I have no particular reason for celebrating Bastille Day. I do have a bit of French ancestry, allegedly, but I don't feel it. But I thought it would be a good excuse for playing the Marseillaise. Of course, if you are French, you never need an excuse. And if you live in a country visible from France that actually lacks a National Anthem, it's always worth playing the Marseillaise.
Oh, what the heck. It's almost nine minutes of stonking good music I found somewhere on t'internet and can't remember where...
I went to see this last week at Opera Holland Park, quite possibly the most pleasant opera house in London, especially now it has a new auditorium and canopy and so on.
I knew almost nothing about Lakmé before I arrived, I even had to look up who wrote it: Leo Delibes. I did know one very pertinent thing about it and I think I disgraced myself by mentioning to my companion "British Airways". He was unfazed - we had already discussed how we would be half expecting 'The Pearlfishers' Duet'. But a couple of older blokes turned round and gave me that glare of "Get thee gone you ClassicFM lite person." I can't really blame them; I've used the same glare myself on occasion.
I soon learned that it is set in India in Monsoon season. Correction, it is set in Indian, and plays in London in Monsoon season. Fortunately, I managed to miss the worst of the rain, and would have missed it entirely if I had not insisted on stepping outside for a cigarette and a visit to the Ladies. I observed a woman arriving in a fairly posh frock and barefoot...carrying her sandals. I was rather pleased at being rather sensibly dressed for the office. But the canopy held the downpour off splendidly, and even seemed to shut up the peacocks.
The opera is quite pleasant, and I enjoyed it more than the previous night's Katya Kabanova at Royal Opera House. But I can see why it's rarely performed. Off the top of my head, there's only really three memorable numbers - the Flower Duet in the First Act (immortalised, it is said in the BA ad), the Bell song in Act 2 which has a spectacular and doubtless fiendishly difficult coloratura for the soprano in Act II, and a tenor aria in Act III.
Although I enjoyed the opera, the best bit for me was the dancing in the Temple in Act II - and as I look in the programme I find mention of Devadasis, of which I made mention on Sunday - so they must have been there in my subconscious.
On the plus side, I would give credit for producing a rarely-performed opera, and for an entertaining production. I don't know enough about India and Hinduism to guess how authentic it is, and the extent it was authentic I don't know was down to Delibes or resulting from multi-culturism. The cast was far from starry - the only name I recognised was Grant Doyle, but his role was insufficient to do full justice. Allison Bell was the eponymous heroine. She took a while to warm up, and was disappointing in the Flower duet, but very very impressive in the Bell song. I found the tenor, Philip O'Brien, disappointing. His CV states he was a finalist in a Wagner competition, and his roles include Don José and Florestan. I did not feel this role is suitable for a Don José/Florestan/Wagnerian. I felt there was too much strain from a basically uninteresting voice. And he committed the cardinal sin of a rubbish tenorial fall to the floor. Sort of bending his knees and staggering. More like a drunk than a tenor. And, at the end of the day, tenors must be judges by the way they fall to the floor, with bonus points for rolling around. I liked the mezzo, Antonia Sotgiu, and would like to hear her in a more substantial role (she has, for example, been Carmen for Mid Wales Opera).
All things considered, it was an enjoyable evening out at a lovely opera house. I wouldn't argue vociferously for this work to become a repertory mainstream but it is definitely enjoyable
Just a quick hit-and-run review because I need to go to bed.
It was fabulous!
A great great opera and a good, intelligent production - I'm even getting to like the sets! A superb orchestral rendition under the baton of Renato Palumbo.
And a wonderful cast. Not exactly star names, but every single singer from the comprimarii to the three main roles were superb and just about perfect for their roles. Patrizia Ciofi as Gilda - gorgeous; Franz Grundheber in the title role - compelling; and Wookyung Kim as the Duke of Mantua... oh my god, so unbelievably gorgeous, his singing made me cry and then scream in applause. And a natural for the part, acting wise. More later (but not before I've written up Lakme and Don Giovanni from last week).
Definitely my best performance of 2007 at Covent Garden. And I've just booked two tickets for the Saturday matinee - restricted view but Stalls Circle. Wey hey!
Brilliant idea, Jimmy and I can just slip down to Lambeth Town Hall and get married. We don't even have to tell you lot, or our families. It would probably cost us about £100 if we do it on the cheap.
And then the Tories would give us an extra £20 a week.
Brilliant! Payback period, just over a month. Sound investment. Ninety quid a month. A thousand quid a year. Free, gratis and for nothing.
It will change absolutely nothing.
Except my bank balance, of course. Which will be a package holiday a year better off.
Superb, Vote Tory! An extra cheap package holiday annually for Gert and Jimmy. That's going to strengthen society, isn't it!
Then after the break what most had been waiting for Placido Domingo as Siegmund in Walkure 1st act (with Meier and Pape). Despite having grown up with his recordings for 25 years I had never seen him live before, and wasn´t exactly sure what to expect (he is 66 years old). But he didn´t disappoint he was absolutely convincing as Siegmund, no reason to step down in the near future! His voice may have lost some power in the top register (no problems with the Wälse cry though), but honestly, it didn´t matter at all. However, the pictures you see of Domingo in press releases are not exactly recent! But still, he makes for the most beautiful sung an believable Siegmund I have heard.
It was more - as perfect an operatic evening as even a finicky Munich audience could hope for. More than five minutes of thunderous applause ended a much-too-short performance, mixed with prolonged foot stomping, Bavarian style.
In the first act of "Die Walkuere," Placido Domingo was in full Wagnerian voice as Siegmund, his timbre brassy when called for, his phrasing extended, with little trace of the baritone drag that comes with age. He cleverly paced himself, so when the time came to pull out all stops he delivered with spine-tingling intensity.
Waltraud Meier was his match as Sieglinde, Siegmund's sister-turned-lover. Her voice was the ultimate instrument, perfect in pitch and phrasing, alternately full-bodied and subtle. And she outshone Domingo in expression, her facial and body language complementing the drama of the siblings' first encounter since childhood - an encounter that leads to love.
Next stop Madrid, but mainly for conducting (Madama Butterfly), plus one concert on 21 July.
Meanwhile, look who's on TV in Spain - the 'granddaughter-who-removes-her-clothes', as someone once dubbed her on this site, as a judge on a reality TVshow
And on this bulletin board is a discussion of her knockers. Hmm. Plus a link to a video showing her on the said reality TV show, 'Nadie es perfecto'. Can't say I approve of people putting their cleavage on display like that.
Months ago we decided we needed a new Unit in the back room. We quite fancied a Welsh dresser from John Lewis but was talked out of paying a grand and a half. We looked at IKEA but £60 didn't seem right, and we knew it would almost certainly be crap.
We spotted something on Debenhams and decided that it was mid-priced and seemed to be just the job. I googled to see if it was available direct from the manufacturers; it wasn't but instead, using the Google Product tab sourced from Marshall Ward for about 10% cheaper. I know what you're thinking, Marshall Ward, never-never catalogue for the uncreditable. And I started thinking that even though my original logic was: Debenhams sell it, so it's like we're getting it from Debenhams but cheaper. Jimmy said it would come flat-packed and we'd have to build it. I thought it would be chip board and ugly.
Well, it arrived. In four pieces, well 2x2 pieces, we decided to get two units. "That says glass handle with care this way up" as I said as 'thud' went the package Jimmy had thoughtfully inverted. Fortunately no harm done other than a broken lightbulb.
It didn't take much assembling - so I'm told, I buggered off to the hairdressers - just the top and bottom needed screwing together with 2x2 screws. And door and drawer handles needed reverting, and glass shelves attached. I spent the evening re-filling it with stuff from the old unit. I decided we were short of glasses, so Jimmy produced six crystal wine glasses, five crystal whiskey glasses,four stem cocktail glasses and a partridge ina pear tree. I lied about the pear tree, and the partridge.
It's twice the depth, almost 1.5 the width and about 120% the height of the old unit,and fits perfectly between the doors to the hall and the under-the-stairs cupboard. It holds so much more than before, not least my embarrassingly impressive collection of blank notebooks...
I originally decided that we would ask a charity placeto take it away. Jimmy decided that he would break it up, smash it under the hammer. I did suggest he invited furniture abuse fetishists around for the experience. But in the end, he decided it would go nicely in the shed. In place of the white two tier shelves which started life in my Streatham flat, then spent some time in the bathroom in Gert Cottage, and has subsequently migrated to the shed.
What this exercise has shown us is how much booze we have indoors eg seven bottles of vodka (four of them fancy Polish vodka), six bottles of rum, and, unbelievably, two bottles of cherry brandy. I am slowly drinking my way through sherry and port, but despite having 33 bottles of spirits, liqueurs etc, we have no Sloe Gin nor any Scotch whisky. Nor any Warninks Advocaat...
The next long overdue episode in blogging all the women on my Wild Women t-shirt. Long overdue, because >this one really tripped me up, but thank you Mandy for giving me a steer!
According to Wikipedia, she is a powerful sorceress and sometime antagonist of King Arthur and Guinevere in the Arthurian legend.
Over the years, I have failed at every level to engage in Arthurian Legend. It's one of those subjects that ought to be interesting. I have been diverted into reading about Guinevere, who was married to Arthur but had an adulterous affair with Lancelot. It reads sadly, because she was presumably in an arranged (or even forced) marriage with Arthur,and who can blame her for falling for gallant Sir Lancelot. I acknowledge that that represented a betrayal of Arthur and their marriage vows, and he could not bear the loss of face, but better to lose face than to lose a kingdom. And anyway, he can't have loved her if he had her burned at the stake. His hateful actions are a post hoc proof that she was right to go off with Lancelot.
Less of Guinevere and more of Morgane. According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, she was one of nine magical sisters who dwelt on Avalon and tended to Arthur's wounds after battle. I wonder what is the significance of nine sisters in mythology; are they more significant than Seven Sisters in the equally mythological North London?
In the 13th century, she is credited with a string of lovers, until expelled from court by Guinevere (ooh, the hypocrisy, I've gone right off Guinevere). I often think about women in history (ie prior to about the 20th century) who had strings of lovers, and wonder what they did for contraception. We know the Ancient Egyptians used crocodile dung and other spermicides containing lactic acid. Modern centuries have condemned women with multiple lovers because of the economic implications of bearing children outside marriage or with disputed parentage. It is only recently that contraception has become relatively safe and reliable and that illegitimate children, with or without an identifiable father, have become non-taboo. It is thought - wrongly - that Dr. Condom provided animal tissue sheaths to Charles II to prevent him fathering illegitimate children. And there is plenty evidence that abortion is as old as sex. There's an interesting page summarising changing societal attitudes to fertility, contraception, and abortion over the centuries. These and other sources put a lie to the claim that sexual intercourse was invented in 1963 and promiscuity in 1997.
Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur had Morgan hating Arthur for his purity (yeah, right...) and
plotted with her lover, Sir Accolon, to steal both Excalibur and the British throne. Arthur met Accolon in combat without his magical sword, but the Lady of the Lake helped him retrieve it and win the battle. In return, Morgan stole Excalibur's scabbard and threw it into the nearest lake. She eventually escaped Arthur's wrath by transforming her entourage into stone.
By a very circuitous route I came across mention of Devadasis, women who were 'married to the temple' by their families, a custom that over time became one of religious prostitution. In either case, it provides yet another historical example of the absolute subjugation of women.
I then came to Messalina, who I think I would put on my revised version of a Wild Women t-shirt. Most of the Roman women were a lot more exciting than the Arthurian women. I'm sorry, they just bore me. Isolde I can tolerate because of the mindblowing music, but give me an Egyptian or a Roman over an Arthurian any time.
I came a lot more stuff, too, about really wild women like Edna St Vincent Milay and Gala Dali, who are a lot more interesting., and a lot wilder than Morgane, IMO.
An opera by Leos Janacek which I attended on Monday evening and didn't especially enjoy.
I will state upfront that the reasons for the non-enjoyment are all down to me. I accept full responsibility. Three quite separate people have told me that I would get a lot more out of it if I studied it and listened to it repeatedly. Intellectually, I accept that, after all, I do not believe that Instant Gratification is the Be-All and End-All. However, it was not the first time I have heard it. There are plenty of operas that even on first hearing I get a sense of "I don't really know what's going on, but this has hit me in a certain way, enough to make me want to get to know it better." Wagner is the obvious example of providing instant pleasure but also paying back the study. Donizetti, too.
I think that my main problem was that I could hear that there were some interesting things going on in the orchestra, but if I wanted interesting things in the orchestra, I would have gone to a symphonic concert. I did not care for the vocal writing at all. To me - and I stress the personal subjective - it was so unmelodious as to be a turn off. Added to the fact that I found neither the story compelling nor the characters appealing.
I appreciate that it was uniformly well-performed, orchestrally (under Charles Mackerras), vocally by a cast no longer listed on a seriously crappified Royal Opera House website, but including Janice Watson, Toby Spence and Felicity Palmer. The set was mildly interesting and the Production, as far as I can tell, was reasonable.
In a perfect world with oodles of time, money and energy I would settle down and, following the advice of people wiser than I, study and learn this. In the Real World I inhabit I shall chalk this up to experience and move on!
A big hello to Robin and Peter who came up and said hello on the Terrace. I hope we shall meet again soon!
The Guardian Review mentions that Charles Mackerras conducted the UK Premiere in 1951 - which for a bit of perspective, was the year of the Festival of Britain, when we were (briefly) a Kingdom, and when my mother did her O-Levels, something the Observer also mentions.
Two weeks ago Saturday Jimmy and I were in the Piazza at Covent Garden, doing bits of stuff in town - I wanted to do a ticket exchange at the Box Office, we had already picked up his photos, we had spotted a premature 'End Brown's War' t-shirt near Parliament Square, and we later went to dinner at the Angela Gheorghiu/Roberto Alagna Tribute Restaurant. Crossing the Piazza, we bumped into Steve who mentioned that Faye and Helen were at the Stage Door, so we went round to say hello. As we were saying 'hello' Anna Netrebko arrived in a dreadful rush, and Jimmy later came out with his unstarstruck comment. This was followed a week later by him saying he had been watching CNN who had had a long feature on her. "She's a really big star, sells more records than pop stars, and here's me thinking 'who dos she think she is?' ". Jimmy went to the pub and Erwin arrived.
Last Tuesday after Don Giovanni we waited outside the Stage Door. This was possible on that particular evening because it wasn't actually raining! There are advantages and disadvantages in hanging back and being non-pushy. In general the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.
We had a really nice long chat with Kyle Ketelsen (Leporello) who came over as being pleasant and thoughtful. He mentioned that he is Escamillo next season, so we were chatting about the horse. He will have the opportunity for extra practice specially with the horse. He and Carla had a long chat about The Rake's Progress (2010) but as I don't (yet) know the work, it was well over my head.
Ana Maria Martinez was met by her cousin and therefore naturally was in a hurry to get away. I just said 'thank you' to her, and she thanked me, which was nice. Faye went inside to get Anna Netrebko's autograph. By the time Anna got outside onto Floral Street, she was disinclined to pause further, which is fair enough because a) she had spent a considerable time already inside the Stage Door a b) not one of them is under any obligation whatsoever to pause for one moment to sign autographs, pose for photos or chat (and I expect it can be mentally tiring especially for those who are neither native nor fluent English speakers).
Erwin emerged and we had quite a long chat with him. He was a bit cagey about future plans except a Figaro revival. He asked whether we had enjoyed the performance; I said I wasn't sure so I was coming back the next week to make sure, which in retrospect was a particularly stupid thing for me to say! I explained that I would have liked to take his photo but I had left the memory card for my camera at home! At one point someone came over and asked him a question (which year was it he won Operalia). When he had finished chatting with them he returned to us and said "Carla, you were saying..." I find him very impressive, quite apart from the excellent work he does on stage, because he oozes charisma and has a definite 'star presence' yet at the same time there is absolutely nothing primadonna-ish about him. Very down-to-earth, approachable; I feel chatting with him like I feel like I'm chatting with a colleague or a 'friend of a friend'.
On Monday, after Katya Kabanova we waited at the Stage Door briefly for Toby Spence. He was clearly in a hurry and under no obligation to pause, but he did. I took a photo of him and Faye, and he checked that it had come out all right and was patient and pleasant as I took a second one. I am not a massive fan, but I do think he is talented, I considered him the best of the pundits at Cardiff Singer, and although I did not especially enjoy Katya Kabanova (review anon) I do recognise that his performance was excellent. He is blond and pretty, and I did have a sense of him fulfilling an ex-public schoolboy stereotype but my albeit fleeting encounter has left me with an impression of a gentleman.
But Wednesday was the Big Night. To my surprise and relief the rain held off for a while, although as it happens, that was not an important consideration because we were inside the outer Stage Door. We knew not to expect Anna Netrebko because she had been taken off at half time with a metatarsal injury cold, to be replaced by Marina Poplavaskaya who had scored a goal in time-added-on acquitted herself marvellously.
We had a chat again with Kyle Ketelsen. I wished him a Happy 4th July, and he pointed out that he was wearing Red, White and Blue, although he realised it was a bit pointless because our flag is the same colour. Faye suggested he had should have worn his flag at the Curtain Calls, as Bryn did in Die Walküre when Wales won the Six Nations. But as Kyle says - Bryn runs this place. We gave him advice on how to get tickets for Bryn's Sweeney Todd this weekend (I suggested he pulled some strings, this clearly hadn't occurred to him). Brenda commented that it would be quite quite wrong for an American to be flaunting a flag on American Independence Day in the UK (with which I agree; I had been at a professional event and some prat had wished us all a 'Happy Independence Day' obviously too stupid to realise what he was saying). I got the impression that Kyle felt it would be a mis-step to flag wave (presumably as a well-travelled, sensitive, thoughtful American, he is aware of how such things can be massively misinterpreted). In any case I assured him that we are considering Revoking the Declaration of Independence.
Marina Poplavskaya emerged. She looked somewhat like a rabbit caught in the headlamps, a bit overwhelmed, although she had paused to talk with the gathered Russians. I said 'thank you' and she smiled and thanked me. I felt she thought that I was thanking her for 'saving the day' but in fact I would have liked to say "I think you're wonderful; I heard you as a Norn, I heard you at the Cyrano Insight evening, I was delighted to hear you as half of Donna Anna, and I am so looking forward to seeing you as Elizabetta". But I missed the chance to get her photo.
Robert Lloyd came out, and although I like him tremendously, I left him to Brenda who is a massive fan.
Then Erwin emerged and he stayed for ages, and we had such a good laugh with him. Whilst he was busy entertaining us, Ana Maria Martinez came out. I said how much I had enjoyed her performance, and also I had seen her in concert in Dublin a couple of years ago and really enjoyed that. I don't think she particularly understood me, although I hope she understood that I was being positive and complimentary. I got the feeling that she was a bit daunted by the group of fans, although that may partly be the language thing.
Erwin was wonderful, putting on a show after the show. We asked him again about his future plans and he said that he had things pretty much sorted for 2009-12; he's intending to do Faust! At which I exclaimed "Ooh, the Dress!". Brenda suggested that his chest isn't hairy enough for The Dress, so she would buy him a chest wig, but he said "There's this thing called shaving!" He said he was only prepared to be Mephistopholes if he could wear High Heels and play it as Drag Queen, and he started mincing around as if he was in high heels - and very convincing, too. (later, Faye said 'I'm so looking forward to Erwin as Mephisto and I could have sworn she said Frankenfurter).
We did the photos. He congratulated me on bringing my memory card and teasingly made some comment about the mistake I had made in not bringing it. I did think of saying that the following day I had been thinking of heading to Downing Street but realised it was a bit pointless greeting a new Prime Minister without a memory card. But I didn't. He posed for a photo, saying "This is me as Don Giovanni!" So I said, "Take you clothes off, then..." (yes, I did, really...).
He insisted on posing first with Faye and then with me. He was showing us photos of his daughter; someone asked if she was going to be a soprano "God, I hope not, a mezzo I hope." But then said that most of her repertoire is bass-baritone and he treated us to an impromptu compilation of excerpts.
We were also talking about the astonishing numbers of singers emerging from South America,and he ws saying how the schools in Uruguay are filled with music, very small children actively making music. I should have asked whether this was like Venezuelan 'El Sistema', which is the most amazing and remarkable social inclusion programme, being copied in many countries (including Scotland, but not - yet - England...attention Ed Balls).
A woman arrived and said she had come from France for the performance and it had been worthwhile. He asked to sign her programme (I like the way he does that; it makes fans feel less like we are imposing!). He asked her where she was from, she said Chamonix, so he asked whether she was Linda di Chamonix. I think she was a bit bemused, being the late comer to what was becoming a party of much laughter. He asked me what was happening in London, and I made some comment about the rain, then realised he meant the security alert. I wasn't really sure what to say - other than something about comedy terrorists - because I am increasingly conscious of what should and shouldn't say. Also, I suppose, I've been in London 16 years, the South East 18, and frequent visitor prior to that, and regard security alerts as just a way of life. I'm not sure how long Erwin has been visiting London but I presume he wasn't around when security alerts were an everyday irritation that we just worked round. And, judging from the internet as well as my Real Life socialising, people are talking about the freak weather more than the failed terrorism.
I know some people think it is a bit adolescent to hang round the Stage Door; I also know that some people mistake the genuine warmth and friendly nature of many stars as being genuine friendship. I sense that some performers, still on an adrenaline high after the show, actually enjoy the opportunity to shoot the breeze; they wouldn't be human if they didn't also enjoy the admiration and adulation. I also respect that others want peace and quiet, or their trusted friends, or a meal, and being pestered by fans is a bit of an ordeal to be endured. And I do not for a moment think that having a chat and a laugh means we are best buddies, any more than I think that exchanging pleasantries with my auditees makes us friends, as such.
And one thing is absolutely certain, both from the performance of Don Giovanni and the post-show backstage, Erwin Schrott is megastar material.
I may have mentioned before my religious nutter neighbour who thinks she owns the neighbourhood. I don't think I have mentioned every aspect of her increasingly paranoid and unstable behaviour. I suppose I ought to feel sympathy for someone who is showing the early signs of dementia but she is such as smug cow, I lost sympathy a long time ago. I don't think I mentioned the recycling bag war. According to the legend on the recycling bags we are supposed to leave them just outside our property but if we do, she protests, saying we must leave them at the end of Gert Cottage Boulevard. If we do that, the newsagent gets stick from the paint shop. And anyway, Mr Patel will not take any nonsense from the Mad Cow, not after she in her stuck up cow way told him "This isn't Calcutta, you know...".
I'm not sure I told you of the time we left our old carpet out to be collected by Lambeth (a Bulk Collection we had pre-booked a fortnight in advance), and she decided at eight o'clock in the morning she would put it into the skip of the paint shop. (Her telling Jimmy this halfway through the morning was her way of having a dig and accusing us of dumping - no, we did it by the book, ringing Lambeth, and not putting it out until the night before in anticipation of a 6am - 6pm collection slot).
I don't think I mentioned the time she and the Patels were having a raised voice row outside my house. I stuck my head out to see what was going on: Raised Voices could mean Big Trouble. I half expected her to accuse me of nosiness; my comeback would have been Raised Voices May Mean Big Trouble.
Just before ten this evening, I hear a horn honking. And again. So I look out the window. She is sat in her car on her driveway; she's blocked in by another car which shouldn't be there, but as it's driverless, I am unclear what horn honking will do. And it's not as though her visitors have never blocked us in - there was blithering idiot visiting once who parked in such a way that we could not get out on foot, and he seemed oblivious to the fact that if we had been trying to get in we could not have knocked on any doors to ask for the car to be moved. Because that's what you do when blocked in. It's what happened in Streatham and Westcliff, and what I have done on occasion, for example when one of her priests blocked in my friend's car. The horn blew a third time so I went out and asked her to stop blowing her horn outside my living room window.
"Somebody's parked their car!" she whimpered petulantly.
"Well, it's not me," I said. "There's no need to blow your horn outside my living room window...you Selfish Anti-Social Nuisance Neighbour..." note absence of swearwords...
As I retreated indoors I heard her ghastly husband screaming "How dare you talk to my wife that way?" All I can say is that, good thing he's 80+, nearly blind and post-several strokes. Otherwise, he might just have got an even sharper end of my tongue. Or more. (She's younger, quite a lot of younger than my mother and not very much older than Jimmy, but dementia - diagnosed over the phone by my mother from my narrative - is no respector of mere numbers). Or I might easily have retorted "I dare because she has the temerity to honk her horn outside my window, which I interpreted as the sound of someone in danger or distress. (Which of course means if she does try to attract attention when in danger we might be minded to ignore it).
All really trivial and hardly the Neighbours From Hell. But I just resent her supercilious stuck up "We're Opus Dei Catholics so our shit don't stink oh and by the way we own you and you will bow down at our every whim." They used to ask us favours, and, being Good Neighbours, we would try and help - for example, agreeing to look after her husband when she went to some Holy Conference in Rome about Eradicating Safe and Reliable Contraception, Especially Condoms To Women At Risk From AIDS in Africa. She has to ask the neighbours because the weird drug dealer son has moved from leaching off the parents to being a constant absence and the son who never visits anyway is off studying to be a priest at Opus Dei College in Rome and not allowed back to Britain except for their funerals. Did I mention that part of her job in Eradicating Safe and Reliable Contraception is lecturing people on how to be parents? Jimmy has done quite a few odd jobs for her. I watered the garden and fed the cat when they had to go away, and, yes, they did give me the customary appreciation (a bottle of cheap undrinkable plonk), but it's all take take take and no give.
As I say, all terribly middle class and middle England. But I didn't move to Brixton to be part of Middle England, and if she wasn't such a hating and hateful person, I would find the palpable decline in her mental powers to be sad.
But she's always been a bitch. Years ago, my sister and family were staying. I was in bed, B-in-L was in the shower. Neighbour knocked on the door and demanded the car be moved. Sister, holding Nephew #1 in her arms, because he was, at the time, a babe in arms, said the car would be moved "When my husband gets out of the shower." Which wasn't good enough despite the fact that my sister was holding a baby. When B-in-L came out of the shower, he asked her what the problem was, he had deliberately parked the car to allow her plenty of room to get out, but she said that she couldn't, so he suggested that she learned to drive. Of course I was "oh my god, you can't say that, she's my neighbour, I have to live with her," but the paint shop men were applauding him for saying what they had wished to say for years!
And indeed before I had even moved in, and my vendor took me round for introductions, her only question was did I have a car, to which my reply was no, but I would not rule it out in future, and many of my visitors would have cars. She instructed me that they were not to be parked beyond a certain mark. When Jimmy had a car, she kept driving into it and telling him, pointedly, how she had scraped her paintwork on his car, as if it was his fault. To which his unspoken response was "she should learn to drive."
At least since the last row over her building noise, she has stopped dropping around on Sunday evenings and failing to take the hint that a) me in a dressing gown with wet hair b) the TV being paused and c) no offer of a drink meant that she was not over-welcome.
Admittedly, this is quite possibly the worst photo ever possible not only of me but also of the lovely Erwin Schrott. We met him - and many others of the cast of Don Giovanni at the Stage Door. I will write a report soonest - or, after I have written about Monday's Katya Kabanova and Tuesday's Lakme. Right now I am totally done in but have work tomorrow...
A long long time ago I was in the Election HQ of a unnamed Constituency Labour Party on Streatham Hill. It was a great place to hang out stuff envelopes, and was well placed for the public. The public wandered in and asked sensible questions about polling station locations, policies, that sort of thing.
One man wandered in and made a beeline for me, explaining all his conspiracy theorists and saying in a confidential whisper how it was all Teresa Gorman's fault. He had written to her on several occasions to tell her. "In green ink" he added proudly, "so that she'll notice and know I'm being serious." Failing and seriously flailing, I turned around to seek comradely support from my comrades, but they had all mysteriously vanished into the back of the shop.
I am considering writing a letter to Prince William. I have never written before to Royalty, but assume that all letters get a standard reply along the lines of 'the contents of your letter have been noted'.
If I were to write it in Green Ink, would I a) diminish my chances of getting a reply and b) imperil my job security?
As my quest to play - and blog - my entire record collection, alphabetically* by the age of 40, I next come to Tori Amos.
I was rather dreading the playing of this CD. I bought it at a time when I would wander into bricks-and-mortar record shops and just hoover stuff up. Which of course means that I have a lot of stuff which was once fashionable but being not very good, has failed to outlive its essential faddishness.
I had put Tori Amos into this category, because each time one of her tracks come onto my mp3 I fast forward. Yet, I played the CD three times in the past week. I have puzzled over this seeming contradiction.
I have now concluded that the music is sufficiently bland to act as wallpaper and thus actually be ignored when I'm doing else, but when forced into my lug-holes her voice is grating and yet otherwise without any colour as to be unlistenable at this proximity.
Some of the songs have quite thoughtful words but there's a limit to the angst one can take when one is approaching middle-age with angst-free equilibrium.
So, I expect when I re-do this as 'all the records by 50', I shall play this again. In the meantime it will sit in the nylon Case Logic CD case as a lasting testament to the thoughtlessness of my CD splurging in the early 90s. I am glad I have grown out of such trifles.
* perversely, with rock/pop CDs I started at Jones, so having gone to Z(ish) I'm back at A.
I chose these as being the two of the most recent long posts consisting mainly of original thought and being about very different subject matter.
According to this analyser my political post is
Female Score: 872
Male Score: 1132
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!
and my opera post is:
Female Score: 3020
Male Score: 2731
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: female!
Gordon comments on BW's that he and his tech writer chums got 'male' for professional writing and 'female' for leisure writing.
I don't know whether the algorithm designer set out with the premise that male and female brains are inherently different, and, if so, why. There used to be a feminist argument that women are no different from men, and thus should be doing exactly the same work. This has changed to a greater understanding that - in general - men and women have different strengths which they contribute differently to a workplace and that the tradition of only favouring 'male' skills has been to the detriment of the business, which would flourish better with a good mix of diverse strengths.
But even that doesn't fully address the flaws of a generalist approach, which is that while most stereotypes have an inkling of truth, that is not a universally applicable truth and is often (usually?) not relevant to specific individuals. BW refers to social conditioning, not a point I dispute, but I would also add that BW, Gordon, Gordon's tech writer colleagues and I have well above average use and understanding of language, and can tailor our writing to the specific circumstances - even within the same blog.
I am always very cautious of anything that ascribes certain characteristics to gender: ultimately, only physical characteristics are gender specific. A balanced person tends to have a decent mix of 'male' and 'female' characteristics. A doctor needs technical know-how and bedside manner; an architect needs to understand structures and human behaviour.
I am quite pleased that two arbitrarily selected pieces of writing produce conflicting results, which I think demonstrates that, irrespective of my numerous weaknesses, I do have a good mix of seemingly conflicting characteristics.
Parsifal has some more photos from the rehearsal between Plácido and Warbling Barbie for the Athens concert in aid of a A Very Good CauseMás Plácido para todos!. And promises update with sound-clips.
I attended a recital by this wonderful young tenor, Dmitry Korchak, at St John's Smith Square, part of the ongoing Rosenblatt Recital Series. Pianist Simon Lepper.
I had first heard Dimitry two or three years ago in a gala of ten tenors at the Festival Hall, and I decided to book for this.
A lovely evening.
The first half consisted mainly of Rachmaninov songs, all of which were unfamiliar to me. As I was listening I was thinking, yeah, he's good, but I'm not convinced he's the finished article. He finished the first half with a stunningly gorgeous Kuda kuda (Lensky's Aria) from Evgeny Onegin.
In the second half he concentrated on non-Russian stuff. Dies bildnis ist bezaubend schön from Magic Flute; Je crois entendre encore from Pearlfishers; Una furtiva lagrima from L'elisir d'amore; A te o cara from I puritani; & Seul sur la terre from Dom Sébastien, with the encores being Mattinata by Leoncavallo and another Rach song.
I thought he was gorgeous in the opera stuff, a sweet lyric voice and an engaging stage manner. He is very cute - the woman next to me commented that she found it difficult to believe he is as old as 28, and when he saw and heard the applause of the audience, he grinned irrepressibly. When he was singing Una furtiva, I seriously believed he was singing it directly to me, for me only. Definitely one to watch. But you know that anyway, being a prizewinner at Operalia three years ago
It was a shame that the hall was only half full, but, I have to say, I remembered why I am so reluctant to attend St John's Smith Square. There seems to be a cliquey bunch of people who attend religiously - with so many venues in London I don't see the point about being a venue-obsessive - and they have this unveiled hostility to incomers under the age of fifty. To my left and behind were obnoxious boors.
So, while I welcome Ian Rosenblatt's matchless contribution to tenor (and other voice-types!) worship in London, I am rather glad that the next one will be at Cadogan Hall where the SJSS bullies won't be so conspicuous.
Onwards with blogging my record collection. Armed again with a cassette deck, I play the next scheduled cassette, containing Pet Shop Boys first two albums, Please and Actually. Not a great deal to say. And certainly no point digitising these well-played somewhat damaged TDK cassettes, (nor thinking - but turntable, seek out vinyl albums).
Okay, as blogging is a far more attractive alternative to what I really should be doing, I shall highlight three achievements of the Blair Years and as succinctly point out why they are (regarded as) partial successes.
The Human Rights Act. This seems a long time ago, and when it was first introduced it was quite scary for public bodies. As a Lambeth Councillor, we contemplated the impact of ordinary people taking the council to court for the right to decent housing. We concluded it would be a Good Thing, if expensive. Some of the actions brought under it have played into the hands of the right-wing hate mongers.
But even though, for example, I believe any school has the right to make rules on uniform and ban the political posturing of headscarves, I think the girls who bring these actions have the right to argue their case. In addition to individual cases, and cases where precedents are set, this has a real impact on thinking about how public policy affects individuals, and has emphasised the presumption of non-discrimination. As a little ordinary person, certain human rights as enshrined in the act have been helpful - to an extent - in challenging planning applications, past and present. However, I regret that in the face of sustained attacks by the Conservative Party and the illiberal self-interested capitalist Press, certain members of the Government have failed to say "This was the right thing to do, and continues to be the right thing, and the occasional perverse result does not in any way diminish its moral correctness."
Freedom of Information Act. Again, I am miffed at the preposterous Private Members Bill that served to exclude MPs from its requirements, on the spurious premise of protection of Individual's Confidentiality. The confidentiality of the individual has always been enshrined in it, and is the reason why HM Treasury refused to release details of David Cameron's employment history. It is also the reason that the Act, so trumpeted pre-1997 took so long to ocme to fruition. But setting a general principle in allowing public access to information previously withheld has changed our attitude and has caused documented changes in perceptions of actual policies.
The third is a bit of a catch all encompassing public spending, from the minimum wage to increased investment in, for example schools and hospitals. If people are living on the minimum wage they are still, certainly in relative terms, and arguably absolutely poor, thus are unlikely to be grateful because, rightly, they want more, valuing their labour at a higher rate.
Not long ago the medical establishment argued that reducing waiting times below 18 months was an impossible task. The fact that they are now weeks is a testament that nothing is impossible. I fully acknowledge that the NHS is not a nirvana of perfection. And I know that there are controversies - drugs withheld by NICE because of dubious clinical efficacy (which is no comfort for someone who hopes it might just be the cure), health trusts overspending in their desire to meet targets (hmm, that's called bad budget management and is intolerable in any organisation public or commercial).
Schools have benefited from actual capital expenditure, which simply did not happen under the Tories. Again, measures have been introduced into schools, such as the Literacy and Numeracy hour, which are boring for the bright child, and constraining for the teacher, but have shown demonstrable improvements in basic literacy and numeracy, without which all the rest of schooling is a waste of time. Still far too many children are leaving school with an inadequate education. The middle classes moan about the cost of higher education (all of which can be deferred until and if the student moves into high earning work). But society as whole benefits most from investment made at an early stage in the most desperate/deprived cases viz Sure Start.
I am not claiming that these are all works of perfection that have created a perfect Britain. I have deliberately avoided highlighting failures. But in my view, they are positives that absolutely would not have happened if the Tories had been in power for the past ten years, and would be threatened if they were to be re-elected. It is easy to be oppositionalist and in Opposition, a lot harder to grasp that the actual task of being in government is sometimes about making hard choices, often about falling short of expectations, and frequently about unleashing the Law of Unintended Consequences. Inevitably and I think correctly, it is the negative aspects that receive more attention from the media (good and bad), rather than the quiet little improvements happening in different areas of our lives. I have never believed that the obstacles to 'excellence' should prevent attempts at 'good', or 'better', or 'something'.
Oh, and my mortgage rates have remained low throughout this period, giving me an incredible amount of freedom unimaginable under the 15% of Tory Misrule.
I shall employ a capricious approach to censorship of comments. Don't even bother writing personal attacks 'what about Iraq' etc because they will simply be junked
I am now officially boycotting YouTube in a fit of pique, but notwithstanding the foregoing, I cannot resist posting this little ditty Kristin Chenoweth sang on Friday night at the Hollywood bowl.
The lyrics are...amusing...eg "I've heard his singing; it sours the milk."
It was here that the evening reached its peak, with Domingo's engaging remarks to the crowd, and an utterly entrancing duet between the veteran singer and perky, but musically adept Kristin Chenoweth, singing and obviously enjoying every minute of Jerome Kern's "Make Believe." Domingo, in powerful form, concluded his segment with a dramatic rendering of "Granada."
BTW, as a result of my almost complete inability to read Greek, I would be ever so grateful if anyone in Greece who happens to find a review of said Athens concert, especially with pictures, would draw my attention (and if anybody who happens to be attending the concert wishes to contribute to WLKJ....!)
It's weird, as a Labour Party member of 23 years standing, I ought to be blogging more about the change of Leadership.
We have a new Leader. To no great surprise, it is Gordon Brown. We also have a new Deputy Leader, Harriet Harman, who was my second choice, so I am pleased.
Changes in Party Leadership are rare enough, changes in Prime Minister rarer still. Although I have slight memories of the 74 Elections and when Wilson changed to Callaghan, my first real memory, when I first paid active notice was in 1979, when I was in top juniors at school, and Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister. For two seconds I was pleased at the break through for a woman; my two seconds of inappropriately feminist delight did not eradicate my disgust at the political result.
1990 was a spectator sport of the most delightful nature, enhanced by the fact that I happened to be on study leave at the time.
1997 was unforgettable and a wonderful wonderful experience and memory.
And now, we are about to get the fourth Prime Minister of my adult life, and I am not sure what to say.
I have been meaning to write an assessment of ten years of Blair in government. So much good done, so much achieved, so many mistakes made, so many opportunities missed. But then, I think, everybody else is writing assessments, what new can I add? And over everything hangs the spectre of one word, four small letters - Iraq.
Everything that Tony Blair has achieved - and it is considerable - will be overshadowed by the debacle in Iraq. Watching The final episode of Andrew Marr's incomparable sterling programme on post-war British history, I can only concur with the conclusion that it was the single biggest mistake made by any British Government in 60 years. I believe that Gordon Brown would not have made the same mistake. However, he did vote for it. Unlike Robin Cook and John Denham, he did not resign as a matter of principle. He simply did his Macavity impression, conveniently helped to some extent by Budget Purdah. And I am not wholly convinced that if, presented with the same Foreign Office briefings that Tony was presented with, he would not have made the same misguided mistake. foget the opposition parties. The Tories seek to make political capital out of Iraq, ignoring the fact that support for the war was their official policy; those front benchers who opposed it were obliged to resign. Forget the LibDims even more. Their opportunism in catching part of the public mood in initial opposition was matched only by their cynicism in embracing the tabloid-set unthinking agenda of 'Support Our Boys Under Fire'. In any case each of the three main political parties were divided at Parliamentary and grassroots level.
Perhaps one day I shall write my assessment of the Blair Years. I think it is too soon to tell, yet. Ultimately, in a democracy, we have to select a government, and it is unlikely we will find one that is a perfect match. I know for sure that if the past ten years had been spent under the Tories, it would have been a disaster for Britain.
But say what you like about Gordon Brown, he is a gift for those of the "I Know A Song About That" tendency. For years we have sniggered at the Stranglers' almost eponymous song. Yesterday the BBC News were obviously playing that game with their repeated references to "Son of a Preacher". And unwittingly above, I made a reference to TS Eliot's wonderful poem, immortalised in tune by ALW. I'd YouTube but I'm feeling very anti-YouTube right now.
So I can't prove that I met Anna Netrebko nor that Erwin Schrott kissed me on both cheeks. Donna Anna was in a rush, perhaps thinking she was late, then her swipecard wouldn't open the door into the Royal Opera House.
Erwin greeted me with "Everyone's here!"
I shall see the opera on Tuesday, and again in July. This evening, though, I was kissed by Don Giovanni himself.
Jimmy's comment on La Netrebko "To look at she isn't all that. She's too thin." I don't think that Jimmy will ever be a diva-worshipper! He left for the pub just moments before Erwin arrived.
One of the Puccini operas that I like. In fact, I like it so much I have two different versions on DVD. This blogpost was originally intended to be about both, but because it got so long I decided just to publish the La Scala version for now!
For me, it takes a helluva long time to get started. Which is a shame. The first half hour or so is quite important for setting the scene, for letting us understand the context in which happens the drama about to unfold. I have read that the orchestral work in that first sequence is interesting and evocative, but it fails to engage me. I accept that every opera, even the greatest of operas, has passages that seem of lesser quality than the rest of the work. But this section is too long, and in too great a contrast with the remainder of the opera, and means that Fanciulla is a pretty good opera, rather than the 'approaching greatness' that the remainder suggests.
The synopsis is quite straightforward and can be found, for example at Wikipedia.
Puccini was very irritating giving his operas the wrong title. This title implies that the main role is the soprano, but it is so obviously a tenor's opera. Admittedly, one has to wait 38 minutes for the tenor's arrival, and that does drag a bit, but when he arrives with a flourish, it's worth it.
It will come as no surprise that both DVDs I have feature Plácido Domingo as Dick Johnson. It is one of my absolute favourite roles of his. He plays the role of the Spaniard from Mexico who's travelled to California with such perfection, as if he inhabits the role. As soon as he walks in the bar it's obvious that Minnie has to fall in love with him. Just standing there, oozing Latino testosterone turns me on. and that's even before he opens his mouth! Vocally, the role is superb for him. I'm surprised it doesn't get mentioned more as one of his signature roles.
From the moment he walks into the bar, he is sultry seductive and sexy, absolutely compelling. I love his costume in the La Scala DVD, almost all in black (except for an off white polo neck, shame, no opportunity for chest hair fondling), knee high boots that serve to emphasise his long legs and delicious thighs. I love the way he struts round the bar, I love the way he looks at Minnie, and I love it when Minnie declares she would protect the miners' gold with her life, he falls for her hook, line and sinker. He looks absolutely irresistibly gorgeous, in one of his chubbier/cuddlier phases...
Act 2 is perhaps my favourite act in the whole of Puccini. I can do without the appalling dialogue of the native Americans, Wowkle and Billy. I am reading the pidgin English subtitles which are translations of the pidgin Italian. It's not unreasonable to assume that uneducated servant native Americans in California in the 1850s were not fluent in English or Spanish or whatever it was the incoming masters spoke. But it's probably reasonable to assume that when talking amongst themselves they spoke fluently in their native tongue. But once that scene's over, and Minnie starts anticipating Dick's arrival, it sizzles from start to finish. The librettist captured her pre-date anxiety superbly, worrying over whether her fanciest shoes were too tight, will he like them, putting on her red roses, wanting to wear her Sunday best, spraying perfume. The initial awkward exchange of small talk is so recognisable. And the way he uses his charm on her (admittedly, this isn't really acting, this is him!)
There's a lot of recitative in this opera. Or sort of recitative, the 20th century version, where lines are sung in the natural rhythm of conversation, rather than in the unnatural form of the aria. His voice sounds so rich, , sweet and lyrical, which is a lovely contrast from when he expresses more passion eg when he sings that there are women in the world one would wish to have in one's life just for one hour and then die.
My major criticism of the La Scala DVD is the strange absence of chemistry. I don't like it when the leading lady seems to be avoiding looking at the leading man. There he is working his charm on her, and it's like she's impervious to it, avoiding looking at him most of the time. I was watching with Jimmy and he commented on this quite independently of me thinking it. He begs her for a kiss and she turns away uninterested. If it had been me, I would have been right in there; if it had been me playing Minnie I would have refused with my words and agreed with my eyes. And, indeed, she hastily bundles poor Wowkle out of the house and into the snow, and grants the kiss with an almost orgasmic musical flurry "That would be you," said Jimmy. "No," I said, "I would have succumbed to much more much earlier." And then we have the least convincing stage kiss I have seen him give (what's wrong with this woman?).
He makes to leave and realises it is snowing. She begs him to stay; he refuses, but there's a knock on the door and he agrees to stay. Cue the most erotic music in Italian opera, when, fully clothed, they consummate their love. I said to Jimmy that there's sex in the music, he said he didn't notice, I said that was because you were too busy talking about how people don't listen to the actual music. He's doing well, shagging her when she's as frigid as anything. They sink to their knees as the music subsides (oh, to be overwhelmed like that!). His look of admiration is pure post-coital.
The Sheriff and posse arrive, and Johnson is alert, gun at the ready. Minnie tells him where to hide as the boys storm in, and reveal to Minnie that "Dick Johnson" is in fact America's Most Wanted Bandito, Ramerrez, as revealed by his lover Nina Micheltorena,a woman of low repute from nearby (whom he had denied knowing). And they know he's at Minnie's. When the posse has gone, she demands he comes out of hiding and confronts him with the truth, and angrily tells him to leave. He explains that he has no alternative but to be a thief; his father was, and on his father's death he had to take it up to support his mother and siblings.
There's a certain quality in Plácido's voice that I simply adore yet cannot describe in words. It's particularly noticeable in the lower part of his range, when he relaxes and these beautiful gorgeous sounds roll out caressingly. and complement perfectly the power of the high notes. Perfectly illustrated in Or son sei mesi.
He leaves, she laments it's over - (and I remember that there are some people who you would wish to have in your life for just one hour and die*) and he gets shot, so she drags him back inside and insists he stays and hides. He is staggering, she bundles him up the ladder and foregoes the opportunity to grope his thighs, never going above his knees. Sigh I wouldn't be so restrained.
A knock at the door, Evil Sheriff Jack Rance has returned, now completely convinced that Ramerrez is hiding there. He makes an advance on Minnie who spurns him and he's about to go when he discovers Ramerrez's blood dripping from the loft. (38:16, great shot). Somehow, Dick is half dragged and half falls out of the loft, falling to the floor and rolling into the position he maintains for the rest of the act. The remainder of the act is a poker game where the prize is Dick Johnson aka Ramerrez. Minnie cheats (at which point the timpani are fabulous!), and wins, which is good. But if it had been me, if I had a shot man bleeding in my loft and I was not able to summon Emergency Services on account of it being the 1850s, I think I would have tried at least to administer basic first aid.
The final act is again an act of two parts. The first part is only really setting the scene for when a now recovered, cornered and arrested Ramerrez makes his entrance bound at the wrists, to the delight of the miners who want to hang him as a thief and murderer. Also to the delight of any red blooded woman watching, because he looks unbelievably drop-dead gorgeous. Now without the polo neck and revealing just a teasing hint of chest hair, made up to look as if he has designer stubble, his dark eyes flashing with proud anger, trying to dodge the blows and pushes of the miners (still with bound hands), falling to his knees and rising again, not once, but twice, with bound hands. Defiantly he says he cares nothing for death, if his hands were unbound he'd slit his own throat. He begs they never tell Minnie how he came to die and then breaks into the most fabulous aria Puccini wrote Ch'ella mi creda libero e lontano - still with bound hands (it must be incredibly difficult to sing with bound hands...). The audience like it, a lot! Rance knocks him violently to the floor, and he falls spectacularly and gets himself up - still with bound hands. With great dignity he walks to the scaffold and has the noose put around his neck just as Minnie arrives. Now, it would totally freak me out to have a noose around my neck, even if on stage. Jimmy says it wouldn't bother him on stage, and it's just because I can't bear anything round my neck. But it would be too much to take psychologically.
To cut a long story short, Minnie pleads - successfully - for his release and it ends happily if anti-climatically with a body count of absolute zero and a homespun wisdom lecture on being nice. And they ride away into the sunset. As Minnie delivers the lecture, Ramerrez is looking at her with undisguised lust, she seems barely aware of his existence.
I just so love the best bits of this opera that I can happily overlook the less gripping bits. And although I have been critical of Mara Zampieri lack of passion for Dick, all other aspects of her performance are somewhere between good and excellent. She acts a convincing Minnie and is vocally and musically of a high standard, with just a few squawks in a punishing role. Juan Pons is eminently adequate as Jack Rance. None of the other characters in a cast of thousands are significant enough to be described. The production is excellent, a traditional production but with attractive sets and a naturalistic and convincing personenregie.
The DVD inlay card has the complete libretto, which is an unexpected bonus.
There is another DVD I ought to get, which I remembered when Googling, and was perturbed to find that the cast included Daniels. One of the great advantages of a composer like Puccini is the complete absence of counter-tenors. I was relieved to find that it is actually a soprano called Barbara Daniels.
In due course I shall watch, blog, and maybe MyTubeadd to a video sharing site with balls the Covent Garden version.
* I take it to mean that if you could only have one hour, you would gladly take it even if it meant death, rather than - an hour's enough, now get lost.
And Terry Gilliam will be directing Andrea Chenier at La Scala - I didn't expect the Reign of Terror. No one expects the Reign of Terror - ad lib ad nauseam
I suppose this is a concept album, which was, in itself, quite a strange concept when it appeared in 1991. I suppose that makes it one of the earliest CDs I ever got.
Even stranger is the fact that it's an album of two halves. The first five tracks are Marc Almond-written songs; the second half is the "Tenement Symphony". I'm not entirely sure of the concept, but I kind of like it.
One of the best tracks is Jacky, a Jaques Brel song. I had never heard of Jaques Brel until this album, and I do like this song, but it has never really inspired me to find out a great deal more. Indeed, this version has an incessant disco beat, which I suspect was not as Jaques Brel intended. In general, I don't like incessant computer-generated disco beats, but this is an example of where it works, because it's just part of an intelligent arrangement/orchestration.
I can't really make my mind up about this album. Whenever a track pops up on random on my mp3 player, I smile and enjoy the track. And, knowing that it was the next pop album scheduled alphabetically, I permitted myself a sense of anticipation.
Sadly, the playing of the album as a whole does not fulfil my expectations. I think it's an intelligent album, I think it's far from formulaic. It consists of good songs well performed. So, what is there not to like?
My problem is that, ultimately, there is no real variety. Perhaps that says more about me, and more about the fact that in 2007, I listen far too much to music on random. A whole album has to have something extra to make me want to enjoy it for three quarters of an hour. And I suppose the downfall of this album is the lack of variety in Marc's voice. I have a lot of respect and affection for Marc Almond, who has been delivering the goods in a creative way since the early 80s. I think he is a musician, I like his voice, because of, rather than despite the fact that it's thin and wavery. But in the end, an entire album with no real change in vocal colour is aurally tiring. I am glad I have this album. I would not contemplate removing it from my mp3 player, it has some fabulous songs on it, especially Meet Me In My Dream and The Days of Pearly Spencer.
Perhaps, ironically, it's downfall for me is the attempt to be a concept album. If it was presented as a collection of commercially-oriented standalone five minute pop songs for the radio, I would like it much more. I suppose I find it a tad pretentious. Marc Almond is a good pop writer and a pleasant pop singer. But that's it. Like Elvis Costello, he's at his best when keeping it simple.
If it isn't in your collection, you really ought to get it. Especially at the price it's currently going for at Amazon, a fraction of what I originally paid sigh
I have just realised that it is some time since I have provided direct responses to comments that you lovely people leave.
When I started blogging, it was rare for the blogger to respond to comments, except for clarification or contradiction, but it's more common nowadays. I know that people in general don't leave comments saying "I read and enjoyed that but don't really have anything to add"; I find it equally difficult to respond to comments saying "Thank you, I read, appreciate and welcome that. I have nothing to add."
So I just want to say thank you for all your comments, whether or not I agree with them.
The most memorable moments of this concert were not strictly vocal, however, but theatrical the conviction Domingo brought to the prayer O, Souverain from Massenet's Le Cid, the intensity and desolation in Federico's Lament from Cilea's L'Arlesiana.
Domingo reached his expressive pinnacle in the love duet from Act I of Verdi's Otello. With his wide palette of vocal colorations, along with astute phrasing and rhythm, Domingo created a fully fleshed character imperious but tormented, strong but insecure.
I finally succumbed, as I knew I would. I bought a cassette deck on Saturday. Only cost me £50, stereo double decks (woah!), plugs into my new Amp, replaces a fairly crappy midi system. I also bought a gadget, a Magic Box of Tricks. Oh boy! It's what I have been crying out for a long time, something that converts cassettes into CDs just by plug-and-play into a PC. but then, I'm thinking, I have such a lovely cassette player, why would I want to convert them into CDs? I remind myself, posterity and flexibility. The analogue world has been overtaken by digital.
Remember back in the 50s some all knowing know nothing expert proclaimed that there would never be a need for more than six computers in the world. It's not so long ago that PCs were typewriters from which you could send emails. Where the internet was a wonderful place full of textual information with a few nice pictures interspersed (and pr0n, too). I am currently listening Beethoven's 5th Piano Concerto "Emperor". This tape is as old as Methuselah, bought from HMV in Nottingham at a time when most pre-recorded cassettes were at least £4.99. I started expanding my cassette collection just as CD players were launching themselves onto the mass market. One of my fellow students had one, but he was a sponsored post-graduate; everyone else was on cassettes, pre-recorded and recorded off their own and others' vinyl LP collection. CDs were never going to catch on; for a start you couldn't record onto them! Twenty years on, that's what I'm doing. It's a wonderful, dramatic piece of music. It may be on a scratchy hissy tape. Other than the fact that it's the first tape I picked out, I'm not sure that's there any benefit in digitally preserving it. It's not as though recordings of this work are hard to come by. I've never heard of the soloist, orchestra or conductor (for all I know it might be a forerunner of a Joyce Hatto fake). At the moment it's a .wav file. The first movement, that is. It's actually a silent wave file. Ah well, never mind, the man in the shop said it's a bit tricky to set up. I suspect it would be less tricky if the instructions were a bit more girl-friendly. I don't know what the ground connector on the L/R cable is for; I don't know why I have an RCA male to female; the manufacturers are uncertain as to whether there is a stereo miniplug male to male included. Process of elimination suggests I might. But what I do with them is anybody's guess....
Talking of which I acquired an entirely different set of gadget not so long ago, a very specifically girl-friendly one. Not the sort you'd want to ask your brother, Dad, son, male housemate or next door neighbour for help with, so it has a useful guide to installing the batteries...
Slide off the back of the silver base in the direction of the arrow
Push the negative end of a battery against the spring at the top of the rear battery compartment and push into place.
Push the negative end of a battery against the spring on the left and push into place. Repeat for the right hand battery.
Push the negative end of a battery against the last spring at the top and push into place.
Position the cover so about 5mm extends beyond the end of the oh my god, I can't write that... and then push down and slide to click into place.
Hello, I learned how to insert batteries into a tranny radio when I was, like four. "Make sure that the non-sticky-out end is against the spring. Put lid back on." Duh!
Plácido Domingo is opera... "Most of my listening is pleasurably work-related but I seldom listen to music leisurely. Frankly, while at rest, I prefer some calm and silence." The almost 11,000 people expected to attend his Tuesday show at the Alamodome aren't too interested in calm or silence. They just want to hear the man sing...
... Domingo's rise to fame was slow and steady, not meteoric. He paid his dues playing piano for a touring ballet company, training zarzuela and musical choruses, and arranging and singing back-up on Spanish-language versions of American pop hits... In more than 40 years on the world stage, he's coupled a commitment to new music and composers with signature approaches to the standards of the opera world...
...the lights in the hall will dim. The crowd will focus on the stage, eager to see the world's greatest living tenor. And Domingo, much like any performer, will be calming the butterflies. "The nerves are always there, and I get butterflies each time I have to go out," he says.
Hopefully, their reviews will be equally well-written and worthwhile, too.
First of all select a winning basketball team and join in their victory parade, (preferably on the same day that your own beloved football team has won La Liga), round up a dodgy mariachi band, board a barge and sing the Star Spangled Banner...
(if you're impatient fast forward to 1:50, if you can. And if your computer's anything like mine, you'll have to quell the pop-up blocker rather than moan on the phone to a not-very-geeky-friend "How do I get Windows Media to work, I'm sure it was working earlier...")
He's doing a concert tomorrow night in San Antonio. I've been told this was where the Alamo happened.
Drew Barrymore has been cast as the lead voice in "South of the Border," a Walt Disney Pictures comedy being directed by Raja Gosnell.
Also lending their voices to the live-action movie in which the animals talk is a who's who of Latino actors including Andy Garcia, Salma Hayek, George Lopez, Cheech Marin, Paul Rodriguez, Placido Domingo, Edward James Olmos and Eddie "Piolin" Sotelo.
"South" chronicles the adventures of a pampered Beverly Hills chihuahua named Chloe (Barrymore) accustomed to riding in a purse. While on vacation in Mexico, she gets lost and must rely on her friends to help her get back home.
According to imdb, it's due for release in 2009. Hmm, I think I shall wait until it comes to Sky free-at-source films sometime in 2011...
Obviously, on mmofm we eschew all mentions in the DTM*, but, nevertheless, we feel it is our duty to our readership when not one, but two, once-great newspapers mention us in one day...
And another blogger claims that Paul Potts was a Lib Dim councillor in Bristol from 1999-2003. Not that that means anything in itself, but it seems a bit at odds at the shy retiring humble man of the people just looking for his moment in the sun...
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