for the millionth time), the woman who was my first recorded Violetta, Dame Joan Sutherland, passed away. Tributes have been multiplying since. Update: Jessica Duchen has shared links to an in-depth interview on her blog. Frankly, I was surprised at my own reaction. Why should I feel bereft? Clearly, I came into opera-listening a generation too late to hear her live. But she was still part of my landscape; she was there, a venerable presence, a diva larger than life and fully human. She died not suddenly, but rich in years which were richly lived. My own sense of being thrown off balance in the wake of some profound change doubtless has much in it that is egotistic. But I--even I, who knew her only through still-miraculous recorded sound, reported anecdotes, and unearthed interviews--shall miss her being there.
Showing posts with label Joan Sutherland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joan Sutherland. Show all posts
Monday, October 11, 2010
Addio del passato
Opera Chic brings the news that, while I was happily observing Verdi's birthday yesterday (by listening to Traviata for the millionth time), the woman who was my first recorded Violetta, Dame Joan Sutherland, passed away. Tributes have been multiplying since. Update: Jessica Duchen has shared links to an in-depth interview on her blog. Frankly, I was surprised at my own reaction. Why should I feel bereft? Clearly, I came into opera-listening a generation too late to hear her live. But she was still part of my landscape; she was there, a venerable presence, a diva larger than life and fully human. She died not suddenly, but rich in years which were richly lived. My own sense of being thrown off balance in the wake of some profound change doubtless has much in it that is egotistic. But I--even I, who knew her only through still-miraculous recorded sound, reported anecdotes, and unearthed interviews--shall miss her being there.
for the millionth time), the woman who was my first recorded Violetta, Dame Joan Sutherland, passed away. Tributes have been multiplying since. Update: Jessica Duchen has shared links to an in-depth interview on her blog. Frankly, I was surprised at my own reaction. Why should I feel bereft? Clearly, I came into opera-listening a generation too late to hear her live. But she was still part of my landscape; she was there, a venerable presence, a diva larger than life and fully human. She died not suddenly, but rich in years which were richly lived. My own sense of being thrown off balance in the wake of some profound change doubtless has much in it that is egotistic. But I--even I, who knew her only through still-miraculous recorded sound, reported anecdotes, and unearthed interviews--shall miss her being there.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Il suo nome è...
When pressed to name my favorite singers, I usually (after a deep sigh) begin a list so long that it threatens to become meaningless for my hapless listener. I do slightly better when asked to name my favorite interpreters of specific operatic roles. Calaf, for instance. He's not an easy character vocally or psychologically (as Mr. Domingo once said, "He's a little bit crazy, that boy!") But Puccini tenors have a way of making me go weak at the knees, and this crazy prince is no exception, from "Padre, mio padre!" to "Hai vinto tu!" I like to think that he's won over, not by a "horrible fascination," as Liu says, but by the fear in the princess's eyes, and the conviction that she can and must be a warm, interesting human being... and that he's the one to drag her down from her tragic heaven. And so, the mesmerizing melodies spin out, in longing, in anger, in hope, in love. I would love to hear Fabio Armiliato's Calaf, but there's no recording yet. In the meantime... who IS Calaf?
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