Faust, who destroyed his previously exemplary life for a short period of hedonism. The story rollicks along, accompanied by some fantastic music, but in conclusion, I don't find that I don't have sufficient empathy with any of the main characters really to care about the outcome.
Royal Opera House regulars are reeling in disappointment at the news that two of the brightest stars of the operatic firmament have announced cancellations for this autumn.
Rolando Villazón cancelled a number of events during the summer and into the autumn and his management expressed a hope that he would be back for the run of L'elisir d'amore in London. Earlier this week he announced his withdrawal from this and also from the second batch (in addition to the first) of Romeos at the New York Metropolitan Opera, one performance of which I was hoping to get a ticket for.
There have been rumours circulating in the media and on the internet about his health. One rumour is that he has hyperthyroidism and consequent depression and inevitable vocal distress. Which sounds pretty gruesome to me. Apparently depression is a common side-effect of this, although, to my mind, it's a pretty common side-effect of every debilitating illness that leaves one whacked out and unable to follow one's normal pursuits in life. If by chance you happen to be reading, Rolando, I wish you all the very very best and even though I am desperately disappointed that I won't have the chance to see you in either role, I fully understand your reasons and also respect the fact that you have given the ROH sufficient time to look for a replacement but did not hastily cancel too soon back in August. I know that many of my readers will join in wishing a speedy and full recovery. And I am looking forward even more to seeing you in Don Carlo.
And Bryn Terfel has a dropped out of the Ring. Thankfully he was only due to play a minor role, that of Wotan, who only dominates for three quarters of Rheingold, an act and a half of Walküre and, disguised as Wanderer, appears now and then in Siegfried. See, he doesn't even appear in Gotterdammerung. It's not as if the Royal Opera House has built this production around him and has heavily marketed it using his image. (Not that it needed much marketing). Oh, but wait, it has.
It was originally announced as being because of an extremely stressful situation affecting one of his children. Being an extremely empathetic and sympathetic person, I was totally understanding, even going to the extent of defending his integrity on internet newsgroups. Although I don't have kids, I know plenty of people with children about the same age as Bryn's, and understand that there can be all sorts of issues going on: health, or victim-of-bullying, or behavioural problems, or academic struggles, that create more stress than is necessarily apparent to the bystander, and the details are nobody's business.
And then it emerges, the 'extremely stressful' situation is that his six year old son has broken his finger. Seemingly, badly broken, because it needed to be reset in an operation due last week. 'Operation' is always worrying, far more so than 'broken finger'. So, it would be entirely understandable if he had requested two or three days off rehearsals to be with the family at this time. And then Mrs Terfel, or Fricka to her friends, gives an interview to the Mail on Sunday, explaining that the real real reason is that she wants him home. She would prefer if he recorded more crossover albums and did concerts (which presumably pay fatter fees than opera). Which is all perfectly reasonable in making future plans.
However, the whole episode is unprofessional and entirely lacking in integrity. I can't pretend that I bought tickets because it was Bryn; I bought tickets for the Ring Cycle, and knew that I could only contemplate Cycle 2 or Cycle 3, because Plácido is not in Cycle 1. And I made a conscious decision to buy Cycle 3 tickets, because of Bryn. Many of his loyal fans will have booked to travel from afar, will already have booked hotels and travel, perhaps non-refundable, will have booked time off work etc, and will be faced with the choice of cutting their losses and salvaging some money and the time, or attending a Ring at considerable cost whilst dealing with the fact that the object of their admiration and the reason for them travelling such distance has treated them with disdain and disloyalty. Presumably Mrs Fricka Terfel has no idea that the tickets went on sale - and sold out - on 1 November 2006, or that ordinary people try to reduce their costs by booking cheaper, non-refundable travel tickets and hotels. He had a contractual obligation to learn and study the roles and to turn up. People will always understand that singers have to cancel, either because of their own illness, or because of extreme family circumstances - someone cited Montserrat Caballe cancelling when her daughter had meningitis. But when a singer, who is supposedly the lynch pin of a major saga, the biggest thing the Royal Opera has done in years, cancels and shows such contempt for the public - who pay for his affluent lifestyle - the public have every right to show contempt back. Those concerts he will be doing, well I can't see myself being bothered to turn up, to be frank.
In the down-market media, people who know fuck all about fuck all have been praising him for giving up work to spend more time with the family. Well, it isn't like that in the real world. He has had ample opportunity to be at home during the school summer holidays, a luxury denied to most ordinary people in ordinary jobs, who have to be at the mill day-in day-out. Admittedly, that was time he was supposed to have been spending studying his part, but he did give an interview to local media that he hadn't actually started learning Wanderer until August. I would dearly like to send a copy of my bank statement to the Terfels explaining how monthly income less mortgage and bills, less Ring Cycle Tickets, leaves a part-time worker* such as me with a financial deficit.
* but as a highly paid professional with no dependants -- other than the Royal Opera House - I'm not pleading poverty or sympathy, just stating facts. It's not a problem - I remortgaged with Northern Rock at six times income...
Definitely one of those operas that one regrets is so short, barely two hours of music. But top class.
I wonder why so Gluck is so under-rated, almost to the point of obscurity, when everything I have heard by him (albeit a grand total of four operas) is so wonderful.
For some reason I always think of Gluck as being Baroque, perhaps because he used recitative. But then, so did Mozart, and he is definitely regarded as classical. And the references seem to regard Gluck as classical, the opera pioneer of the Classical era.
Iphigénie en Tauride is without a doubt the gayest opera I have seen. And when I say 'gay' I don't mean happy-in-an-old-fashioned way nor do I meant lame/pathetic in a pre-teen way. I mean gay as in homosexual. Although my friend - who insists that every opera has a gay sub-text, usually evident in the music - reckons that this production did not focus much on the gay thing, leaving it ambiguous. I suppose she is right, in that the actual production wasn't very gay, but it didn't need to be, because the opera, despite the title, and despite the fact that the mezzo has the largest portion of singing to do, is really a love story between two men. They refer to each other as 'friends' but that is merely a sop to 18th century sensibilities. Remember they are Ancient Greeks. The synopsis is available on ROH site and wikipedia, but as it based on a play by Euripides I expect everyone knows the story anyway .
Musically it is packed full of treats, not a moment of superfluity, a through-composed work with some extraordinary passages. The highlights are Pylade's love song to Oreste, Oreste's mad scene, and Iphigénie's long anguished soliloquy towards the end.
The Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment, guest pit band, were ace. I loved the tone, the crispness and clarity, under stick-waver Ivor Bolton who seemed like a man transformed from the lacklustre Don Giovanni I had caught him conduct in the summer.
Top marks must go to Susan Graham. I had never heard her live before, but on the basis of this, I am rather eager to hear her again, preferably in this role. Oh my word, I shall, in December. A powerful inhabitation of the role vocally and dramatically, full command of the stage. And a wonderful display of extremely florid singing that always threatened to go totally out of control but was in fact an exercise in perfect control. Paul Groves was largely satisfactory as Pylade, with the exception of some strain on higher notes. A more than competent stage performer, just overshadowed by his co-stars. I would certainly like to hear him again, preferably in this role. Oh my word, I shall, in December.
Simon Keenlyside was Oreste, and, strangely, this was first time I have seen him in an entire staged opera*. On the whole he did not disappoint. He is a very physical, lithe stage actor and a splendid singer, and for the most part I thoroughly enjoyed his singing. Except there was a point during his mad scene where he was wide of pitch, both sharp and flat, and decidedly hoarse, cracking as if he was choking. I don't know how much this was to do with the fact that he was lying on his back with his head in the orchestra pit, but I have not heard reports of such a thing occurring on opening night, so I put it down to "one of those things". He displayed some hoarseness in the second half, too, so I assume he probably had a cold or some such. Although I largely enjoyed his performance, I am not disappointed that I will not be seeing him in this role in December. Nothing personal! It will be interesting to hear the differences between a light baritone and a baritenor in the role.
I really liked the production. I have seen a few comments from people round the internet who described it as tosh. Maybe I am perverse but I enjoy productions where it doesn't necessarily make sense.
It was extremely monochrome, with all the characters being dressed in black, and there was very little in the way of scenery, especially no furniture to abuse. The set consisted of walls and a sacrificial altar that rose from descended into the floor as required. No gimmicks such as "Ooh, we have a turntable stage so let's use it."
The walls were undecorated except that at various points, the names of Iphigenie, Oreste, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra appear in chalk and are periodically removed by water. It was not a brightlylit set,with most of the action taking place in darkness. Very noir. It was highly stylistically choreographed, at various times the crowd scenes danced through a routine of stabbing each other with imaginary swords and falling down dead, and during Oreste's mad scene he was lifted up by the chorus of Temple Priestesses and enabled to walk along the wall whilst lying horizontal on the arms of the priestesses. I am not sure of the point of that except to illustrate "This is Simon Keenlyside, he can do this." For those who take note, he remained resolutely fully clothed, refusing to live up to his nickname of "Shirtless", although he did removed his shoes and socks in preparation for being sacrificed, as one does.
At the end the goddess Diana appears as a deus ex machina. She sung her aria from inside the dome at the very top of the opera house. I have heard of this being done but never experienced it before. It seemed pretty effective to me.
This is due to be broadcast on Radio 3 on 6 October and I would definitely recommend tuning in, although it will inevitably lose something being audio only. I suppose it's not an opera that would necessarily attract people with only a passing interest, people who would be inclined to pick one or two warhorses to see in a season, but it really is so engaging and irresistible,with lovely tunes intelligently orchestrated, a love duet, a mad scene and so on.
I am not quite sure where the time has disappeared to. I have barely done anything of note for ever so long.
And yet the blog seems to have been neglected. By whom, I am not sure. This is a blame-free culture here. Anybody who disagrees will be taken out and shot.
Jimmy has been working all the hours imaginable, leaving me to do...what?
Agreed, my burden of housework has ballooned, but I long ago worked out the means to survival on the minimum of housework.
I have been watching less TV, because I haven't been watching with him. Yes, I have been to the pub a few times, but time-wise this is merely a replacement for time spent with him. Apart from the obvious things like working and sleeping, I really can't figure out what I have done with my time!
Separation is a strange thing. When one is single, one yearns to be part of a couple, often for reasons connected to loneliness as much as any other. The avoidance of relative loneliness. For nearly four years we lived a slightly strange existence where we were definitely seriously 'together' but he was living in his father's house but spending some nights down here. Then he moved in permanently and we immediately learnt how irritating how each other could be. And, as I suspect with most couples, it is the little things, the matters of trivial substance and negligible impact that really begin to annoy!
There have been times when I have wished myself single and free, free to eat what I want when I want, to spend my leisure time doing what I want with no concerns about the needs of anyone else. When we discussed him taking this bar management post that I would see very little of him, and I accepted this as being a price to pay in the short term. Rather than getting worked up about it, I decided to seize the opportunity to use the time constructively. Or failing that, to enjoy some solitary leisure pursuits. I have done neither. I really don't know what I have done except work and sleep.
I am so conscious that at various times in my life I have failed to maximise an opportunity that presents itself in unexpected ways. Not that I particularly regret them. That's just the way that life works.
But I am really surprised at the extent to which the blog has been neglected. I have a long list of topics to be blogged, but that really isn't the same as writing and publishing the damn posts...!
I find it quite difficult to write this. I generally find it difficult to write a tribute when someone dies. I find it a tad irksome when a significant passing brings out a flood of words motivated more by the need to mark a rite of passage and indulge a personal if often vicarious grief than out of genuine feeling.
I can't say I was ever a fan of Pavarotti, but as in the case of someone else, whose recent death I wrongly omitted to mark - Anthony Wilson - how can I remain untouched by his death when his life had brought me such joy.
And how can I say I am not a fan of someone who sings like this - I was about to change 'sings' to 'sang' but this beauty will live on forever
His death was not unexpected, it seemed a surprise that he survived pancreatic cancer so long, and then the final demise was rapid - which, I hope is a good thing. I was surprised at the wide spread of the media coverage on a day which, in the UK at least was not exactly a slow news day*. Not just the "Broadsheet" newspapers and Radios 3 and 4, but BBC News 24 and Sky, the red-tops and the purple-tops. And although I consider myself a careful student and an informed predictor of the media, this took me by surprise.
And in writing tributes and obituaries it is tempting to use superlative adjectives that are unevidenced, a result of emotion rather than fact-checking, especially in the downmarket newspapers.
What is absolutely without question that for millions, billions, of people who are not fans of opera or of classical music, Luciano Pavarotti was the face and epitome of opera. Other than that massive concert in the pouring rain in Hyde Park, I have never heard him live; if I had been inclined to, I would never have heard him in the vocal condition that made his name. I have a couple of DVDs with him in them, but I find them nearly unwatchable. I have relatively few of his recordings, and no complete operas - in every case there always seems to be a better alternative, and not just the obvious ones like Ballo and Tosca - I feel no pressing need to get Pav in Fille du Regiment on CD now that I have JDF on DVD.
I was startled to read in one of the tributes today that he never performed Calaf live on stage. I really find this to be extraordinary, but perhaps, in a sense, entirely typical of the contradictions of the artist. I think I would have been a bigger fan if he had focused more on the Bellini/Donizetti/lyric Verdi in which he excelled. But the number of roles he actually performed or even recorded is astonishingly low.
And, to be honest, it wasn't really for his opera performances that he became so universally famous, but for his role as a pop artist. I don't think he was ever a great musician, but undoubtedly a great singer with an innate musicality. I know a lot of people of my sort of age got into opera as a result of "The Three Tenors". I didn't. My mother and I sat down to watch it on the TV following her (day late) birthday tea and England's third place play-off match in Italia 90, with my brother breezing in and out as he got ready for a party and feigning utter boredom as is the wont of fifteen year olds...We thought we would be in a vanishingly small minority of people who would be watching it (we both had our favourite singers performing, neither of them was Pavarotti). We were, of course, wrong.
There are people who are hugely critical of The Three Tenors, as a trademarked entity and as individuals, and blame them squarely for the ghastly manifestation of plastic talentless plastic popera singers. And, I suppose, the emergence and inexplicable popularity of the likes of Bocelli, Jenkins, Watson, Potts and so on is the perfect proof of the Law of Unintended Consequences. Each of the Three Tenors had made their very great reputations, in different ways, through years and years of hard work and critical acclaim from experienced audiences in many different arduous roles in the world's top opera houses. I believe, because I have seen the evidence, that such performances did introduce many people to opera. The evidence that these artificial stars, reliant always on the magic of the microphone and the mixing desk, have done so is absent. Jimmy commented that he had caught a clip of the 3Ts on the news "they look like they're having fun!" he exclaimed, almost as he didn't think that was allowed!
There are an enormous number of obituaries, tributes, memories and reflections all over the internet, in every language I can read and, no doubt, many more besides, far far too many to include here, although the untiring stalwarts over at the 3Ts Yahoo Group are doing a splendid job.
But here are a few I have found worth reading, in no order other than left to right across the tabs in my browser...
A really brilliant video tribute from TelegraphTV, surprisingly an ITN production, with insightful intelligent - definitive - comment from Sarah Crompton their Arts editor; the only fault being the absence of a deep links, but at least with an easily searchable sidebar. I swear, I drafted this blogpost before I watched this clip.
Luciano Pavarotti: Obituary "At the age of 12 Luciano contracted tetanus. He was in a coma for two weeks, and was twice given the last rites" - well, I'd never read that before, but, together with the genuine privations that came as Italy faced defeat in the war, really puts Paul Potts's pathetic sob stories into context.
*Russian jets being intercepted by the RAF; a report published on the damaging effects of food addictives; the report into Foot and Mouth being leaked; Madeline McCann's mother being interviewed by Portuguese Police; the funeral of 11 year old murder victim Rhys Jones broadcast live from Liverpool Cathedral; the England football, rugby and cricket teams gearing up for crucial matches on Saturday.
One of those slightly strange days; I had barely got to my desk and hadn't even switched on my PC let alone sipped my coffee when somebody is talking about Pavarotti. And later in the morning, I went to another bank of desks, to return something I'd borrowed, and my opinion is being sought on Pav.
I walked into the building after lunch and noticed a small crowd gathered in the lift lobby. My immediate thought was that there was something wrong with the lifts, but, it turns out,the crowd is watching the TV, BBC News24, with Pav. So I stay a few minutes to watch too. The crowd disperses, and this woman, whom I don't know, have never seen before, asks me "Is he dead?" I said, yes, it was no surprise, he's had pancreatic cancer; she said "I didn't think he'd die today, I thought he would last until tomorrow..." bursts into tears and almost collapses in my arms. I really don't know what to do at this point, I'm not used to public shows of emotion at work, and of nearly four thousand people, from two government departments, she chooses me to be the one she cries onto.
This evening, I'm in Jimmy's pub, and stating that I don't especially likes the music. He tells me I can be in control; it's a 5000 track WinAmp playlist. SO I put on "Nessun Dorma". From time to time, and only rarely, one can get away with such a choice of music. Of course I end up in a debate with someone I have known all the time I've lived in London; neither of us actually know who is singing on this particular version, and anyway, we don't like Nessun Dorma. Still, we recognise he was a catalyst in getting people into a type of music that maybe otherwise they might not have.
So, to escape from Nessun Dorma on a loop, and considering my nom de net elsewhere, I can only bring you Elephants Yeah
I did hear Pavarotti live, once. In Hyde Park in 1991. Not exactly the sort of event one forgets in a hurry.
I shall write more tomorrow, but it's been one of those days with a home PC crash over breakfast, a reluctance to blog from work, and some serious running around in the evening.
Some amateur footage on YouTube, and thank you to "Anonymous*" for drawing this to our attention
I'm still not sure about those trousers ;-)
* I respect anybody's right to be anonymous on the internet, but I would so love to have a name or pseudonym for Anonymous who so frequently leaves links. I can learn a tiny bit, mainly location, from my site stats, but would never divulge such info on the internet.
Now there's even less reason to sit through Siegfried*
UpdateIMO, Siegfried is a great opera, but, being that it is called Siegfried one would expect the singer in the role of Siegfried to be able to sing. Instead, we get Jon Treleaven. Many of us who were dreading the appearance of Treleaven were at least consoling ourselves with the thought of Bryn as Wanderer. John Tomlinson's okay-ish, I suppose, and thenk god, he's able to take on all the Wotans/Wanderers, but he's no Bryn. I would be okay with John Tom as Wanderer if it wasn't for the dreadful Treleaven as Siegfried
This site says that the concert is 3 September; his site says 1 September.
Meanwhile, a week on Sunday, he conducts the Verdi Requiem for LA Opera's opening night, and the blogosphere offers up an insider's account of rehearsals
How many people get to say hello and exchange hugs with Placido Domingo on a regular basis? Well, I do. I don't think he knows my name but he is warm and friendly and likes pretty ladies and is always happy to see familiar faces....Today we were surprised that he took (led) the rehearsal....Placido took us through the entire piece, giving us his tempi and phrasing... He personally sang many of the solo lines in between the chorus sections. What a voice! It is still rich and full and beautiful even though he's past 60*. Amazing. He brings the singer's sensibility to conducting, with extreme sensitivity to the musical line and the meaning of the words. I realize what a gift it is to simply be in the presence of this great and wonderful world-class artist. The man *is* music. It's what he's made of.
And his site has a picture of the new statue in Mexico City.
Ten years ago, I remember it well. Which in itself is quite an achievement, considering how much I had had to drink, although clearly nothing like as much as Diana's chauffeur that night. I was out with my strictly-platonic friend Roy and after the pub shut he came back to my place and we sat talking until about 3 am, before he left.
Before I had t'internet, I wondered vaguely whether I should check out the news headlines on Ceefax but couldn't be arsed, going instead to bed, to rise at about midday. I nipped to the newsagent, more concerned with getting a Lottery ticket as an 'extra' to slip into my sister's birthday card. I then went to the counter and saw all these papers, with the front page being variously Diana Dead or Diana Seriously Injured. I turned to Jay the newsagent and said "It's terrible what rubbish these tabloids print." No, it's true, he said, she's dead.
Unconvinced I thought I would check out Ceefax at home, and was pleased that I happened to turn the TV on during the news, so it was true. I then realised the news was going on all day. The TV schedules were carefully culled to prevent any offence - only they missed the godslot, the only interesting telly that day, the late great Nigel Hawthorne narrating the history of how Christianity came to England, with the immortal - pre-recorded - line "And you never knew what fate would befall tourists in France in those days..." Great TV blunder! My friend Helen thought Coronation Street was weird, the Rovers being the only pub in Britain not discussing the Death of Diana.
I found the media coverage and public hysteria quite unbelievable, although Brycchan put it into context by describing the scenes of the crowds that gathered to mourn Nelson and to line his funeral route.
I found the attitude of some of my colleagues fairly horrendous. On the Thursday we had an end-of-audit meal, co-hosted in a Greek restaurant by myself and another Senior Auditor (we were the most senior present). People were going on-and-on with their media inspired mourning. I pointed out that our manager had lost his father the previous week, and I asked how many had even offered their condolences let offered the hand and ear of friendship to someone who was clearly very upset. One colleague was going "she was such a devoted mother"; I suggested that that was rubbish, said colleague was a far better mother, who wouldn't have dreamed of going on holiday without her children*, and certainly not sending them away for weeks on end to some boarding school*. Said colleague had deferred her University entrance until her 30s, having been bringing up her children, then went to University part time, and then was conscientious in her juggling an onerous job (and professional study) with the everyday responsibilities of getting the children off to school, supervising homework etc.
At the time I was working in an office on Buckingham Palace Road, and finally decided to go down to the Mall to see what all the fuss was about. Despite my cynicism, my compassion fatigue and my anathema at the hysteria, it was a memorable occasion.
What did not come over on the TV was the scent. An overwhelming scent of fresh flowers mixed with gently burning candlewax. I kept falling into conversation with people with the same views as me, what a load of hysteria but I've come out of curiosity, and it's quite extraordinary. What also lingers was the sense of peace and tranquillity, with the Mall being closed to traffic, allowing people to reclaim the street in safety, away from the incessant roar and smell of motor vehicles.
I wasn't going to watch the funeral, of course, then someone rang me to say that Martin** was playing the organ, so suddenly, it became compulsory viewing. (And didn't he play it well...I have the CD, but only for Martin's organ-playing and he doesn't even get a namecheck). Well, my 11 am appointment to get my legs waxed had to be cancelled, to my annoyance and that of the beautician. Eventually I rearranged it for the next Saturday, going there from breakfast with David in town. I bought a train ticket from Victoria to Streatham Hill, then walked down the High Road to the beauticians, before getting the bus outside WH Smith and inadvertently fare-dodging, which ended me up in Camberwell Green magistrates court, pleading guilty in my absence. So, my current hassle is all the fault of the bloody Royal Family and that stupid bitch being too arrogant to wear a seatbelt. Perhaps I should have done what some high-powered businessman did in high-powered negotiations with the Lambeth Chief Exec - breakdown in tears and say he was very upset at Diana's death; Heather was not sure whether the waterworks were genuine or a clever negotiating tactic.
* okay, I know people have their reasons, and it's not my place to question or criticise valid reasons, but I didn't like this idea that somehow Diana, as well as being a saint, was also a role model parent
I'm doing quite well playing my tapes alphabetically. Last week Pink Floyd, this week The Police.
I saw Sting at Live8. I didn't like The Police at first. In First Year at secondary school., there was thing. Siobhan was into Gary Numan, I was into the Boomtown Rats and Catherine was in to the Police - she had pictures of Sting on her bedroom wall.
Then Catherine left.
Then I got into the Police.
I was so naive as a teenager. I considered that they had a 'comeback' in 1983.
I bought this album circa 1990. Hit after hit.
Pretty much good song after good song. Best ones - Message in A Bottle; Walking on the Moon; Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic...one of those songs that has me bopping round the room expressing gratitude I don't have one of those webcam things people put on their blogs; Don't Stand So Close To Me. Specifically the '86 version. It has a different sound to it, a more surroundish-type-sound*. And more unfinished (or unresolved) cadences. I think we've all experienced the 'crush-on-teacher' syndrome. It mattered at the time.
I seem to be involved in along conversation about Every Breath You Take. My interlocutor, of whose identity I am no longer sure, was quite dogged in stating that because it was a song about stalking it was creepy and unpleasant. It had not struck me that way previously, and for a while I did consider this element, but on listening to it just now, I'm not convinced. It sounds more like a man who is bitter and full of hatred at the break-up of the relationship. Not Big Not Clever but Perfectly Understandable. Yes, he's obsessed, and he'll be watching her, wanting to prove that she's untrustworthy. It's too simple to label it an anthem to stalking.
And from the Department of Misheard Lyrics "Sue Lawley"
Least favourite - De Do Do Do De Da Da Da.
It struck me listening to this album that it must be a bit disappointing being a member of a rock band like The Police. Admittedly Sting is rich beyond one's wildest imagination and I don't suppose the other two suffer the penury of Church mice. But there you are, not exactly in Youth's First Flush, writing songs full of philosophical thoughts and literary references, hoping that you will be taken seriously by the college crowd; instead you become the pin-up od pre-teens who - thankfully - don't have a clue about the meaning of 'that famous book by Nabokov'. Life sucks sometimes.
Still, I contend that Boy Bands back then, back in the Golden Age™, they had something about them. It might actually have been because pre-teens were a bit more sophisticated, could handle pretentious philosophical ramblings in a sophisticated way. We'll Never See Their Likes Again.
Bloody hell, looks like they're back together and touring, hitting Twickenham next week. Twickers? Plenty of tickets up on ebay. Tempting but not that tempting, not sure I would be trendy enough to go to such a gig. Oh wait, it's 2007, they're in their fifties and sixties, their fans are in their forties. I think I'm trendy enough for that, but I don't think I'm that motivated, although, it's tempting, the concerts are at the weekend, so it's not like I'd be out late on a work night. Amd Twickers is well served by public transport - change at Clapham Junction. Nice, safe, suburban and middle-class. (I wonder how white middle-class middle-aged and elitist will that audience be - frighteningly so, I would imagine).
Last week I was chatting with someone and I said "It's like in West Wing when Josh is always complaining that the story will be about 'process' not substance.
I walked along the street and overheard a conversation where someone said "Arabella's problem is that she is more interested in process than outcome".
In my meeting, someone said "Oh you're looking at outcome rather than process..."
Another time, someone was trying to describe just how boring her and her husband's home life is, trying to evoke sympathy by tugging at the heartstrings. She said "Occasionally we go out for Sunday lunch but otherwise all we ever do is swinging..." At which point everyone jumped, startled. She blushed bright red and "Swimming. Swimming. Swimming."
I came down downstairs and saw that Jimmy had a beer. "Did you ask my permission?" I challenged him.
"Yes," he said, "You gave me permission."
"I don't recall..."
"I shouted upstairs 'Gerry' and you replied 'Yes' so I was pleased you've finally learned to read my mind..."
I have liked Dame Kiri for a long time. I first encountered her as a result of the televising of the Charles and Diana farce wedding, and subsequently she got a lot of mass media coverage.
Sopranos don't tend to rate amongst my favourite voice types - even with female singers I prefer mezzos and, especially, contraltos. But when I do like sopranos I like ones whose voice have the timbre of crystal, of whom Kiri is the epitome. People have called her 'Dreary Kiri', some have said watching her 'acting' is akin to Hari Kiri. Cruel, but understandable.
This double CD is a recent acquisition, a present from my very clever Kiwi/Yorkshire nephew who shares his birthday with Kiri. It is very pleasant listening, Disc 1 in particular. I think what I like about it is the fact that she, or whoever compiled it, has avoided making it a chestnuts album filled with the predictable clichéd overplayed Classic FM that the plastic wannabes record ad nauseam. there is a lot of material on it which is otherwise unfamiliar - or nearly so - to me - especially the Duparc, Ravel and Korngold arias. I really don't know Dir tote Stadt at all, but is due to get its UK staged premiere in about 18 months time at Covent Garden. This aria "Glück, das mir verblieb' inherits the same sound world as Strauss's Presentation of the Rose - although the only Strauss on this is the Marschallin's aria from Act I.
The mood of the entire disc is incredibly peaceful and tranquil. I suppose those who want their divas to chew the furniture while they slash and burn will invoke the 'Dreary Kiri ' clause. But I like its restfulness. I also like the fact that in many of the selection it seems that the orchestra is allowed to display its music. Considering that the various tracks are from a variety of recordings with various orchestras under various stick-wavers, I can only assume that this is a sensitive and intelligent, if arguably idiosyncratic selection by the compiler.
I am less keen on the second CD. It is perfectly pleasant and enjoyable when it comes on the mp3 player, but a whole album of folk, musical theatre and pop songs gets a bit much, especially when I have better versions of many of them in my collection, whether by Kathleen Ferrier or Simply Red.
I got her 'Ave Maria' so long ago that I have it on vinyl. I am currently digitising my cassettes, and all my vinyl is also on cassette. I am thinking it would make more sense to get myself a turntable and digitise my original vinyl, but I am rather scared even to look at them, suspecting that they have been warped by years of storage in the bedroom cupboard, all carefully standing up - and I have recently learned they ought to be stacked. In any case, I don't find anything attractive in the hiss and cackle, not to mention pop and jump, of vinyl. It is relatively easy to digitise a cassette; the sound is generally reasonable enough, if I work through them I will probably find a few worth reinvesting in on CD.
This is a gorgeous album, and one of which I have made countless copies for friends etc, back in the days when people wanted proper singers singing their light excepts unsullied by horribilised pop, rather than Katherine-Potts-Bocelli straining through Never Mind the Bollocks in Middle German with a heavily legato string arrangement.
And indeed, every singer has eventually to release a sacred album. Dame Dreary Kiri did so before the major milestone in my life The 1991 Acquisition-Migration-to-CD. Every track on this is lovely, and, without exception is executed in a lovely manner by the exquisite voice of Kiri. I adore Mozart's Laudate Dominum; not much later I got a CD of it in context, and that is still one of my favourite CDs. I like Bist du Bei Mir less now than then, because I have an alternative version I often repeat-play almost to over-play. I I think this is a tad too gentle and devotional and lacking basic human emotion.
Gounod's Sanctus is fantastic. Gounod is one of those composers that every time I hear something by him, I keep meaning to explore all. This is full of bombast and grand drama, and almost impossible (for me) to sing along to, even when alone in the house, solo part or chorus , and especially both together...In general I would say that while it is a pleasant album, it's not necessarily one that can be played over and again.
For the past few months we have been making a conscious effort to de-clutter. From amidst the clutter I have found a 'story' I started writing a good few years ago*. I have decided to read it, as if I have nothing better to do with my time. You know it's going to be a cracker of a romantic love sex bonker story by the arrangements for the first date:
I'm babysitting for friends tonight, but I'm sure they won't mind you coming as well. I've got the electoral register for this ward, and some canvass cards, so we can start cutting them up and pasting...
Romantic, eh?
* clearly before "El Pack" (or however it's spelt...!)
Last night we made the mistake of watching live a programme on a commercial TV channel - the new series of the fabulous IT Crowd (laugh out loud and possibly even better than series one) - the mistake was the 'live' bit, not the programme! We had to sit rather than fast forward through the ads. Two were for newly released albums. One for an acoustic guitar bloke of whom I have never heard, but the short excerpt seemed quite pleasant if not particularly something I would feel the need to buy. The other was for a band called Mövenpick or something. On an admittedly short clip they just sounded like noise. I was about to express that view, then I pulled myself up short. I can't imagine myself listening to, let alone buying such a cacophony, but to say so makes me 'middle-aged'.
And yet quite a lot of the pop music I like I am sure presents itself to people, say 19½ years older than me as being 'noise'. I understand it to be a proven scientific fact that are hearing changes as we age, and at my age I am less able to extract something meaningful from the 'noise' then I was at 10 or 17 or whatever. But when I listen to the 'noise' from my youth I hear music. When I listen to today's pop so-called music, it's just noise. I accept that there is an element of familiarity and rehearsal, but I have a feeling there is an additional element, too. I don't know how much is me and how much is a reflection of the changes in engineering/production over the decades.
This probably has to be read in conjunction with my review of the same opera from La Scala. Although I am not very into Puccini I have two DVDs of this opera.
Overall, and in general, I much prefer the Covent Garden one to the La Scala one.
First of all, the sets are amongst the very best opera sets I have seen live or on DVD. Almost worthy of applause in themselves. Act I, the bar, Act II, Minnie's Log Cabin and Act III, the gallows in the mining village. It is enjoyable to note hundreds of little details and the overall picture is splendid.
I find so much of the music very reminiscent of that which accompanies classic Western films, and then I remind myself that Puccini did it first.
I find the first half of Act I does drag a lot. I see its importance in setting the scene; for a first viewing it's quite interesting, but it sags on repeated viewing. It's very clear how the main characters are introduced one-by-one and the atmosphere is set - the miners pining for home, the Wells Fargo man, and the camp minstrel (although I find the way he is blacked up Al Jolson style) very dodgy. The highlight of this opening 'boring bit' is the evocative miners' lament. (When I was making rough notes I wrote 'almost liturgical in its lachrimosity' - Pseuds' Corner, anyone?). And as the Minstrel the camera lingers on the "Wanted" poster for Ramirez, a bandit, a Spaniard from Mexico.
The opera only really starts after 36 minutes with the grand entrance of 'Dick Johnson'. And it grips me for the remainder of the Act. The Love duet in particular, especially the bit, erm, I wrote it down in English from the subtitles "Waht you cannot say, your heart told me when we danced". I do have a bit of a problem with Carol Neblett in this role. For one, she looks a lot like Nurse G-g-g-gladys Emmanuel, but more to the point, she adopts that tactic of sopranos when the top notes are beyond them - screamingly squawk it.
I am not sure whether Fanciulla is a great opera or merely a good one with some great scenes. Whenever Iwatch it I find myself repeat-playing certain sections. On this DVD, we get Plácido at his very best. It's not a role that is particularly considered a signature role for him, but it's pretty clear that he enjoys it, and vocally it suits him very well. He obviously relishes the opportunity to strut around oozing machismo - it's easy to see how Minnie fell so completely for him.
Act II starts badly with what I noted in my notebook as a 'rather tedious and ethnically embarrassing scene with Wowkle and Billy looking like cartoon-character "Red Indians"'. But when that's over with, I enjoy the way that Minnie is getting ready for her big date - and then he - Dick Johnson - arrives, looking very sexy, in an ankle length leather coat and a rather fetching hat, although, obviously, being a gentleman bandit, he doesn't wear that indoors.
They engage in sweet-talk at the table, but the music tells us that passion is rising; his macho strutting is mixed with an awkward nervousness. And 'Un baccio, un baccio solo' is pure steaming lust. He actually smokes the cigar she hands him (and we know from Carmen that this is a man who knows how to handle a cigar...).
Next is Comedy Moment, when the door blows open and snow blows in so Dick Johnson bundles Wowkle and the baby into the snow with indecent haste. Then we have a B-movie style passionate clench as the door blows open-and-shut in the blizzard. But the snow - and the sound of gunshots - is an excuse for Minnie, declaring everlasting love, to make Dick stay, whilst the orchestra portrays carnality. Frankly, if he was over me like that I would also declare everlasting love and I would not curl up in a bearskin and offer him my bed.
Opera is foremostly about singing, and I love the way Plácido sings in this, contrasting the passages where there is steel in the voice with tender moments. The orchestra is important, too. In this work it never realy plays 'tunes' but its mood music acts as an accompanist, a very different tone than, say, Bohème or Tosca.
To be honest, although I really enjoy this opera, there are crazy nonsensical aspects to it. He is shot and bleeding. I accept that at the time it was set it wasn't possible to summon the air ambulance, but I would have thought that a bit of basic First Aid would have come in handy, instead she just bundles him into the loft. When he is discovered by the big Bad Sheriff Jack Rance, still no first aid is administered, instead he sits slumped over the kitchen table as Minnie and Rance play poker for his body. And magically, he is fully cured in Act III*
Act III is short and perfectly formed - with yet another fabulous set. It begins with a lamenting reminiscent with the miners' lament in Act I - this time it's Rance, and Nick the barman, yearning for life with Minnie, who's off doing her own thing with 'Dick Johnson' aka Ramirez the Bandit. I really love the scene when he arrives having being cornered by the Wells Fargo men, looking deliciously scruffy and with his shirt unfastened enough to reveal just a tantalising glimpse of chest hair. He delivers that wonderful aria "Ch'ella mi creda libero e lontano"and Minnie arrives to save him.
A thoroughly enjoyable and satisfying opera - albeit with a zero body count - but probably not a great opera!
*It's a bit like the otherwise superbly wonderful 'Rome' on TV, where Lucius Vorenus is mortally wounded and bleeding in Egypt but somehow manages to make it back to Rome. I don't believe either scenario would be possible now, with a much greater understanding of physiology and hygiene, let alone medical care and fast transport, let alone the Old Days
PS In the course of writing this, I googled for 'Ch'ella mi creda..." and to my horror the first hit was for Andrea Bocelli. I couldn't quite believe that Bocelli has recorded it, but I caught a short snippet, and it was even more horrendous than I imagined; then my computer seemed to have been taken over by the disembodied voice of Andrea Bocelli with no obvious means of killing it. Needless to say, I am traumatised as a result of infiltration by this dangerous cult.
A brilliant title for an album, and a brilliant album by a brilliant band.
I was introduced to the Pogues at University by Dave, Mike and Andrew, and I have liked them ever since. Good grief, I even went out and bought this on vinyl. The Wikipedia article has taught me quite a lot, as has some of the links thrown up in it
One of the most attractive aspects of this album is the folk-rock fusion. I actually really like folk music - up to a point. I like it when it's proletarian and urban, hate it when it's tiptoe-through-the-tulips cowpat music. I like the ethnic Irish sound, and I like the fact that it's not Misty-Eyed-Old-Farts music, but Angry.
Every track on this album is worth listening to its own right, each is quite different from the rest. For example, the Wild Cats of Kilkenny has a wonderful combination of Bodhrán and penny whistle, a combination which ought to make one vomit, but the banshee howling and strident electric guitar - maybe it shouldn't work, but it does! And Cait O'Riordan's vocals on "I'm a Man You Don't Meet Everyday".
There is a good mix of original material by Shane McGowan and intelligent cover versions. It so happens that my two favourite tracks are cover versions, but that shouldn't be seen as diminishing the immense talent of Shane MacGowan - there's something about Shane MacGowan - born in Tunbridge Wells, attended Westminster School - which makes him just perfect to be 'considered one of the most important and poetic Irish songwriters of the last thirty years'.
I have always known Dirty Old Town as a song, but for about 15 years I thought it was a twee tiptoe-through-the-tulips song. Yes, I know that isn't the tradition of the Very Great Ewan MacColl, but it wasn't until I was actually in Salford*, with the Pogues' Dirty Old Town in my ears that its evocation of a very industrial city suddenly struck me - Ewan MacColl was still alive at this point. Of course Salford has changed beyond recognition now and will change more, especially round the Quays and near the Lowry.
However, sometimes an album contains a song so powerful that owning the album is mandatory simply because of that song. I realise that my recent record reviews are becoming increasingly autocratic in insisting that no record collection can be considered proper without certain works.
And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda' is simply one of the greatest songs ever written. The tune is compelling but even more powerful are the words,words made more poignant by the banjo, accordion** and brass. One word of warning - do not listen late at night. I never cry at audio-only performances of music, but listening to this at half past midnight a few days ago, I was in total floods. Even in the light of early afternoon, it is sending a shiver through me. And it makes me angry. Everything about World War 1 makes me angry. Utter waste, sheer evil and completely without any point. Why on earth did Australians end up fighting Turks in Gallipoli, dying and being maimed, just because of posturing by the immoral powerful and unaccountable. I don't know if huge conscript armies could be mustered nowadays, without extreme coercion, but the damage inflicted on an entire generation is incalculable. There are still people alive who fought in that war, we're still fighting it today in Iraq and elsewhere and if pointlessness and near-century long consequences is brought into the reckoning, it must count as one of the greatest evils of human history.
* en route for The Cliff, then Manchester United's training ground
** and how rarely do I praise the accordion, which if it wasn't for bagpipes, ought to be considered the spawn of Satan
We went to Sainsburys at Streatham Common a few months ago, and decided we'd have a coffee in the café attached to it. Jimmy ordered a Double Espresso - after all it was advertised on the board, and there was a coffee machine. The man behind the counter didn't know what one was, and then served it in a sizeable mug. It wasn't even as if he was a schoolie on his first day in a Saturday job. Just one of those things you just sigh, and move on...
A few minutes later two elderly Italian women and a young boy, perhaps a grandson, came in. The women ordered their coffees, the boy wanted an orange juice. No can do. He could have cocacola or fanta or sh*t or more sh*t. But not orange juice. Or apple juice. Or grapefruit juice. Or cranberry juice. Or any juice. Only chemical-sugar concoctions. This was at Sainsburys...
Later we went for a pre-ballet dinner in the heart of Covent Garden. Lovely restaurant, gorgeous food, nice ambience, serving staff hitting the right balance between attention and peace. We didn't pay much notice to our fellow diners, there was no need. I was vaguely aware of a table to my right. A table for six, but with a spare chair. The five who sat there ranged from 'average' size to plump to one very tall, well-built and proportionately chubby man. They conversed, the odd word or phrase was barely audible at our table.
The sixth person arrived and I was immediately struck by how thin she was, the sort who makes Victoria Beckham look chubby.
Conveniently for the thin one, having missed the moment when her companions ordered, she skipped starter. She had her main course, basically meat and veg, but she left the meat, and the sauce and didn't eat all the veg. She immediately went to the loos and the last we saw of her as we left she was standing by the entrance, explaining to the staff on reception that as she was smoking French cigarettes she didn't want to impose them on her companions(who were sitting in the smoking area). That may be true, of course, but the strong taste of French cigarettes conveniently masks the taste of vomit in the mouth. And it also acts as a convenient excuse for being absent when puddings were being ordered. She looked really dreadful, just skin and bone; that horrible thing with sticky-out neck bits that thin women cultivate. Her hairstyle was expensive, her clothes were not from Oxfam, her perma-tan was well-cultivated. It's conceivable she was a 55 year-old with elements of 35, but my judgement was that she was a 35 year old prematurely aged by decades of starvation. There were members of the corps de ballet who looked obese in comparison.
I am a very late convert to Beautiful South. They have been around almost for ever, certainly since I was a student (or perhaps I am thinking more about the wonderful Housemartins) and recently split up because of 'musical similarities'. I only ever bought this one. Typical me to really get into a band nearly two decades after they formed and just as they split. And I have decided that I would really like to see them live.
I have always enjoyed their songs in a sort of passive way, but it's only since I put them on my mp3 player that I have realised just how much I like them. All of the songs on this album have nice tunes, which may seem like damning with faint praise, but it is a sine qua non of songwriting. I don't actually know much about them, but I have never got the sense of them being manufactured.
If the tunes are nice, the lyrics are brilliant. I have nothing but admiration for the poetry evident in every song.
This is most definitely an album that is worth playing over and again. That's the problem with trying to blog my entire record collection by forty. I am not sure there is any great benefit in listing all the songs on this album, and trying to rank them in order of preference. There are plenty of sources on the internet that have the track listing. However, I am trying to establish a list of my top one hundred pop songs ever. Maybe. Ish.
Some of the songs are memorable for lyrics such as
Albert Steptoe in 'Gone with the Breeze'
Mother played by Peter Beardsley, father by John Cleese
Whereas One Last Love Song has fairly banal lyrics, a deceptively simple melody, and moving harmonies. The unconventionally nasal lyricism of the male singer turn this into a special song.
A Little Time uses contrast between the soft male voice and the female voice coming in as if at cross-purposes. Very apt.
Bell Bottomed Tear is poignant. The words are profound, I think, the tune delightfully simple, the orchestration sophisticated, the voices real and idiosyncratic. I really like her voice. In fact thinking about it, in pop I tend to prefer female voices to male; in classical, I prefer male voices to female. Discuss...!
In fact this is incredibly difficult to write. I have decided that this has to be right up there as one my very favourite pop albums in my entire collection. I don't want to be a position.
Song for Whoever is quirky and satirical and yet not really cynical. Wonderful song.
I'll Sail This Ship Alone. Wonderful Song.
Prettiest Eyes. Wonderful Song.
Aaaaagh! Aaaaagh. Aaaaagh. I am going to have play this album over and over again over the next few months just so that I can determine how many of those songs mentioned above are actually not merely very good but quite possibly great.
I am the newest mad keen fan of the Beautiful South. Believe me, I am now an expert. They are utterly wonderful and this album ought to be in the collection of everybody who calls themself a music lover.
Well, it's not really crap, but it's obviously a compilation put together for a 'mood'. Lots of non-threatening music with a variety of singers with a diverse range of talents.
I like to put these things on random to cock a snook at the compiler. Especially when the compiler is marketer not a musician.
Bland. Let's pick some singers that people like, and find their blandest songs - Madonna, Alanis, Joan Armatrading. Let's ignore the fact that they are liked partly for their attitude. Well, I suppose Better Midler isn't bland. Sentimental schmultz can never be described as bland. On a record with sentimental schmulz, bland suddenly seems attractive.
I have never been able to take Natalia Imbruglia seriously since I heard she dated Liam Fox; I hadn't heard of her prior to learning that fact. Apparently, she was in Neighbours, in the days I used to watch it. Her presence clearly entirely passed me by.
On the plus side, there's some Sinead, but it's hardly her best song. Bonnie Raitt - now there's a woman with a voice. I always liked stuff by her I've heard. But never enough to rush out and buy an album.
The above was written after playing Disc 1. Fortunately Disc 2 is considerably better - or my mood and more ears more open to the selection.
Morcheeba. Not bad. I used to almost know Morcheeba very well. But that's a whole other story...! On the second disc are some very good tracks, by kd lang, Pretenders, Shakespear's Sister, Everything But The girl etc etc.
But the original draft of this is dated 19/5/2005 and it's now 19/8/2007. You calculate...it's not as if I have exactly been drawn to this CD in the past two years and three months.
Although, listening to it this evening, I have discovered a rather nice song I was not previously aware of - Where Have All The Cowboys Gone by Paula Cole, of whom I have never heard.
On the other hand, it also includes The Corrs. I mean, that should be against the law shouldn't it. I think buying this CD was the final stage of aversion therapy and I have never bought a pop compilation CD since. I don't think. In fact, I don't remember buying it. I supposed I might have shoplifted it in a drug-induced trance. But, somehow, I doubt it...
My copy says £15.99; Amazon has it available at its market value of a whole 97p. Gahhhh.
I have these five cassettes. I taped them off my sister. And I think she taped them off someone's vinyl. Knocking on for twenty years ago. TDK cassettes. They have been played so very many often times, in all sorts of dodgy cassette players I have owned over the years. On the box is written "Festival of Light Classical Music" Tapes that have sustained me through every aspect of my adult life.
There is no way that I can be in the slightest bit objective or dispassionate about any of the music on these, because they probably represent seven and a half of the ten hours of music with which I am more familiar than any other. And familiarity is one of the main aspects of liking music. Music that brings back memories, yet conversely, because of its ubiquity in my life, brings no specific memories and thus speaks for itself.
I thought about listing every track but how dull would that be, so I thought I would just pick out a handful of my real favourites. But then I realised that that would be at least half of the tracks. So I shall try some more general thoughts.
One of my Guilty Pleasures is Compilation Albums. I realise that these days, with the ability to burn CDs and download MP3s and all that I don't really need to buy Compilation Albums, but it's a form of retail therapy. They're also good when you don't really know what you want to listen to.
The best compilation albums feature music that has stood the test of time. Not just music that is popular because it has been used in adverts.
I always have trouble with popularity. Just because something - a piece of music - is popular doesn't mean it's good. I would say this particularly applies to something that is 'best selling' at a specific time. Conversely popularity doesn't mean it's bad. Indeed, there is an argument that a piece of music that is acclaimed by the critics, and loved by professionals and public alike over a significant time period is, by definition, good.
But then, you are left with the Bleeding Chunks Syndrome. As I write, Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries has just finished. A piece known, I think, by most people with ears, even if they don't know they know it. But only a very few minutes, and not a typical few minutes, excerpted from a 16 hour work of genius. Is the Ride better than the Ring as a whole? Can that question ever be answered? But it is certainly more popular than any other piece of music that Wagner wrote. Yet one day I was playing this in Hall and someone actually came to my room and reprimanded me for my subtle anti-semitism. I was too cowed and too anxious to be 'right on' - and too ignorant - to argue the toss. I like the music. Live with it. She wasn't even on my corridor, just passing by.
I did a search on Amazon, CDDB etc for this compilation, and struck a series of blanks, so I'm not even sure whether I there is much point in blogging this. But it is such an incredibly important part of my acquiring musical knowledge. Because I had such a small collection at the time I taped these, they were played over and again and I absolutely absorbed the music into my marrow. I have recently acquired the means to digitise cassettes and I have done so with these (the bigger problem is track splitting; well, it's not difficult just tedious and time-consuming). If I took a logical approach I have just about every tune already in digital of one sort or another, but I am so fond of the compilation as well as (most) of its constituent parts.
It is an entirely intelligent compilation. I would say that every piece is well known, but actually, that's because they are my musical life's blood. For example, a few weeks ago, I was watching Weber's Frieschutz, a completely unfamiliar opera to me....and yet, I knew the overture and one of the main themes as a result of this compilation. So it wasn't difficult for Frieschutz to become immediately "I like" and, more importantly "I want to get to know better".
And in total indulgence, a whole side of a cassette is devoted to just two pieces of music - Swan Lake and Nutcracker. I mean, let's face it,they are f***ing ace pieces of music and a nice way to round off 7½ hours of glorious music.
I've spent a fair part of the day scanning in slides from my childhood. I actually thought there were more. I haven't yet done the boxes from before I was born - but I will!
Having barely skimmed the surface, I now want to get my grubby mitts on the various photos that are also at my mother's, including the Summer of 69 when I was going through my blonde phase. Difficult to believe if you see me at 4. Dead good I was at tennis back then. Admittedly, my grip is rubbish.
I am trying to remember the name for that dress...yes, I gave names to dresses, I think I was probably an exceptionally weird child. I do remember that I decided it reminded me of the different flavours of fizzy pop. There must be a photo of my coat called "Furry Henry". Yes, I gave names to coats, too.
The bedraggled scruffy look is absolutely inherent as a personality trait, not as an attitude I have cultivated in adulthood!
I am reliably told by My Sister that this was taken at Haddon Hall
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