Gertsamtkunstwerk

New York here I come

Oh god, I actually thought I was going to pass out I was hyperventilating so much. Sale of single tickets for the Metropolitan Opera started at midday NY time which I calculated to be 5pm my time, so I got onto the site at 4.30pm to find them already on sale. With. a. real---ll---y slow...server. Because I hadn't registered I got timed out and my ticket taken away from me and I had to start all over again. But I have a ticket. Problem is, it's gonna be held at the Box Office at Lincoln Center - which is fair enough - and I have to present Jimmy's credit card. He won't be going to New York. I wonder if I contact them and explain, they'll let me present my (non-photo but addressed) driving licence, passport, two utility bills, Audit Warrant and Official UK Government Pass. Hmm...

So, this Iphigenie en Tauride opera, is it any good? just kidding, I have heard an audio version, and I have a DVD on my to-do list, and I'm going to the Covent Garden baritone version in September

My next challenge is trying to get a ticket for Romeo and Juliette. I'm not going all the way to New York to end up taking a trip on the Long Island Railroad to see it at a cinema when I could do that on a 417 bus from home to Clapham Common.

I suppose now I'm going to the Met I shall have to relearn when to applaud. I understand it's a) at the scenery and b) when the star makes his first appearance on stage...

While I'm there, I wouldn't mind visiting Pampano

Digitizing the 60s

When I was very very little, my parents took photos and got them developed as slides. This means that, unlike most of my contemporaries, my baby photos are in colour. However, they are not very accessible.

The other day I met up with my sister, nephew and niece. They brought with them, at my request, The Slides!

I have been struggling all morning to get the scanner to work, until finally figuring it out that all I had to do was turn it off and on again.

Here is a photo of my older sister and me with our grandparents. I was just a few weeks old.

Pavarotti sings Puccini/Essential Pavarotti

Those of you who have been paying close attention to my blog for the past x years will know that I am working slowly and steadily through my entire record collection and blogging it.

It may come as a surprise to some that I have two records by Pavarotti in my collection. Admittedly, one was taped off my mother's copy years ago. I can't remember why I bought the other. Perhaps it was a Britannia Record of the month which I forgot to cancel way back in the days when the Pav had a voice, sort of.

 But actually, the tracks on it were recorded in 1973, and 1979-1980, so it's a pretty good product. It's called Ti Amo and is pure Puccini, no dubious crossover crap. The excerpts from La Bohème, by no means my favourite opera, even by Puccini, are simply exquisite, taken from that benchmark recording in 1973 with Herbie and the Berliners; having these four tracks saves me the trouble of having to buy the complete recording (ducks...)

It also includes Nessun dorma, which is the only operatic aria I truly hate with a vengeance and a passion, and every bloody tenor has to include it on his compilation CD. Basta! I say. But it would be bloody strange to have a Pav-Puccini album without that dreadful turgid song from Turandot.

I could live quite happily without his excerpts from Tosca. I have a very clear idea of how I want my Cavaradossi to sound. And it ain't Luciano. Supposedly it's his signature role, but I think that I would rather hear him in Bel Canto than in this

 It is extremely pleasant to listen to the Essential Pavarotti. His voice was - and as captured on record is - extraordinary. I would actually go so far as to say that in terms of pure vocal technique and sound it is the most 'perfect' voice in my not insubstantial Tenor collection. And I always get pleasure from listening to Pavarotti. I don't get anything like as much pleasure from watching him act, but this post is purely about the audio experience. What an amazingly technically brilliant and sweet voice.This compilation features most of the arias one would expect on an aria compilation by a leading Italian/lyric tenor - although, Una furtiva lagrima apart, there is an absence of Donizetti and perhaps too many tending to the spinto-dramatic range. I cannot contemplate anyone who appreciates gorgeous singing not enjoying this. And yet, there is something that leads me wanting. I suppose it is an absence of differentiation between the dramatic requirements of the roles, both Canio (Pagliacci) and Manrico (Trovatore) sound surprisingly cheerful, considering; Neromino surprisingly morose.

And how amazing album to work one's way through an entire album of some of the best arias ever written, executing them perfectly, with a beautiful voice, ringing High Cs, squillo, the lot.

Lacking nothing except emotion and any indication of actually being involved in the songs.

I am so ambivalent to Pavarotti. Technically perfect voice. And so boring. Just singing the top arias of the top repertoire, all Italian. Singing them perfectly. But it might as well be the Argos catalogue.

If any Pavarotti fan comes here and decides to flame me, I hold my hands up. Perfect voice. But when I hear a tenor singing tenor arias, I don't want to sit there saying in my head 'Perfect execution'. I want my reaction to be visceral, physical and, not to put too fine a point on it, sexual. I will never argue against the clinical perfection of Pavarotti's voice. I have a favourable intellectual reaction. It simply doesn't get my juices flowing. Sorry.

Anybody who has been watching the news will know that he hasn't been well. He was treated for pancreatic cancer last summer, is down to 11 stone, would you believe, and is currently in hospital having been treated for pneumonia or some such. Naturally, I wish him the best but I can't say the prospect of a new album - presumably valedictory - exactly thrills me.

Way to go!

BBC NEWS | UK | Journalist Lord Deedes dies at 94

Totally indifferent. Always am when someone hits their 90s. Good innings and so on, what?

Died aged 94 after short illness?

From my lips to God!

Reports from...various places

Jane has very kindly emailed me a couple of pictures from Wiesbaden:

The view from her hotel room...!

And look who she bumped into outside the hotel: (I don't know if it's just me, but he looks very huggable in this photo!)

 

Thanks Jane!

Bravos for Ravinia gala

I can't say I care for the comparisons with Don Giovanni or the Duke of Mantua, obviously a so-called journalist who knows eff-all about the subject she writes about.

Some links from Salzburg coverage. not saying anything I haven't already linked to, but with added photos: Placido Domingo singt Zarzuelas in Salzburg; Bussis für die Zarzuelas; Plácido Domingo im Interview

And this made me laugh - Who can resist the tenor of his logic? (I think I would rather watch the Three Tenors play footie - although not Luciano now,obviously - than hear Beckham, Juninho and Zidane sing...)

Missa Solemnis

As part of my ongoing 'all the records by forty' project I listened to Beethoven's Missa Solemnis a few times with the intention of blogging it thoughtfully.

It is acknowledged as a great work, and like all the rest of Beethoven (that I know), I like it. I realised that I have very little intelligent to say about it. I thought that perhaps that absence of intelligent comment was merely indicative of a lack of understanding. Beethoven didn't write the work as Light Entertainment, and if I were to approach it as such, it would be a waste of my time and yours. Hence the reason why I listened a few times.

I don't need any explanation of the story and the meaning. Despite my ungodliness i am very familiar with the rites and structure of the mass, musically I find masses to be a particularly worthwhile musical form. I considered whether my understanding would benefit from listening with the score and decided that it probably would, but, to be honest, I can't be bothered. I am not intending to perform it any time in the near future, and I don't think it was intended that the listener should need a score to comprehend.

I am torn, because in a way everything you need to know about a piece of music should be discernible by listening. Active listening, that is. For listening reasons, anyway. Clearly if you are going to perform it, you need more. And yet, I also know that one can benefit from the insights of others. But at the end of the day, I listen to music for pleasure, not to earn a living. I am not interested in studying music as an academic discipline and I have neither the ability nor the inclination to perform outside my shower.

I like the Sanctus very much, especially the writing for strings. Why do I like it? It has a gorgeous tune. And I like the fugal-ish arrangement. And it builds to a splendid climax for 'Hallelujah'. Every Hallelujah should be climax-like. I have to admit, I am a very shallow person. The rest of the tunes do not move me sufficiently. Definitely a CD to play on occasion but not necessarily over and again.

The love that dares not speak its name

It's a furtive love, an embarrassed need. It's not the sort of thing that one can speak easily of in polite circles. Google it, and there is no automatic fill-in. Google it and the first ten hits contain two of my blogees, my Facebook friends.  331,000 hits suggests I am not alone

Dirty old men sneak guiltily into corner shops to purchase their porn and take it away under their macs or in a brown paper bag. Or wrapped in a Guardian. Even that's not true any more; porn mags are displayed at child's eye height and mainstream but niche hobby mags are out of reach of diminutive women.

I am not a kleptomaniac nor a thief by nature but my fetishist obsession has driven me to thievery on occasion. My all-time favourite item to be thieved was KPMG analysis paper, pads and pads of it, brittle like the paper of bibles.

I have collected notebooks for years, started small. Just the red Silvine exercise books, that came in so many models. Or nice little notebooks, often a passing souvenir of a museum or tourist spot visited. To accompany a souvenir biro which would bleed or crack by the end of the week.

I moved on up to neat spiral notebooks with brightly covered card covers.. From card onto plastic. From there to interesting materials: straw or velour. I was always careful, nothing too expensive, take advantage of the sales, grab when the line is being cleared.

Now it is utterly compulsive. There are people taking advantage of those of us with this shameful addiction. I have bought notebooks with Wedgwood designs, notebooks designed for the intrepid travellers to record their impressions of hot and dusty places. Notebooks better made and with better paper than the average published hardback book. I can't help myself. I go into WH Smiths to buy a birthday card and come out with three new notebooks. Sometimes I feel the urge to buy every size of every design. I'm killing time in the vicinity of a Paperchase and suddenly my bank balance is lighter and my rucksack considerably heavier.

Which then leaves the Big Question. What do I do with stacks of beautiful blank notebooks? Gaze at and sniff their unblemished virgin state. Well, yes, obviously. But I have a further urge. I need to fill them. Fill them with words. Word must be written with fountain pen. Fountain pen with ink has a sensuality that is the perfect partner to gorgeous notebooks with pages of smooth silky white paper.

I have hinted from time to time that I write fiction, purely for my own enjoyment. It's not about creating a product that's marketable. It's not about striving for literary credibility - although I strive for continuous self-improvement - but is it about release, about capturing and encapsulating the torrid creations of my fevered imagination.

It makes no sense. I have a computer with a word processing package on it. Word processing on PC is a much more sensible way of writing. Cut and paste. write out of sequence. Edit, rewrite. Delete, reword. Insert an extra passage. Clear up accidental or deliberate inconsistencies of continuity. Obliterate my worst verbal ticks: finding a word and over-using it (the Gotterdammerung post down below has too many 'culminations' in such a short space). Or long winded sentences. Too many "I/she/he realised"s,  too many "each other"s. On PC they can be erased and eradicated.

But the prose doesn't flow if I don't adopt a bad posture and scrawl in convent girl script in black ink fountain pen in a notebook.

And yet it feels plain wrong to be writing smutty stories in beautiful smooth notebooks.  Clearly, there is a role for carrying around a to-do list. Ring Gas Board, Go to Training Course, Acquire Self Knowledge. It's always good to have somewhere to write random thoughts. Random thoughts inspired by my mp3 player or the rolling countryside or the extraordinary people with whom I share a Tube carriage.

For many years I kept a paper diary. It started in top Juniors and it expanded and expanded. I used to write it at every snatched opportunity I could. In lessons at school (hardly surprising I never got a proper education), in Lambeth Labour Group meetings. They all thought that I was striving to be a political diarist in the tradition of Crossman, Castle and Benn. As if.  Full of teen angst, even though, obviously, having been elected to public office I was somewhat longer in the tooth than teen.

It fell into disuse when I first got a computer at home. Although I did try - my first computer written diary entry for 1998

Diary covering January 7th to January 11th 1998.

So much for good intentions - yeah, that’s right, a rushed job on the diary!

Not that there is a great deal to say for the period concerned. I have spent the weekdays in work - not really feeling particularly highly motivated, perhaps a result of being the first week back after Christmas.

On Tuesday I went to Southend, which, I guess was vaguely exciting - at least I had to concentrate and work! Had a bit of a nightmare journal there- I hadn’t exactly got up especially early, so I knew I was running late. And to really make my day do you believe that the Central Line was really delayed. Originally they said it was due to somebody on the track at Leytonstone, but then they said it was because of Signal Failure. Hey, that’s London Underground for you! So I was sort of aiming for the 9.20 train but, having just missed the 9.50 I had to wait until the 10.22!
So I was not a happy bunny. Actually Tuesday was my only night all week - well apart from Saturday and Sunday! On Wednesday was Council, and on Thursday and Friday, I attended a Housing Benefit Training Session. Which was quite interesting.

Saturday was the day of great excitement: I had my computer delivered. And guess what I did practically for the whole of Saturday and Sunday. I spent quite a while unpacking the computer and everything that goes with it  - not least about fifteen compact disks, and nearly as many floppy disks!

I even logged onto the WWW; I decided to go for BT Line One, on account of that was the software delivered. I spent rather a long time surfing- oh, well, it’s just a novelty!

And the very best news is that on Saturday United beat Tottenham 2-0 with goals from Ryan Giggs. The details can be found in the database in Works - I shall keep all the footie scores there. So United are now just massively in lead in the Premiership!

(What this quotation fails to impart was the excitement of being able to use ClipArt in my diary - I included pictures of a train, a computer and a footballer.  The banality of my coverage of Lambeth full council is breathtaking: we were a hung council with no administration just four months away from the glorious revolution splendid victory of May 1998. No hints as to the stupid games the LibDims were getting up to in their increasingly desperate knowledge that New Lambeth New Labour were on the march ascendant. And work. It was a blooming private diary. No worries about disclosing official secrets in my private diary. It might have been at that time I was reviewing the then HM Customs and Excise Departmental VAT Return, the most ironic audit i have ever undertaken.

Four years later, having entirely abandoned paper diaries I started blogging in a much more innocent era. In those days one poured out one's innermost thoughts, believing that nobody was reading, or that one's only readers were fellow bloggers in on the secret. Gradually I cut back on the personal stuff. not as a conscious decision but with a growing awareness of the inappropriateness of talking about many aspects of work. Important not to express opinions on Real Life people. If you write about someone assume they will read it, but don't arrogantly expect them to. Do not write anything that expose my vulnerabilities for exploitation.

In a delicious squaring of a circle it has slowed dawned on me that I need to keep a paper diary. For my inner thoughts, for keeping a record of the vicissitudes of work of mental calm of relationships (not just Relationship), to get things off my shoulders.

From blogging I think I have a learnt a lot about how actually to keep a paper diary. Do not do a chronology, do not work from the bottom up. Note random thoughts, do not worry about maintaining a coherent narrative, enjoy the disjointed and fragmented, treat it as an exercise in creative writing rather than a school essay or an audit report.

And revel in the sensuality of black ink flowing from a fountain pen onto a virgin page of smooth white paper.

Gotterdammerung Prom

It is extremely difficult to provide a review of one of the Ring Operas. So much going on, so many different elements. They cannot really be viewed in isolation, and, Gotterdammerung, the culmination of the greatest epic work in Western culture, cannot be assessed without some reference to Das Rheingold, Die Walküre and Siegfried.

The culmination of the Proms' Ring Cycle occurred in glorious splendour on Sunday. Undoubtedly a memorable occasion and a stirring performance, greater than the sum of its parts, and the parts were nothing to be sniffed at.

There are pros and cons of the Albert Hall. The sometimes almost unbearable heat;, and, especially for a Wagnerian epic, physical comforts become of some importance. The Albert Hall being circular, with audience arranged almost totally round the circle - barring the organ - means that there are plenty of partial view seats. I was in one, in a second tier box, where I had a glorious view of the timpani and percussion, and, with my superdouper binoculars could almost read the conductors' score, but my view of the lower strings and any singers who stood in front of them was somewhat limited.

Any concert performance of an opera is going to lack a basic element - the acting, together with costumes, set, lighting and so on. Not that there isn't merit in concert opera. I am a firm advocate of opera as a visual form, arguing that people who are wedded to opera on radio/CD/LP/shellac/cylinders are missing the point that audio-only presentations were a technology-driven accident (or lack-of-technology driven) that impacted on opera, not an opera-driven imperative. So most people who decry the burgeoning of opera on DVD as opposed to the 'superior' audio-only (preferably on scratchy jumpy vinyl 33s or even better on 78s which need changing every three minutes) are merely revealing the unthinking ignorance of their own conditioning or habit rather than actually returning to first principles and asking a question*. That having been said, in the best concert performances of opera, with the best performers, the absence of costumes, sets, lighting etc enables a situation where they are forced to convey the drama and emotion through superb singing and expressive acting**. In respect of this Prom, the acting was absent. I was not sure really why a 'stage director' got credited. The singers barely had room to perch at the edge of the stage and stand-and-deliver.

Another disadvantage of concert opera is the absence of an orchestra pit. This actually has its advantages in that I can watch the timpani and percussion. Also that I can watch the clarinets and oboes and the wonderful clarinet-type-thing-with-a-horned-end-that-isn't-a-saxophone, and, using my binoculars, even watch the fingering. It does tend to give an added dimension to understanding the conversation between different instruments of the orchestra. On the flip side, it was not always possible to hear everything being sung. Possibly not just because it was a concert performance, not just because it was in a super-barn*** but because the acoustics vary so significantly and there is no rule book on the Albert Hall acoustics. On the other hand, there were glorious moments when a splendid reverberation of sound bounced around an impressive venue.

The conductor was Donald Runnicles, the orchestra the BBC Symphony. I presume that the BBCSO are not in the habit of performing any of the tetralogy and at times it showed. There again, in 4¾ hours of playing, it is hardly surprising that there was evidence of raggedness, roughness and duffness at times.

For me, the highlight of Gotterdammerung is the orchestra. Partly, the enjoyment of hearing all those familiar leitmotifs. I am the antithesis of a leitmotif expert, but as each of those familiar phrases emerges, it is impossible not to be reminded of what they have signified in the previous episodes. And, overwhelmingly, Gotterdammerung is about those two amazing pieces of orchestral interludes, Siegfried's Rhine Journey and Siegfried's Funeral March. Unbelievable pieces of music, worthy of inclusion in any concert programme in their own right, and made more amazing by context.

I do not think I have ever appreciated so much three particular pieces which I thought were very familiar to me - the duet between Brunnhilde and Siegfried in the Prelude which sounded so joyous and so full of carefree innocent young love. And then, the startling contrast in Act 3 of first Siegfried's Brünnhilde! Heilige Braut! Wach' auf! Öffne dein Auge! which is definitely on my list of favourite tenor arias, and this afternoon my eyes filled with tears at the enormity of the emotion, betrayal and consequences. Followed by Brunnhilde's Liebestod Immolation Scene. Absolutely extraordinary. The Ring turns full circle. We started with the fictional Rhinemaidens in the primaeval slime of the mythical River Rhine, and were shown the grandiosity of the Gods, the beautiful human tale of the gorgeous Walsüng Twins, the heart-breaking fissure between Wotan and Brunnhilde, the maturation of the Boring One and his awakening; after the machinations, politics, greed, capitalism, pride and other numerous human faults, we are left with noble dignity of Brunnhilde's love for Siegfried. Obviously, it is a vile misogynist plot, indicative of Wagner's self-centred arrogance, to expect Brunnhilde to leap into the funeral flames unable to endure life without Siegfried. In reality she would have the strength of character to grieve and mourn and start a new life. But as a moving end to an emotionally demanding saga, it is perfect.

Singing-wise, I would not ascribe greatness, but I would definitely give it a high overall mark, with no link so weak as to be negative. I was disappointed by the male chorus, perhaps having been totally spoilt by the glorious sound of the tremendous ROH male chorus. The male voice choir in this opera is almost as impressive as in Tannhäuser. I figure that if the male chorus blows my socks off on CD, I can't wait until I get an opportunity to hear Tannhäuser live (one of my lesser known Wagner operas, but one with amazing tunes. Oh heck, all the ones I know have amazing tunes - I don't know Die Feen, Das Liebesverbot, and Rienzi, and rate Meistersinger and Flying Dutchman below the somewhat below the other eight). I thought the Rhinemaidens sounded gorgeous in themselves, but lacked a certain sound that I sometimes find,a sound that seems to be way ahead of its time, is echoed in the Parsifal Flower Maidens but sounds more like an inter-bellum jazz nightclub sound).

The leading singers were all very worthy. Christine Brewer was amazing last year in Fidelio, previously I had found her less satisfying in Beethoven's 9th and the War Requiem. I found that her voice cut through rather than rode over the orchestra. She came into her own in Act 3 in particular. I have never rated her stage persona, but she did seem to inhabit this role and convey the shock and heartbreak. Stig Anderson was excellent as Siegfried. Never outstanding but constantly above average. Not particularly a beautiful voice but definitely one I would like to hear again in this role and would be interested to hear in the young Siegfried. (Beforehand, a friend had said "I hear the tenor's very good" and I had said "Is there a tenor in it?" I'm sure she must have thought I was trying unsuccessfully to crack a lame joke but the truth was my brain wasn't entirely working and I could only think of the orchestral passages).

As it reached its denouement the hall was lit with a fiery glow and I was half-expecting the pond in the arena to burst its banks and overflow; it didn't.

By quarter past ten it was over and I felt a sense of loss and bereavement, mitigated only by the knowledge that I have tickets booked for the Royal Opera House Ring Cycle 3 in October/November, about which I can only say "Bring it on...!"

* I regard the most important lesson I learnt in preparation for a Politics degree and a life in public administration and policy was one taught by my splendid A-Level Maths teacher - you don't need to know the proof for the exam, but we are going to work through this from First Principles so that you have a fundamental understanding

** see Die Walkure Prom 2005

*** remember, Real Opera Singers don't use microphones (except when the venue - or the 'crossover' programme - calls for it)

Reports from Salzburg and Wiesbaden

Domingo the Spaniard

Mr. Domingo came out for his first number — and he looked like a million bucks. He sang that way, too. For about 10 years now — 15? — I have referred to him as "the ageless Spaniard," and that description still applies. Yes, he was miked, but he was in fine shape, and sang essentially the way he always has. I don't need to tell you how that is. His voice and style are maybe more familiar than your own.

And, last night, I received an email from Jane:

What an excellent time we had in Wiesbaden.By accident we had booked into the same hotel as Placido and Eugine Kohn, the conductor. With a room overlooking the concert venue. Having watched the rehearsal from our bedroom window, we waited for Placido to return to the hotel where we got great pics of him outside. As he departed into the hotel we followed, walking up the stairs to our room as Placido took the lift (shame we could not get in with him!).however, what a surprise to meet him on his landing. As he began his first aria he caught a tickle in his throat, possibly due to the night air, and so had to begin the aria once more. This happened on the next aria also, by now we were becoming nervous, wondering what would happen next. All went well for Placido but the orchestra was a bit rattled, and it caused Maestro Kohn to work hard to get them back together. From then on all got better and better with seven encores. On the morning of the concert my husband got a picture of Eugine Kohn in the reception area. The following morning he stopped by our table at breakfast to ask if we had enjoyed the concert. I told him it improved as it went on but finished well. I think he was taken aback by my honest comments, I asked him how Placido was and he said there was no problem with him he was fine. What a very nice guy he is, taking the trouble to come and speak to us. What a night, something to remember for a long time. We then moved on to opera by the lake in Bregenz where we saw a stunning performance of Tosca. The set was really something to see. The singing was also first class. Our next stop was Verona where we saw La Traviata at the arena. This was the most disappointing performance so far.The set was awful and the Italians thought so too and in their usual way vocalised their disapproval, however the singing was good. Here's hoping to get tickets for Cyrano in Milan next year.

Thank you for that Jane. It's always excellent to get first hand reports from real people. And a room overlooking the concert venue...! Hmm, I can just imagine my Other Half's reaction to that!

A trip to Rhineland

I went somewhere timeless yesterday. The banks of the Rhine. We saw Valhalla go up in flames. We were always conscious of Neibelheim being not far away.

It was the third day; the trip began three years ago with a Prologue on period instruments. The first day, two years ago was rather memorable. For me, the best live performance I have ever attended - and I have no expectations of ever attending any better (by my estimations, listening to the many recollections of everybody who claimed to be there, there were actually 20,000 people in the Albert Hall that night). I skived Day 2 last year. To endure 'The Boring One'* in the South Kensington Tin Hut when external temperatures were hitting 35 was more than this soul can endure.

The day didn't start well when I realised it was already 1.15pm. I had woken at 10.30, then Jimmy brought me a cup of tea. I must have drifted off to sleep twice. I thought the Prom started at three. I was already resigning myself to having to wait until the interval. Which is a bloody stupid attitude to take considering that it is two hours until the first interval. There are whole operas over in that time. I checked the BBC website to find out when the intervals occurred and was delighted to find that kick off was actually 4pm. And, in the end, I arrived with plenty of time to spare. I had eaten brunch but not prepared a packed lunch. Which is silly. At Covent Garden or the Colly, there are numerous cheap cheerful and fast places nearby ideal for Wagnerian long intervals. Not so the SKTH.

A whole day passes. It really is an extraordinary experience. Entering in the remnants of the heat of the day, picnicking in the early evening, emerging into the darkness of night. Time ceases to have any meaning. Meeting up with friends, some by pre-arrangement, some by chance. Meeting 'online' friends for the first time (hello Dominic!). Seeing acquaintances in the distance. Audit clients from the past, former political adversaries, faces that are familiar just from coincidences of attendance. For those that know who I mean, a certain Russian Soap Dodger was seen in a brown suit, not the quotidian navy.

At quarter past five I checked the time and thought, oh my god, it's still 45 minutes to go until I get a fag and a pee. I checked the time ten minutes later and it was two minutes to six! In Act II, I was thinking, this is just the beginning, I'm sure there's a longueur coming, then the music began to build to a climax, and I realised an hour had passed in the blinking of an eye. And Act III was over all too quickly.

On the whole, my neighbours were extremely well behaved. After the first interval, a couple took the empty seats in the box adjoining mine. I thought for a while they would be anti-social: she was obviously a Blackberry Addict, but she put it away once the music got going. To my right were a young couple. He was one of those who appears to be about 18 at first glance although closer scrutiny suggested he might have been a bit older. They were sipping wine, and seemed to have the bottles lined up in their box. When Siegfried's Funeral March began, he leaned over the parapet his arm out-stretched, wanting to conduct the orchestra. I can sympathise - it is utterly glorious music. And then, at the end, before the conductor had even lowered his baton, he was on his feet. His subsequent manner of applause suggested that he was well gone. Not actually obnoxious, just a bit obvious. Later I was in the loos and realised I was able to eavesdrop on a phone conversation in the next cubicle. It was a young woman calling her Dad to say the concert was over and she would be home in due course. She went onto say 'He's taken me out for a meal and bought me bottles of champagne. It's very nice but it's a bit...I'm not really that sort of person, I don't want everything to be a big deal, I'd be happy with a bag of chips..." When I emerged from the Ladies, I was not surprised to see the young drunk would-be back-seat conductor waiting outside!

* it's not really boring. Any opera that contains the Forging Scene, the Woodbird and that incredible Love Duet can't be boring, but relative to the other three it is, in my personal opinion, the least satisfying

Reports from Salzburg and more from Ravinia

Of course, Plácido can do no wrong, having actually turned up to perform in Salzburg, unlike certain other stars.

There are various reports (in German) of the zarzuela concert with Ana Maria Martinez:

Domingo eilt federnd aufs Podium, sät formvollendet Handküsse auf die bleichen Arme seiner schönen Partnerin Ana Maria Martinez mit der spitzen Stimme. Er selbst singt mit dem betörenden Schmelz eines jungen Mannes, die Phrasen subtil gestaltend mit der Weisheit eines alten, die Stimme sitzt allezeit perfekt im Fokus, sie ist glänzend und klug geführt. Offiziell ist Domingo sechsundsechzig Jahre alt, seit 1975 bei den Salzburger Festspielen, insgesamt neunundvierzig Auftritte hat er seither absolviert.

And he got a medal, too:

Und wie natives Olivenöl dazu Plácido Domingo! So viel Charme, Charisma, im entscheidenden Moment tenorales Strahlen und insgesamt eine Performance, die ihresgleichen sucht. Nach dem Konzert, als ihm, der seit 32 Jahren in Salzburg auftritt und am Sonntag mit dem gleichen Programm seinen 50. Festspieltermin absolvieren wird, das Goldene Ehrenzeichen des Landes überreicht wurde, hat Domingo genau diese unschätzbare Berufserfahrung angesprochen, die jene gar nicht sammeln können, die früh verheizt werden. Die Festspielpräsidentin sprach von einem "Fixstern an einem sternschnuppenreichen Himmel".

Caramba bei iberischen Gusto-Stückerln!. This mentions that the concert will be shown  on ORF next Saturday, and also draws attention to an ORF documentary on Monday night.

Gert mutters Operashare and whistles trying not to draw attention to herself...

And  he announces his intention to be playing football next year in Salzburg. I thought he was supposed to have given up.

A couple of bloggers were at Ravinia last weekend:

I am not able to express how I felt hearing a voice like this.  I felt incredibly amazed that I was in the same room hearing it and, much like plane take offs, the intensity took away my ability to breath and sense of reason.

On another note, Domingo seemed completely charming.  He looks rather fit these days, wore a great black suit and shirt.  He kissed the hands of the head violinist and soprano Ana Maria Martinez and frequently clapped Chicago Symphony Orchestra conductor James Conlon on the back.  I don't care if he is older than my mother, he's quite dreamy and I should have liked to receive a kiss on the hand and to have a bottle of wine with that man.

Dressed all in black, he was regal, charismatic and in fine voice. As my mom said "He's still got it!" and indeed, he has. At over 60 years of age, the man can still work a crowd and hit those beautiful, soaring high notes. I wish we had seen more of him

I'm not sure why both bloggers refer to Winterstürme as "Spring Song". It's Winterstürme. Presumably he sang it in German, so why give it an English name?

And he's due to give a concert in Guadalajara in September to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of first appearing there - as a pianist.

Reports from Ravinia and Springfield

Placido charms fans at Ravinia - Supertenor shares light classics, even 'Granada' ...first time I've seen Winterstürme described as a 'light classic'. And I'm not sure why "conducting" is placed in quote marks!

Domingo glorious at Ravinia benefit

Domingo looked and sounded like a million bucks...Domingo sang gloriously, with all the warmth, style, intelligence and taste that have made him, at 66, the supreme lyric-dramatic tenor of the late 20th Century, and, now, the early 21st. The voice rang with such clarion power and passion

and a report from Bart Simpson's voice

Do the Right Thing

More from the front line of summer insomnia in the wee sma' hours.

It was probably fifteen years ago I saw Spike Lee's seminal film, on a hot sultry night in Streatham. Few films have succeeded so well in evoking the tensions simmering on such a night, as the oppressive heat pushes people to the limit of their frayed nerves, to the extent that whenever such a night occurs, I am reminded of the film.

Last night was unexceptional. I was dozing rather than sleeping, only for my slumbers to be interrupted by a vehicle. The same vehicle that I had heard the previous night and had put down as a street-cleaning vehicle. I assume it to be that because apart from the noisy engine and the irritating beep-beep-beep which seems to be de rigeur for a reversing vehicle, there is also a sound similar to brushes whirring and whirring. But I find it unlikely that my back-street is being swept at any time, let alone at 3.30 am on weekend nights.

I am determined to find out what this vehicle is, so I look out the window, remembering to wrap myself in the curtain for reasons of decorum and modesty. I glance around the neighbourhood, surprised at how many houses have lights still on. I do not see the noisy vehicle but I wonder how many of those lights are for security (for the burglars; to ward off demons), indicative of people being up or just sheer laziness/forgetfulness. I notice more lights come on in neighbouring houses, presumably illumination by those woken by the vehicle, which might be a ghost ship for all I know. I glance again at a window that was already lit when I took up my position. Suddenly a naked lady comes into view. A glance in my direction and she backs away. I know which house she lives in, but I don't think I would recognise her in the street, not with her clothes on, anyway. And, anyway, earlier in the day she might have been able to see me lying in my back garden dressed as if I was on a beach (bloody sun, I have now gone blonde, at least at the ends...)

I find it intriguing and strange that there is so much activity at 3.30 am. My neighbourhood is characterised by small semi-detached cottages - some of them subdivided - with tiny gardens, so there are dozens of people with bedrooms visible from mine. I woke again at about 6.30, because Jimmy's alarm clock was sounding. As I lay in bed listening to the sounds of a neighbourhood waking up, realising the air was fresher (had their been rain?) I felt a sense of tranquillity. Despite the vehicle noise, engines revving and the beep beep beep of reversing, it seemed peaceful. I remembered another hot spell, in Streatham, when a performance sports car had its alarm (high pitched whistle and the horn sounding) malfunctioning so that it went off and carried on going for an over an hour on three consecutive hot sultry nights. In desperation I pulled on some clothes and went down to leave a hastily scribbled note, only to encounter two neighbours with the same idea and a further four previously left notes under the windscreen wipers. The two neighbours, strangers to me, dissuaded me from bending and breaking the windscreen wipers. I remembered the night of a bad-tempered 'Equalities' Forum in the Town Hall when half a dozen people predicted "There's going to be a riot..." (it's a Brixton thing). A couple of hours later the thunder came, postponing the riot to a later occasion (Christmas, actually, hmm...). I later discovered that that night saw a then record number of A&E admissions for breathing and chest-related disorders. No doubt that figure has been exceeded since.

I reflected that there seems to have been a downturn in the frequency of car alarms going off. Half an hour later, yeah, you've guessed it. At least three times.

I was thinking of going back to sleep when there was a knock on the door: a visitor popping in from Australia for a couple of days (Jimmy's religious nutter brother-in-law). I invited him in, served coffee etc. He stayed for an hour, on his absolutely best behaviour. He didn't mention religion, I didn't mention politics! But I think I shall go back to bed. Because I can!

Personalised Prime Ministerial bus stops

It is a little-known fact of British political life, and one of those "Official Secrets" that tourists are not supposed to know, but every Prime Minister is allowed his (or, indeed, her) personal bus stop on the corner of Parliament Street and Parliament Square.

We were fortunate enough at the beginning of June to witness the transition.

Tony's bus stop was there in its full glory.

When we passed, the creation of Gordon Brown's was work-in-progress

The Mayor, of course, gets two Tube Stations for his own personal use.

If I suddenly stop blogging, assume I have been marched off to the Tower for divulging this Top Secret information

Summer night's insomnia

I never used to suffer insomnia and it's something that really annoys me. Particularly because I can sometimes sleep the clock round so it makes no sense that on other occasions I can't sleep at all.

One of my problems is that I get restless leg syndrome all over my body so enter into a prolonged fidget. I had the bright idea at 3 am to have a shower and it worked marvellously on the all-encompassing Restless Leg Syndrome, but didn't put me to sleep. But at least I was able to lie peacefully in bed daydreaming in a restful way.

Summer nights beg the window to be open. As dawn approaches, it is a bit of a toss-up between open window and lying under the lightweight duvet or shutting the window and spurning bedclothes. The latter is stuffy, the former is noisy. It's unbelievable how much noise there is at that time of day. Vehicular traffic never stops. Never ever stops, utterly unrelenting. If it's the gentle hum of performance engine noise I can live with that, but even at three o'clock in the morning there seems to be a need to sound horns, and rev engines in poorly executed acceleration. Then there's always the tosser who thinks it makes him more manly if he removes the silencer from his motorbike. There was a vehicle that sounded like it might be a street cleaner. Aeroplanes were coming into land, I could hear the under-carriages being lowered.

From time to time the generator starts up and tuns for a couple of minutes. This generator is, I think, the only source of electricity for the hideous block of flats built at 30 Streatham Place (the ones that are already falling down...). Its weird because there is actually a new electricity sub-station right outside my door, but still the generator chugs away every hour or so, echoing round the neighbourhood.

At one stage I heard a whistle. It sounded exactly like the police whistles that sound at the junction near work when a VVIP convoy is imminent (Jimmy does not believe me that the police use whistles for the conveying of extremely senior ministers, Royalty and visiting Foreign Heads of State/Government) so for a moment I indulged a thought that someone VVIP was approaching the Brixton Hill/South Circular junction in the dead of night (perhaps after COBRA??).

At half four was the sound of voices. I thought that was a splendid idea. If you are going to have a domestic, why not have it in the street at 4.30 am on a Sunday morning, especially on the first weekend of the year which has necessitated windows being open. All the insomniacs will hear you, and if you're very lucky you might wake up some folks who had previously been sleeping! The sound of Domestic was silenced by sirens rushing along Brixton Hill.

I decided that I was developing a stye; interestingly, the last time I got one was during the last foot-and-mouth crisis. But it seems to have subsided now. Perhaps the foot-and-mouth is a localised problem.

Still, there was no sound of Tescos delivery. That's nice. They generally deliver at about 5.30 am. The vehicles reverse and a loud amplified voice shatters the peace with an announcement "This vehicle is reversing, stand back this vehicle is reversing" and then they start throwing metal things around and shouting to each other. Funny, I thought that one of the reassurances at the Planning Application Stage was that there would be no deliveries out of hours... Lying greedy bastards.

Eventually I got to sleep and slept until 1 pm. Bugger. That'll do marvels for my sleep pattern this week...

Pop culture icon?

Tenor for our times

We don't want our Plácido to be a pop culture icon. I think he is above such things. When you are supremely talented, exceedingly cool, totally gorgeous, and rich beyond imagination, you really don't need to be a 'pop culture icon' whatever one of those is. And I do not think that Plácido is anyway concerned with such considerations. Okay, so he's going to be on The Simpsons, but I bet he's doing that as much for his grandchildren as for fans (and potential fans). I think he just wants to enjoy life; the fact that he creates joy for his very many fans is just a bonus.

And no, Domingo does not keep a portrait in the attic to assure eternal youth, as in Wilde's A Portrait of Dorian Gray, or possess a secret potion to prolong life, as does Emilia Marty in Janacek's "The Makropulos Case." On the persistent question of retirement, he remains elusive. "I don't want to predict anything," he said. "Because every time I say something [and then keep going], they say, 'Well, Placido, you said you would be retiring.' So I don't want to say anything. Some day of course I will retire [from singing] but until then ..."

I know like twenty years ago he did a lot of popular/light entertainment stuff, but I don't think he can be bothered nowadays, unless he actually wants to. Pop culture icons tend to be transitory; he's not.

 

Oh and Placido Domingo endorses Saab 9-5 BioPower in Madrid

Today

It's kind of a fixture in my life, has been, on-and-off since Sixth Form. A habitual way to wake up. Over the years I have had periods of aversion and I don't tend to listen on my days-off. But it's the Today Programme, coming up to its fiftieth birthday in the autumn.

On the whole, it does quite a lot right, but there is very little blog material in listing the stuff it does right. A year or two back, I was in conversation with Doctor Little Brother who bemoaned the ignorance about Science in the mainstream media, singling out 'Today' for criticism. I don't think he felt that Today was a uniquely bad offender, rather that a aims to be programme that aims to be at the forefront of journalistic standards ought to be better. His contention was that if people in general knew as much about science as they do about Politics they would join him in despairing at the low level of scientific knowledge.

Not necessarily disagreeing with him I observed that the actual level of knowledge about actual politics amongst so-called political journalists is nothing to be proud of. again, singling out 'Today' seems unfair because they are probably less sinning than most.

This came back to me yesterday in a feature on/interview with an officer from Mole Valley council about plans for a hostel to house families of service personnel in rehab. I would hazard a guess that up and down the land, there are hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people with experience of the Planning Process. I accept that each council operates the process slightly differently, and that the issues in each case are different. However, I got the distinct impression from yesterday's programme that the Today posse felt that Planning Committees are a completely alien process. The thrust of the interview was that surely this could have been settled weeks ago without a row breaking out. The officer sounded surprised by the suggestion.

Obviously, I can't speak for Mole Valley but councils in general try to make the Planning Process fairly transparent. It seems a lot of people don't know that it is technically a 'quasi-judicial' process meaning that it isn't purely about the numbers on either side of the debate. The local residents were consulted, and expressed their views. Often residents express views that are irrelevant to Planning Law. Often politicians are swayed by the possible electoral implications of granting permission to a perfectly legitimate application against a groundswell of local opposition (some of it rational, some of it emotional, some of it whipped up for dubious reasons).

I don't think that it's the role of National Radio habitually to cover local issues, but it does make me despair when this level of ignorance of basic process is paraded as quality news coverage. Also the basic principle of jurisprudence of allowing everyone a fair hearing is not one that should be skated over blithely. My brother posited the theory that few journalists have even a basic degree in science; I would say that very few seem to have a basic background in the processes that may be local, even parochial, but are the bread-and-butter of how 'politics' affects the every day lives of everyday people.

More importantly, I realised with some horror that there is a problem of possible national impact. I wake up to Today on the radio alarm, and generally turn it off before going downstairs and opening it from the website. Yesterday I did not do that, and realised that the two feeds were not in sync. this was slightly annoying when there was a pause for breath downstairs and I could hear words from upstairs. Slightly more irritating when there were two different voices, and slightly more irritating again when the voices were of different genders. The crunch came at 8.00 am (approximately) when there were two distinct broadcast of the Greenwich Time Signal. Upstairs had finished before downstairs began. I concluded that the web stream must be delayed by a few seconds. I then pondered whether the FM stream is also delayed (for the elimination of swearing), and I recalled when upstairs and downstairs terrestrial FM streams seemed out of sync for a few minutes a year or so ago.

Years ago my friend was auditing the National Physics Laboratory with the atomic clock. I asked her for a precise reading in order to put my watch right. She suggested that, for my purposes, the Greenwich Time Signal was sufficiently accurate. I had to concede she was probably right. But now, I'm wondering - what is the Greenwich Time signal? And is this perhaps the beginning of the end of the world?

I'm a sex addict!

The other week I was surfing teh intertubes and, for some reason, I got diverted into following links about sex addiction. After a while, I came to the startling conclusion that I am, in fact, a sex addict. This came as some surprise to me because I previously imagined that sex addiction, like other addictions, involves an excessive consumption of such product - an alcoholic drinks too much alcohol, a drug addict takes drugs etc.

I read on further and learned that addiction isn't necessarily measured by the amount that one consumes but about the control it has over one's life. I also learned that sex addiction, in common with over-eating addiction (and presumably other compulsive behaviours such as shopping and cleaning) in that it is necessary to find a suitable level, whereas it is possible to live without any alcohol, drugs etc.

What made me conclude that I am a sex addict is not that I am out screwing anything that moves, because I'm not. In fact, I do not think that I am revealing anything particularly personal by observing that I have been in a monogamous relationship for seven years.

What makes me a sex addict, apparently, is that I can tick the box for a number of questions. One of those is whether I think about more sex more frequently than actually doing it? Do I get aroused by pornography (bearing in mind that pornography doesn't just include pictures but also words - hmm, does it also include music?). Do my fantasies extend beyond the reality of my life. Well,yes...Oh, they mean specifically sexual fantasies? I'm not sure that one fantasising about fictional situations involving sex is radically different from one fantasising about fictional situations not involving sex, like, right now, I am fantasising I am lying on a yacht in sunny warm climes with a steady supply of low-alcohol cocktails.

I have to say that having read quite a lot of stuff available on the internet, I am unconvinced of the existence of such a thing as 'sex addiction'. At worst it is a way of saying "I am not responsible for my behaviour cos it's an addiction" or a way of saying "I behave in a way that is at odds with the dominant ethos of my community." I think in general most people behave in ways that they know is not their ideal. I did read one paper by a clinical psychologist who used case studies of actual sex addicted patients. This psychologist made the point that 'sex addiction' is often seen alongside other behaviours such as drug addiction, and that the drug addiction cannot be cured unless the sex addiction is. Or that many people who are diagnosed as sex addicts have a history of being abused. She cited a woman who during her residential treatment discovered that she was pregnant for the third time by someone other than her husband to whom she had been married also for her other adulterous pregnancies. I don't need it spelling out to me that that is a massive problem, but other stuff on the internet suggests that it's fairly common amongst women who just have a fling from a stale or disintegrating marriage (not that I'm condoning, but that appears to be factual).

I suppose what struck me most was the connection with religion. A great number of the solutions appeared to be based in religion. I know that many of the mainstream religious organisations do a great deal of excellent work in the field of substance abuse and other connected problems and I also know that quite a lot of the whacky ones are pretty good at getting people to relinquish their alcohol/sex etc crutch. But I do feel that they are simply replacing one crutch with another. And yes, we all need crutches, and they are only problematic when we rely on them too much to the detriment of other aspects of our lives.

What shocked me most was the subjective nature of a sex addiction diagnosis. I read one case study of a man who was diagnosed because as a teenager he thought about sex a lot, once got aroused when he saw his teenage cousin naked. At 20 he gave up Christianity and started masturbating, sometimes as much as twice a day. Then he got a girlfriend and wanted to have sex with her on a daily basis. He also used pornographic magazines (unspecified but I inferred we are talking Playboy or Penthouse rather than Illegal Hardcore). He got married and wanted sex with his wife. But then he got god again and no longer thinks about sex as much. I couldn't help thinking that he was at his most 'normal' and 'healthy' during his period of so-called sex addiction.

I'm not trying to trivialise the problems that people find in overcoming compulsive behaviour, and I would be naive to suggest that the solution is to do it a bit less. But I just think that the convenient labelling of unacceptable behaviour is just that - a labelling. If one feels that one's behaviour is out of step with the norm, it may be worth examining whether the norm is actually desirable. But it seems that certain behaviour - such as so-called sex addiction - is an attempt to mask other problems such as low self-esteem. I'm not sure that the best solution for deep-seated problems is curing the symptoms. And sometimes, people behave in a way that is almost deliberate in its capacity to hurt others. In fact, we all do up to a point. I am writing this on the computer while listening to music. That is time I could be spending being nice to my partner.

Oh heck, maybe I'm an internet addict, maybe it's a displacement activity for the rampant prolific varied sex that would scare me stupid if I had the opportunity to pursue.

Feeling rubbish

I just want to give up.

I have spent the last few weeks feeling as ess aitch one tee as I have ever felt in my life. I wish I could do something about it. I wish I could get better. I wish I could feel confident enough to make plans to do exciting things. Like, oh, I don't know go into work for a whole day. a whole week of whole days (where one week = 3 days). Or go to Sainsburys to get, you know, food. And cook it.

I wish I could drink the odd drop of alcohol without getting totally spaced out.

I might be the only person enjoying this monsoon summer (and heartfelt sympathy to anybody whose life is affected by flooding), because I, who used to be a sun worshipper is scared of the heat. It isn't so bad if I'm in an officially hot place - I who used to sneer at people who went on holiday just to lie on the beach can't do anything else - but in London, a city built on the assumption of constant mild drizzly weather, I can't cope. I have done bugger all today. I got up mid morning; I had a bath and a lie-down and now at not even ten o'clock I just want to go to bed and sleep. All my body aches, my heart keeps bursting out into rapid beating, and I am completely without energy. I would really like three months off work, even though that would mean three months without pay, followed by a P45 and eternal unemployability.

No need for sympathy. I think I actually need a good laugh, I need totally unconstructive advice, stuff coming in from left-field and totally taking the piss out of me.

I'm right fed up.

Two interviews with Plácido

Both in Spanish.

Plácido Domingo dice que 'en los próximos años, voy a tener bastante conexión con el teatro en Madrid'. I do like the way the writer mentions that he arrived alone at a Madrilenian hotel for the interview (although his grandson arrived at the end).

A longer interview in Elle. It says the full article is in the print edition but I couldn't find it in Smiths at Victoria Station yesterday :-(

Also contains a photo gallery

And a brief review of last Saturday's concert at the Teatro Real, including a couple of Baroque numbers.

Tuesday, Baden Baden. A week tomorrow Ravinia near Chicago. Then Salzburg. And then a couple of weeks off. In Acapulco I suppose.

Great Expectations

No, not the book. The album by Tasmin Archer. I look at the packaging and realised that it was produced in 1992. I have no memory of actually buying it, although I had not forgotten it was in my record collection. I expect I mosied along Streatham High Road one Saturday afternoon, and found myself perusing the racks in Woolies or Virgin and bought this on the basis of what seemed at the time to be a reasonably good single, Sleeping Satellite, I guess.

Taking this out of the case i immediately take a dislike to the packaging. An inlay card that contains lyrics. Generally, including of lyrics with a CD is there to aid understanding and thus enjoyment. I have nearly perfect vision, with my spectacles it is perfect. I really can't be bothered to read these, though. Tiny pitch, faint ink and worst of all total absence of capital letters. Pretentious tosh. Why write something and then make it difficult to read? Rudeness.

So, onto the music. Well, it's harmless and non-irritating. There are tunes. Not great or memorable tunes, but tunes. Too much computer-generated instrumentation and mindless dull repetitive drumbeat. She has a voice. A weak insipid voice but one that basically holds a tune.

I expect I shall play this again in about five years time, but I can't say that buying it, possessing it, or playing it has improved my life in any sense. Actually, it's quite irritating. I vowed when I started this nonsense all those years ago that I would play every record in my collection. No avoiding skipping or missing. And it is a matter of honour and integrity that I do so. It has struck me that - being fair and balanced - she has written these songs as a very personal outpouring of her emotions and experiences. I suppose for people that share those experiences this a very touching record, and I acknowledge that often music is a very constructive way of working through issues. But if one doesn't have those experiences or emotions it can be very alienating. Too harsh to say 'so what'. If it were great music and/or great poetry, the greatness would transcend the individual. But they're not so they don't. But maybe they hold meaning for other people. And that's good. Perhaps at the time I bought I was wanting to understand other people's lives and thought that disposable pop music was the key. And now I know it's not. Unless it's my life I need to understand. In which case there are more suitable pop artists.

Celebrities, dontcha luv em

So, Britney gets even more classy; first the marriage that didn't last long, then the one that everyone knew would be short-lived, and now she's pregnant again, but doesn't know who the father is.

Then Lindsay Lohan, apparently she's been in films, but none that I've seen, goes sunbathing in Malibu* but keeps her dress round her ankles to hide her tag she's picked up for drink driving. Then gets in a car and drives, and gets arrested. What is it with these people completely addicted to cars? Can't they, like, walk? Or with - presumably - her money, couldn't she have called a minicab?

But Celebrities of the Week must go to Jordan and Peter in their naming of their new daughter (have you noticed how these plastic clebs all breed like rabbits?)

We've put an accent over the first A to make it more exotic and two Is at the end just to make it look a bit different

. And her first name is 'Princess'! Ooh, nothing like damaging a child for life. Doubt she'll be getting GCSEs with a name like that! I remember that Wayne and Waynetta Slob called their child Spudulike because it was exo'ic! Classy!

* I thought that was a drink

Jealous steroids

I give you the mmofm 'Comment of the Week'. Strictly speaking, it is against the mmofm commenting policy because it insults my readers (and friends). But with kind permission of Giorgia and Silverfin, I bring you:

Hey! Gert, giorgia, silverfin

You jealous steriods are into yourself. What a Shame. Paul Potts identifies with a lot of people throughout the world. In this sad world he came along and lifted some hearts with joy, dreams, and hope. You steriods are a lost cause.

J. Bernard

Naturally, both of them wanted to know what a steroid is, especially a jealous one, and I only hope that Faye and Scary, who also commented on that post aren't jealous steroids at not being called 'jealous steroids'.

I always love it when criticism of the mediocre is labelled as 'jealousy'. It seems to me something limited to the fanatics of crappy cr***o**r shit singers - Potts, Dame Kathleen von Warbling-Barbie-Jenkins of Neath Port Talbot and Bridgend, and Andrea Senzatalento. I have written reviews of actual live performances, including even singers I adore (Nanci Griffith, for example) where I have expressed disappointment and criticism, and nobody has suggested jealousy. I am critical of footballers and football teams, politicians and political parties, vacuous journalists, dumbed-down TV, close personal acquaintances - and nobody has ever said that I am jealous. I would love to know what it is that I am jealous of.

I suppose it could be jealousy that someone with no discernible talent has made six-figure sums but it's been scientifically proven that pursuit of money creates unhappiness rather than happiness. How these frauds can look in the mirror in the morning is beyond me. Frankly, if I wanted to prostitute myself, I'd do it on my back in a sleazy hotel room rather than by obtaining money from the ignorant and terminally stupid under false pretences.

Meanwhile, we learn that Britons 'happy to own fakes' , which is rather proven by the presence of Potts the Pub Crooner at the top of the album charts. The pop album charts,naturally...

A day out

As the day progresses one has random thoughts and observations. Twitter can be quite useful in capturing and broadcasting in 140 characters.

I wonder how much I can remember from random thoughts and observations.

Sitting at the traffic lights in Brixton Town Centre I spotted Cllr Toren looking alarmingly and amusingly as if he didn't know his way around Brixton Town Centre, specifically that bit outside the Town Hall.

Topping up Jimmy's Oystercard at the Tube some bloke started begging. I assumed he was more specifically trying to distract and dip so I told him to 'go away' (yes, those were my actual words!). He then tried the people behind us, but not until they were ready to use the machine. The bloke engaged him in conversation being all apologetic. I wanted to clock him (the bloke behind). Any conversation only encourages them; don't be so naive to think that such a person is worthy of compassion - he's a robber looking to exploit weakness.

On the Tube I noticed a man about my age try to give up his seat to an older woman with a stick. She was only going one stop so declined.

There was a woman stood in front of me. Obviously a follower of fashion. I noticed that her top - as well as being about half a size too small - was appallingly badly made. All the hems were upturned and fraying. One more wash and it will fall apart. I also noticed that she had the hairiest back I have ever seen on a woman. At first I thought it was an extended hairline but it was definitely a back hairier than most men. Now, I know that women actually have as much body hair as men and that an obsession with total depilation is verging on disturbing infantilism, but if I had a back that hairy I would either wear my hair down (she had long hair, pinned in a chignon) or I would wear a higher top.

I was annoyed at Starbucks (it was a stupid place to go because their coffee is crap, but logistically it was convenient considering the time involved). I asked if they had any chilled water. They pointed at the fridge but the water wasn't chilled. I requested a refund because I had asked for chilled water, it wasn't chilled. Why people looked at me as if I was weirdo, I don't know. If I had wanted to pay £1.20 for warm water that's what I would have requested.

I came to the conclusion that it is no surprise that I am an alcoholic*. In the Floral Hall I made what I thought was a simple drinks request - an orange juice and lemonade. A baby bottle of each; standard bar order. Only, the bottles weren't chilled. I queried this, the bar staff said that some people don't like cold drinks. Actually, I tend to agree. So why does almost every bar consider it necessary to add ice - that's yer frozen tap water - into every sodding drink? If I wanted to drink tap water, I'd have asked for it. And then the drink didn't fit into the glass I was given, so I asked for a bigger one. No can do. So, Royal Opera House, you charged me way over the going rate for a warm orange juice and lemonade, served in an inadequate glass, diluted with tap water. It would have been far simpler for me to order wine. But not at 2.15 on a nearly empty stomach.

We sat outside a restaurant, under the awning, protected from the rain. We specifically asked if it was okay to smoke. The waitress specifically drew our attention to the provided ashtray. Someone came to sit on the next table. We lit up. This woman kicked up a fuss and demanded to be moved to another table - inside the half empty restaurant. So, you have chosen to sit at one of of four tables outside a restaurant on Bow Street where there is a constant procession of internal combustion engines belching out noxious fumes, but then you object to someone smoking. Get real and get a sense of perspective. (Or are you so thick you base your opinions on the latest media bandwagon). Oh, by the way, our bill came to over £60. You didn't stay long enough for a main course to be cooked; your entire bill was probably smaller than our tip. Oh, and you were rude to the serving staff. That is entirely unacceptable.

On the Tube going home, Jimmy gave up his seat to a man with a white stick. Later, on the next stage of the journey, two separate thirty-something men gave up their seats to women in their 70s.

On the bus, two children barely out of Primary School were playing cRap on their phones, loud. I decided I would go and have a word, but Jimmy wouldn't let me out of the seat, saying it's not worth it; the bloke in front - who turned out to be an off-duty bus driver - agreed it's not worth it. The other day some driver confronted some kids and they pulled a gun out of their bag (I'm sceptical - a knife maybe, but I doubt a gun very much). My attitude is that if no one in the community tells children that their behaviour is unacceptable (and that I had a better quality music player before their parents were born!), they escalate the anti-social element until it is knives and guns aimed at bus drivers. He said when he was young a good clip around the ear was all it took when he was young, but what else do you expect 'round here'. I said a clip around the ear just demonstrates that violence = power, and how dare he say that my neighbourhood deserves scum. In any case, most teenagers try it on, push the boundaries and act thoughtlessly, but aren't gun-wielding maniacs. I cited two incidents in the past year when I mildly rebuked teenagers, one at the bus stop, one on a bus, for throwing litter. They apologised and picked up their litter. I thanked them. I knew full well they had been properly brought up but away from the beady eye of MumandDad they forgot. I have every confidence such children are and will be positive members of society.

I went home and suddenly overcome by the effects of half a bottle of wine and a grappa I retired to bed for half the evening.

Tonight I am supposed to be going to a local meeting about our latest planning blight. I would feel a lot happier if I thought it would be over in an hour, but I have this dread that it will be three hours of talking I don't want.

* I'm not

My hero...

I seem to have accumulated links and photos in various parts of my computer that I really ought to have been blogging.

So here goes:

Plácido Domingo hizo todas las obras que soñó - he confirms that he intends to continue singing for some years more, although he has done all the roles he dreamed of doing but obviously there wasn't much Baroque around when he started off, requiring a change of career direction and a reassessment of dreams?

Report on a Big Screen Madama Butterfly in Madrid, conducted by Plácido: Miles de personas comparten con el Real una vibrante 'Madama Butterfly', although actually just a review of Madam Butterfly

The World's Greatest Singer gives an interview about...conducting - No creo en la tiranía del director de orquesta - somehow, I can't imagine him as a tyrannical conductor.

A great headline El irresistible carisma de Plácido Domingo

There's going to be a statue of him in Mexico City - Domingo inaugurará estatua con su imagen, because he is a great artist, a great singer and a great human being. More details Plácido Domingo, en bronce

No comment on this...

Update: A future appearance on The Simpsons

Homer becomes an opera star, and he has these groupies who are these middle-aged matrons that chase him around and Marge is really jealous.

Middle aged matrons? Oh, they're after Homer!

Purging

We are slowing exorcising the evil spirits from the house by expunging clutter and expiating it in the hope we can inter without fear of exhumation.

Quite why I have come up with such dramatic prose when all I am doing is clearing out the Filing Cabinet in the spare bedroom. The top drawer contains mainly detritus collected over 9 years in the Evil Audit Empire opposite Victoria Coach station. I decided to hang onto my training notes in case they come in handy. they haven't, not in 9 years. In any case teh internets eliminate the need for retention of reference materials. And Government Accounting has changed dramatically in that time.

I retained my entire personnel folder, including drafts of performance reports for staff I have long forgotten. And notification of my performance from as long ago as 1990. I have ditched my Training Log, but definitely kept two pristine copies of my CIPFA P3 Project, the ultimate test of professional competence, shows other accountancy institutes to be also-rans! I found a really nice and glowing reference from the lovely Wendy; I also found bad stuff. Evidence of poor management and victimisation from the early nineties*. What was most interesting was notes of a meeting with personnel from 1996 about sickness absence. It was agreed that 'aching legs' was a poor description on the sick form, and an inaccurate description of the complex symptoms I was suffering, which were remarkably similar to what I have been suffering since 2004...limb ache to the point of immobility and extreme drowsiness. Then I start remembering other things eg my poor attendance at the contracting job I had in late 1999. It's been a revelation, of sorts. But I don't know what to make of it. Except that in 1996 I was diagnosed by my GP as having a potassium deficiency, which frankly, is unlikely in someone who has a dislike of salt verging on intolerance.

Nevertheless, the bulk of junk from the Evil Audit Empire must be put into recycling, the rest has to go through the shredder. A sacrificial bonfire has occurred to me but that would make me an anti-social neighbour.

Perhaps the nightmares will stop...

I am sure somewhere there is paperwork for the defunct Streatham Women's Section and the Governing Body of the long-closed Ashby Mill School

* I was accused of a 'lack of commitment' for failing to go to the client's premises on a day that the IRA laid bombs on the only railway line to Client's Premises. Yes, that petty...As well as my failure to carry out 250 hours of challenging work in two weeks!

Don Giovanni

Not my favourite Mozart opera, even though 'the experts' claim it to be the greatest (they've obviously never heard Le Nozze di Figaro!).

It is a lovely work, but, relatively speaking, it has its longeurs.

Also, as I discovered as a result of two separate visits, it really can depend upon the conductor. The first time I attended it was conducted by Ivor Bolton. I might have been prejudiced by the reviews that I read previously ('not fit to conduct a bus') except that on the second hearing, I thought during the overture that it was much crisper and, generally, much better. I consulted my cast list and realised that the bloke with the baton was David Syrus. And even though I don't tend to notice - or at least can't really critique - the standards of conducting, I can definitely perceive a step-change in the performance of the orchestra and how the piece and the ensemble hang together.

I have already blogged my thoughts on the actual story of the opera. I do think that story-wise, it is in a small minority of non-Wagnerian operas with plots, story and characterisations that merit re-evaluation and discussion. I was struck by how the Don 's portrayal was slightly Aspergers/ADHD. A companion suggested that she found it difficult to believe that he would have just murdered the Commendatore. I think she was implying that he simply wasn't sufficiently evil, but I contend that it is a superb definition of amoral - a failure to understand the consequences of actions and how they impact others and, ultimately oneself. He killed the Commendatore because he got in the way. I read something recently about the spate of teenage gun/knife deaths and how these juvenile gang members simply do not understand that knives kill nor do they have any concept of the finality of death. And I felt the Don had that adolescent absence of empathy. Even his prolific shagging is not done with any thought as to whether it's right or wrong, it's just something he does.

I thought that in general the cast was excellent. Erwin Schrott as the eponymous hero was excellent. There is some debate about his method of delivering recitative. On the first occasion it was parlando, on the second less so. Unlike some others I don't think it detracts from his performance. I am certain it is a carefully considered interpretation. Vocally I could not fault him. I think he has a gorgeous voice and excellent musicianship,which are in themselves enough to make his performance a memorable Don. The fact that he also happens to be an excellent stage actor and somewhat aesthetically pleasing, too, is a bonus! Especially as his clothing gets less. In the scene when the stone statue of the Commendatore comes to life (except it doesn't in this production), he is dressed only in tight fitting crimson silk trousers, and insists on pouring wine down his chest and onto his trousers. which is just unnecessary, although perfectly pleasant to watch! And the very final shot is  a glimpse of him in hell, almost certainly wearing nothing at all, although holding a woman in a position sufficiently strategic to retain an element of doubt. Very unnecessary but perfectly agreeable. Whether that really is hell, I doubt, unless hell is about continuing one's earthly mistakes: a character like the Don may never find happiness, peace or self-awareness because of his insatiable libido.

Kyle Ketelsen was superb as Leporello, a fine singer, and managing to convey quite a complex contradictory character, clearly disapproving of the Don's performance, but whether from any moral grounds or merely because of the inconvenience and practical implications, it is difficult to say. I loved the way he delivered Madamina, il catalogo è questo was particularly impressive, making me conclude that it probably is the best - or equal best - number in the work.

Of the women I thought that Ana Maria Martinez was outstanding. I am still not entirely convinced that she is not a mezzo. What I am sure of is that she is a tremendous singer and a great comedy actress. I had not really previously thought of Donna Elvira as a comedy part, but Ana Maria played her convincingly so. I happen to think that Donna Elvira is the leading lady anyway, with far more interesting vocal bits and a fuller character, even though I often find her a bit pitiful - in this interpretation it was still a bit sad that she wanted Don Giovanni despite knowing about him what she did. But at least it was logical - as if she had calculated that his social status was worth marrying into, and in nay case he was better than being left on the shelf.

The peasant leads were played by Matthew Rose and Sarah Fox. I felt Matthew was under-parted, even though I really liked the way he played the not-very-bright character. I tend to agree with the critics who feel that Sarah was  a bit generic as Zerlina. That having been said, I do not think that she was helped on either occasion by the tempo in that very great duet La ci darem la mano which should have been much quicker. But it was obviously all about Don Giovanni, when it should have been partly about her.

Although Erwin Schrott was the lead role and clearly and unanimously the star of the piece, the star name was Anna Netrebko. She had missed the first couple of performances with a cold, and dropped out of the second half of my second performance, so I have to assume that she was cold-affected throughout the run, although I can't say I noticed. She was excellent, even though she obviously takes time to warm up. If you were judging solely on her first appearance, you wouldn't think much, but her big aria towards the end of Act I was a tour de force. Marina Poplavskaya was a splendid substitute in the second act of my second attendance. I would have liked to have heard her for an entire performance. She is clearly something special, and even though she is pretty wayward at the top of her range it doesn't seem to matter when the voice in general, the musicality, and the inhabiting the role are of such a high standard. I very much look forward to her Tatiana (Evgeny Onegin) and Elizabetta (Don Carlos) next season.

I had two different Commendatori; of the two Robert Lloyd was superb, and the other one wasn't.

I can't say I cared very much for the production. It did what it had to do, just about, but without anything particularly interesting. The set was a construction that dominated most of the stage, and for most of the time the singers were forced into a very small space at the front. There was nothing else in the way of set eg no furniture, abusable or otherwise. There was not much of excitement in the personenregie, I would dread to think how it would be if the cast were less instinctive actors. The final coup de theatre was fun,as the flames of hell rose up, but I don't think that one gimmick makes a production. I prefer Calixto Beito's English National Opera production by a degree of magnitude. One aspect that particularly annoyed me is what I refer to in my mind as the "Covent Garden Lower Orders Dance". It seems to me that the Royal Opera House Ladies Chorus, whenever they have to portray common people do so by a dance which involves holding their skirts. Just because it worked for "I'd Do Anything for You" in the film of Oliver! doesn't mean it has to be aped in every sodding opera. Stop it! Now!

There are lots of pictures at Playbill Arts and, of course at Arena Pal. My Stage Door Report

Exciting news on the new KatherineJenkins/Paul Potts duet

aka My Favourite French and Saunders sketch

So what was parody nearly twenty years ago becomes reality in the 21st century...

I Should be So Lucky

Paul Potts Pub Crooner

So the Toothy Wonder releases an album.

Don't all rush just yet.

In case you had forgotten exactly who Paul Potts is - and lord knows, I wish I had, but he keeps coming up in my Katherine Jenkins Google Alerts. He is the pub crooner of little talent who spluttered and warbled his way through almost a minute and a half of Nessun Dorma, sending the audience of musical ignorami into pant-wetting at their shock of hearing a tune (from the orchestra, well it wasn't an orchestra, it was a backing track of an orchestra). After one-and-a-half minutes of utter mediocrity, these people felt fit to declare on YouTube that Paul Potts has done more for opera than anyone and that he is the greatest opera singer of all time.

Incidentally, he marketed himself on this talent show as being shy and lacking in confidence, which seems bizarre for someone who stood as candidate for Bath City Council in 1995 (aged just 24) and again in 1999, getting elected for the Liberal Democrats.

In typical Lib Dim style, wanting to be all things to all people, in his CV for Bath Opera (by all accounts an amateur outfit for people prepared to pay to sing, much like a Sunday football team), he claimed to have studied for six months in Italy under Pavarotti. When it was suggested that this made him less of an untrained amateur than he had previously claimed, it quickly became that he had attended a masterclass held by Pav. Which was a good thing, because six months studying in Italy is six months not representing the electors of Bath. And as someone said on Facebook "Shy and humble my arse. I met him when he lurched up to London to sing for a certain North London opera company a few years back..."

Anyway, all that aside, the boy wonder, the best thing that has happened to opera since,oh well, you know, since somebody worked out how to hack gonads off choirboys, has released an album, filled with opera arias such as:

• Nessun Dorma from Puccini's Turandot,
• Time to Say Goodbye (Con te partiro) from some opera or other;
• Amapola, made famous by the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra;
• Everybody Hurts (Ognuno Soffre) - that is an Italian (cos opera's Italian, innit) of REM's Everybody Hurts (Jesus Wept);
• Caruso - oh that's about a famous singer, so it's opera innit;
• Nella Fantasia, previously made famous by Dame Warbling Barbie of Neath Port Talbot;
• You Raise Me Up, also in foreign to be more sophistica'ed;
• My Way, in Italian, because it's a crap song in English that no one likes whether it be by Frank Sinatra or Sid Vicious;
• Cavatina, presumably from that well-known opera The Deer Hunter, and
• Music of the Night, made famous by Frank 'Ooh Betty' Spencer.

Sadly - or maybe not so sadly - I cannot find any excerpts online. It is my experience that new CDs usually include a track or two, or a promotional video, or 30 second excerpts of each track. However, despite searching Amazon, SonyBMG, PP's official website, PP's MySpace, I can't find a note of it. Perhaps it is so truly bad that they hope it will shift half a million to the thickos (by definition...), and he can fade back into the obscurity of 9-5. I suppose I could walk round to the Carphone Warehouse and buy a copy, but I think having to walk past past the newsagent and chemist makes it more of an effort than it's worth.

Although I am quite happy to pimp my ass to any mega media moduls for a consideration.

no idiotic comments, please

Defining the ages

Glastonbury organiser says festival is 'too middle-aged'

According to Michael Eavis, more tickets went to so-called middle-aged people this year because they were sold online and 'the middle aged' have better internet connectios that 16-18 year olds.

I suppose, because he is the organiser, he ought to know, but I don't follow this logic. Most 16-18 year olds are the offspring of 'the middle-aged' and presumably, therefore, on average, have the same internet speeds. Anyway, the internet experts keep telling us that teh internets are primarily for the youth market - based on MySpace usage or somesuch nonsense, I expect.

And finally, if middle-aged is those in their 30s and 40s, does ancient begin at 50?

There again, we had a discussion the other day about what constitutes a generation. I contended 20 years, my colleague said 25, then looked it up in his dictionary that said about 35, but my dictionary said 30.

I suppose my conclusion is - with so many things - age is a relative concept.