Carmen in Central PA: Kate Aldrich recital

Kate Aldrich giving a recital at a small college 3 miles from where I now live struck me as a miracle of the universe, an event against the laws of natural scheduling, a visitation which I was undisposed to question. I regret to say that, despite the recital's advertisement in symphony playbills and elsewhere, the residents of greater Harrisburg did not turn out in force. Aldrich, however, gave a generous and richly varied program, and engaged the small audience with great warmth. Not having heard Aldrich since her 2010 Met Carmen, I was pleased to get a sense both of the bel canto works she's been recently exploring, and the French romanticism into which, it seems, she is moving. And in one thing the provinces could give the audiences of New York an education: not once was there applause before the end of a set, nor did a single cell phone make itself heard. [Note: this recital took place on February 4th (sic!) and being unusually under academic deadlines, I neglected to give it its finishing touches till now. Gentle Readers, I beg your indulgence.]

Nights at the Opera: 2014

However belatedly, I decided to round up a personal "best of" list for the last calendar year. It's always an enjoyable experience of revisiting... particularly poignant for me as I looked back on the last of my German opera-going (for now.) Due to my own relative restraint (not to say remissness) in attending, I've limited myself to a top three in my usual categories.

Standout performances:

Tanja Ariane Baumgartner. Selecting one of her performances was difficult, as she was one of the most reliably exciting singers in my Frankfurt season. But her Charlotte, in Werther, was not only richly sung, but intensely intelligent and intensely sensual; showing Charlotte as a lively, trammeled spirit, rather than a domestic saint, was much appreciated by me!

Anja Silja. She's still got it. She may have invented it. In Aribert Reimann's Gespenstersonate, she made parrot noises and commented on the human condition, and I was thrilled and terrified.

La liberté pour nous conspire? Guillaume Tell

Fighting over the future: Guillaume Tell, Act III. Photo © Bayerische Staatsoper

A confession, with apologies to those whose opera-related obsessions center on bel canto: thrillingly-sung Rossini is not a phrase that ordinarily trips from my tongue. For Wednesday night's performance of Guillaume Tell at the Bayerische Staatsoper, however, no less a word than thrilling would do. I went in with few concrete expectations, but I'd never heard Michael Volle live before, and having heard Bryan Hymel live once, I couldn't pass up the chance to do so again. So, after a morning on a train and an afternoon in the archives, I found myself directly under the ceiling of the sold-out house; following the example of fellow-students in the last row, I clambered up on the railing in front of our seats in order to see (disclaimer: my view was partial due to the angle, and occasionally interrupted due to the fact that my calf muscles could not handle constant rail-balancing.) Despite a production more impressive in concept than in execution, it was a musically and emotionally engaging evening, in which all the principal singers gave performances of remarkable passion and precision.

Ma la legge non ode consiglio: La Gazza Ladra in Frankfurt

La Gazza Ladra and the theater of justice
Photo © Oper Frankfurt/ Wolfgang Runkel

I confess that, in trying to summarize the plot of La Gazza Ladra (Die Diebische Elster on Frankfurt's posters,) I've often fallen back on over-simplications: "A bird steals silverware; confusion ensues; star-crossed lovers live happily ever after, eventually." But although this is not inaccurate, it is misleading. The late-nineteenth-century assessment of Rossini as a composer of cheerful, even superficial music, has clung stubbornly to this rarely-performed work, the overture to which has been used as musical shorthand for sinister insouciance. The new production by David Alden, which I saw on Saturday, is designed to strip all that away, following instead a darker vision, realized well by singers and orchestra. Rossini created a happy ending for the opera, but petty and systematic tyrannies, offhand and official acts of oppression, characterize its unfolding. The composer used a ripped-from-the-headlines plot; the unjustly accused maidservant in the original episode was, in fact, executed. Rossini wrote at a time when much of Italy was under occupation, which would have influenced how the sinister brutality (and absurdity) of officialdom in the opera was perceived.

Pippo and the Magpie
© Oper Frankfurt/Wolfgang Runkel

Alden sets his production approximately a century after the opera's 1817 premiere, using a predominantly black-to-white palette (significantly, mostly in shades of gray) and doing much with individual characterizations, as well as clever use of stagecraft. Everyone here is in danger of being crushed: the bourgeois couple, where the woman presides over her realm in brittle denial of the fact that her power is not absolute, and the man uses his wealth as a means to escape, wearing the clothes of a young and forward-thinking man, and drinking like a man with no future. There is Pippo, whose often inexplicable conduct is here motivated by the traumas he has suffered wandering a war-torn landscape, the magpie his only companion. The podestà is more acutely aware than anyone of how easily his iron rule could be toppled, how necessary his theater of power is. Then there are our young lovers, miraculous optimists: Ninetta who believes in the power of honesty to save her, who views the return of her lover and her father with nothing but joy; and Giannetto, who is as fearless in fighting for domestic justice as he is reputed to have been on the battlefield. The performance was notably well sung. This and the thoughtful, nuanced, and darkly humorous engagement with the opera's libretto, combined with--in close collaboration with--a biting, energetic reading of the score under the leadership of Henrik Nánási, helped me hear Rossini's music in new ways.

La Gazza Ladra: Che giorno beato dobbiamo passar

A tragic history repeats itself as an irony-laced tragicomedy on the operatic stage: Rossini's 1817 La Gazza Ladra, although bookended with joyous choruses, contains fictions of potentially explosive power, set to music of often surprising complexity. A serving girl, Ninetta is unjustly accused of theft, libidinously desired by the local mayor, innocently charged with protecting her father from the consequences of deserting the army, and yearningly in love with the son of the family in whose household she works. With the aid of more than one deus ex machina, all of these intrigues have a satisfactory denouement, in striking contrast to the accusation and execution which inspired the opera. But there is more than a little Rossinian mockery at work, of social as well as operatic conventions. The drama hovers experimentally between genres. Melodramatic confessions and confrontations are misunderstood or interrupted, and conventions are gently satirized even as they are enacted. Although the soprano is decorously transferred from the embraces of a father to those of a husband, she is practically pushed into the latter's arms after she has asked to be reunited with the mezzo en travesti. The heroine's imprisonment is a mockery, the army is made to look absurd, and the local lord is spectacularly discomfited. After seeing Saturday's performance by the Bronx Opera, which emphasizes the piece's undeniable charm, I was left with two sources of surprise: that La Gazza Ladra isn't performed more often, and that Foucault never wrote an essay on it.

Quello freme, questa è pazza: Barber of Seville at Amore Opera

After Mozart and Mercadante earlier this autumn, Amore Opera's "Fall Figaro Fest" is concluding with the beginning of the story, and Rossini's indefatigable factotum. The staging all but winked at the audience, treating the fourth wall like a curtain to be pulled aside to say: isn't this all a glorious joke? It is, of course. The orchestra played energetically for Richard Owen, but sounded unfocused and ragged at points (an opening night liability, perhaps.) The humidity was a problem for the string players, but they battled it valiantly, retuning at the interval. One aspect of the performance which struck me as peculiar was that it was performed in Italian and English, with recitative in English and the rest in Italian; the easy flow of Rossini's music resulted in a number of non sequiturs in bilingual conversations. (Apparently this performance tradition endures from Amato Opera.) The supertitles broke partway through, and my neighbors seemed to be grateful for the English, which had a "cask of Amontillado" joke but left out the cheese and macaroni. Still, Barbiere's conspiratorial ensembles, conspicuously exchanged letters, and silly disguises don't strike me as particularly dependent on word-by-word comprehension. I have special respect for the singers dealing with the mental gymnastics of using two languages in rapid alternation. Amore Opera's mixture of veteran and up-and-coming singers gave broad, engaging performances, and to judge by the reactions of those around me in the audience, good times were had by all.

In smaller roles, Sanford Schimel made a fine Fiorello, and Pavlina Horakova brought an expressive, distinctive mezzo to Berta. Alan Smulen was a slightly dry but solid Bartolo, aptly fussy and unafraid of making the deluded doctor openly ridiculous. Jörg Schnass sang Don Basilio with fine diction and vivid theatricality; "La calunnia" was given with appropriately oily glee. The Rosina of Elizabeth Treat was pert without being precious, using her bright, agile soprano with confident flair. She had fine chemistry both with her ardent suitor and with the charming Figaro. Andrew Whitfield sang the role of Almaviva with vivid engagement (giving just a hint in the first act of the wandering eye and weak will which lead to such grief later on... but letting the audience forget that in the charm of the rest of the performance.) Whitfield has a warm, pleasant timbre, and he sounded freer as the evening went on, interacting well with the other singers. Scott Lindroth's Figaro was often covered in the outdoor scenes with the Count, but this was rectified subsequently. Lindroth was appropriately cheeky, conveying sly self-satisfaction through well-shaped phrases. It all ended with half the population of Seville in Rosina's room, celebrating successful conspiracies and joyful prospects. The opera runs through January 1.

Curtain call photos:

Sui maccheroni il cacio v'è cascato: Barbiere di Siviglia

My theory that it's impossible to leave a good Rossini performance without a smile on your face (and at least one fragment of melody stuck in your head) stands. Despite some less-than-inspired conducting from Maurizio Benini, Wednesday's Barbiere made for a thoroughly enjoyable evening, with fine singing and fine acting from all. Isabel Leonard's vivacious, brilliantly sung Rosina was a delight, as was Rodion Pogossov's irrepressible Figaro. Bartlett Sher's production could be accused of having a gimmick or two too many, but I think the frothy exuberance of it suits the plot and music well.

The conducting of Benini did not strike me as rising to the level of the singers. Tempi were workmanlike, and there was not much dynamic nuance, either (the orchestra almost covered the singers at a few points.) I think I noticed Isabel Leonard and Samuel Ramey giving subtle cues to keep the conductor with them during their arias; this helped. Rossini's score still triumphed, but I wished it had been handled with a lighter touch. The singers, thankfully, handled Rossini's bel canto flourishes and no less extravagant comedy with panache. Maurizio Muraro gave a splendid buffo turn as the deluded Dottor Bartolo, with a warm, solid bass and a perpetually put-upon air. The Don Basilio of Samuel Ramey, who sang with comedic relish and vocal assurance, was likewise a treat.  Ramey's vocal gravitas was used to hilarious effect when the rest of the company is trying to pack him off to bed, and "La calunnia" was a delight.

Alexey Kudrya, in his Met debut, made an ardent Almaviva. He sang with great musical sensitivity, and his serenades to Rosina were lovely. ("Cessa di più resistere" was omitted, which I thought very wise, given that Kudrya sounded somewhat thin at the top of his range.) Isabel Leonard gave the best performance I've heard from her; she handled the challenges of the score not only with skill, but with grace and wit. Rosina's runs and trills were executed beautifully, and were made an integral part of Leonard's vivacious portrayal. Rodion Pogossov was her theatrical equal: a cheeky, charming, and apparently tireless Figaro. With vocal charisma and agility, he was quite plausibly the indispensable engineer of events he claims to be. He shone especially in the duets with Kudrya and Leonard (and of course in their hilarious trio.) It may be cold and rainy in New York, but in sunny Seville, all's right with the world.

Curtain call photos:

Le Comte Ory: Ah, la bonne folie

 
Le Comte Ory offers up a potent comedic cocktail of crazy disguises, games with gender, and mistaken identities (in bed!) If you're at all fond of Rossini, I imagine you have already succumbed to the charms of Juan Diego Florez, Joyce DiDonato, and Diana Damrau, who besides being stunning singers, are gorgeous and articulately charming people (it's just not fair, is it?)  Here, they were at their most charming, and vocally excellent.  I was hoping for something more cerebral from the candy-colored production, but I found it nigh-impossible to retain resentment when offered Joyce DiDonato in pirate boots and coat.  The theater frame was unobtrusive, adding a quirky raison d'etre for chandeliers and curtains, but not extra layers of narrative significance, and all of the costumes appeared to be from the eighteenth century instead of the story's medieval setting of origin.  To Bartlett Sher's credit, there was a knowing quality brought to the hijinks (most notable in the person of Diana Damrau's radiant Countess Adele) which acknowledged--if it did not really explore--many of the issues of gender roles, societal expectations based on class, and the often uneasy nearness of sexual and spiritual passions.  I laughed harder than I thought, but with singing of that quality, I would have had to try very hard not to enjoy myself.

Tanti affetti in tal momento: Joyce DiDonato at Carnegie Hall

In one of the charmingly chatty intervals in which Joyce DiDonato enthusiastically filled her audience in on the background of the music she was singing, she speculated with a chuckle that, had her academic specialty been vocal performance instead of music education, and had she proposed beginning a recital with Haydn's "Scena di Berenice," the proposed project would have received failing marks.  However, on Sunday afternoon, not only did she start with this, she did "Tanti Affetti" as an encore.  In between were songs of Cecile Chaminade, more lovingly-sung Rossini, a new Jake Heggie cycle, and a smattering of serenades.  I was boggled by the ambition of this, but DiDonato sailed through it all with a smile as stunning as her technique.

Rossini on a Rainy Day: Petite Messe Solennelle with the New York Choral Society

Bon Dieu; la voilà terminée, cette pauvre petite messe. Est-ce bien de la musique sacrée que je viens de faire, ou bien de la sacré musique ? J'étais né pour l'opera buffa, tu le sais bien ! Peu de science, un peu de cœur, tout est là. Sois donc béni et accorde-moi le Paradis.  -- Gioachino Rossini, dedication to Petite Messe Solennelle

I was rescued from the doldrums of a rainy Friday by the generosity of Taminophile, who magnanimously made it known that he had a spare ticket to Rossini's Petite Messe at Lincoln Center.  I jumped at the chance, and had the very great pleasure of--finally!--meeting the charming Taminophile, discussing bel canto, and listening to Rossini! I have conscientiously not read his blog post on it yet, but you all should (not only is he charming, but he knows a lot more about Rossini than I do.)  My homework on the 1863 piece--which, although I'm familiar with movements from it, I don't think I'd previously heard in its entirety--was facilitated by this Philip Gossett article, so I could appreciate it without feeling too clueless.  And it was exquisitely lovely; I'm at a loss to know why it isn't more often performed, especially as Rossini's original call for twelve singers would seem to be well within the reach of any church with a well-developed music program.  There were, I admit, a few moments where I had to remind myself that repetition and embroidery are key hallmarks of the Rossini style, and I just needed to sit back and relax and bask in it.  And bask I did.

Se non vi spiace, un poco di lezione

Gentle (and long-suffering) Readers, I am actually capable of writing a post that is not the length of a smallish novella. Herewith some operatic miscellany from the time I've spent in Tosca-recovery.

Firstly, I spent a thoroughly enjoyable and very instructive hour on Saturday afternoon sitting in on the voice lesson of a new acquaintance. When in the line for rush tickets for Traviata, I overheard the man two places behind me saying that he was going to be singing Florestan in the city next year... being the Fidelio fangirl I am, I of course ditched propriety and customary timidity in favor of breathless enthusiasm and the only slightly mendacious claim that I "couldn't help overhearing." This led into a three-hour conversation (ah, opera line bonding!) So, yesterday, I had a bit of an aural education as I sat and listened to him make a sound... and then his voice instructor would say "Yes, that is good; now do this," or "More air!" or "Drunken, drunken, he is drunken with love here!" and he would do it again, and I would think, aha! Fascinating.

Furthermore, I encountered Christof Loy via Joyce DiDonato's most recent blog entry, and felt not only illuminated about the behind-the-scenes mechanics of acting-in-opera (or lack thereof,) but inspired to research Mr. Loy, whose name I keep hearing without gaining more than a vague impression of "adventurous opera director?" I soon figured out that one of the reasons his name is so familiar is that he is the patron saint of the Handel-worshiping Purity McCall... and finding his website, I found out that he was responsible for "my" 2007 Simon Boccanegra in Frankfurt. Very exciting!!! This production had long been my token anecdote wielded in argument with opera-listeners whose sensibilities incline towards the exclusively literalistic in set design. The set furnishings for this, as I remember, consisted of an iron staircase and a velvet curtain (sometimes with view of the sea). Characters were dressed in black or white (with a red robe for the Doge.) And I thought this worked brilliantly for the convoluted plot, and I had an absolutely marvelous time. While some stills from Loy productions cause me confusion, a surprisingly exhaustive list of his opinions (convictions might be more apt) on drama and its staging, also on his website, I find quite stimulating.

Mein Ruh' ist hin

The middle of the academic term is a time of reckoning: a time of completing some projects; a time of realizing that it really is time to start serious work on others; a time of staying in and reading/writing instead of jaunting down to the Met. Fortunately, this can also be a time of listening to recital CDs to soothe and stimulate. Firstly, there's the panache of Vesselina Kasarova's Rossini arias and duets, filled with vocal fireworks for every emotional occasion. (Thanks are due to Se Vuoi Pace, whose own healthy obsession with Kasarova cannot but whet interest in the reader-listener.) Secondly, there is the Lieder recital of Waltraud Meier featuring Brahms, Schumann, and Schubert. Waltraud Meier is not only (in my opinion) an extraordinary musician; she also strikes me as being one of those rare human beings who seems as though they would have been at home--and in command--in whatever century and situation fate chose to put them. I suspect she could have made a success of behind-the-scenes political agency in the seventeenth century, among other things. And I am wowed by the album art for this record, where she channels 1930s screen goddess glamor in black lace and flawless lipstick:



Alas, I will never be that fabulous. But revenons à nos moutons: the Brahms Ziegeunerlieder are fiery and seductive. "Frauenliebe und -leben" is deliciously expressive, full of personality which I often struggle to find there. And with the Schubert, transcendence is reached. Maybe it's partially my own temperament which predisposes me to find resonance here; but I have listened to these untiringly. And I learn, in the bland language of Amazon, that the item has been discontinued by the manufacturer! Mein Herz ist schwer. Ah well... for this, as for so much else, I will rely on the NYPL... and trust that "Gretchen am Spinnrad"--and "Die Junge Nonne," and "Der Tod und das Mädchen"!--are not actually essential to the process of research... even if it feels like it.

Rêve! Extase! Bonheur!

The Met has announced its 2010-11 season! The press release is excitingly long, but not organized in such a way as to give a convenient overview of what's on. Ah well; for that I'll just have to wait for the glossy brochure advertising subscriptions to turn up on my doorstep. A number of productions from this season and last season are being revived... hard times even for the magnificent Met, I suppose. Looking on the bright side, though, it gives me a chance to explore these operas and productions more fully. In no particular order, a list of Things I Am Most Excited About in the coming season.

Chi son? Chi son?

My name is Lucia, but no one calls me Mimi. I can't answer the question of how I came to be interested in -- obsessed with -- opera except very vaguely, or through reciting a string of small anecdotes so long as to create tedium for the listener. I only know that I retain surprisingly sharp memories of the tidbits of opera which I was fortuitously exposed to in my youth, via public television broadasts or creaky VHS tapes. I had an upbringing steeped in classical music, with opera being a strange exception, represented only by a handful of LPs. Maybe it was partly the frisson of the forbidden which roused my curiosity. Maybe it was simply the beauty of the music which accompanied the public radio scheduling alerts during the French program I listened to on Saturday mornings though high school.