Jonas Kaufmann's Puccini album: making the familiar unexpected

Does the world really need another Puccini album? Probably not. But opera-lovers as a group are very ready to cry, with Lear, "O reason not the need!" And Jonas Kaufmann, together with Antonio Pappano, has recorded a disc that is more than just another Puccini album. This is, in no small part, due to the luxury of having the very fine orchestra and chorus of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia on board with the project. Under Pappano's baton, the orchestral contributions to this album do much to set it apart. This is no mere window-dressing or accompaniment, no mere setting for the voice; this is drama and commentary at once, blood and bones and breath. Kaufmann's work is also very fine, and, in places, nothing less than hair-raising. Although the album includes several of the most famous staples of the dramatic tenor's repertoire, it is in the lesser-known pieces, and in some unexpected moments, that Kaufmann's artistry is most interesting, and most effective.

Io spero ancora: La Bohème charms again

Cafe scene from Act II, Susanna Phillips as Musetta (c) Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

Despite disappointment at last year's La Bohème, I went again on Tuesday, and I'm glad I did. My own enjoyment of the evening was augmented considerably by the fact that I was there in the company of a friend for whom this was her first opera. She loved it, and having someone to comment in the intervals on how impressive the street scene was, or how beautiful the lovers' reconciliation under the snow, helped me appreciate it as well. The "business" in Franco Zeffirelli's apparently deathless production seemed less fussy to me this year, too. Louis Langrée led the orchestra in a beautifully sensitive reading of the score, with nice shaping of phrases and real delicacy of touch. I was happy to hear the music receive the attention to detail I think it deserves (I still await a performance of Bohème where I actually hear the final chords of each act.) The quality of the vocal performances ranged from respectable to excellent; the latter adjective is awarded, not lightly, to Hei-Kyung Hong's deeply-felt Mimi.

Oh, sventata, sventata, la chiave della stanza...

I had planned, Gentle Readers, to venture forth to Don Pasquale tonight, as the Met's cast bids fair to handle Donizetti with vocal and comedic agility.  However, the door to my own bohemian garret, never what one could call straight on its hinges, has developed a problem with the lock.  So, until Benoit, er, my landlord gets around to dealing with it, the Beloved Flatmate and I are taking turns sitting at home to let the other one in from the cold world of the library and lecture hall.  No Opera Outings for us.  My apologies for the unexpected hiatus... in addition to Don Pasquale, Intermezzo and Così are planned for the near future.

Addio, senza rancor

Last night marked the 1221st performance of La Bohème at the Met, the 398th in Franco Zeffirelli's production.  I had never seen La Bohème, ever.  So I went.  But I left dry-eyed.  And I didn't go in expecting to be disappointed or disdainful; I went in hoping to be childishly delighted.  But the production (in my opinion) often crossed the line from thoughtfully detailed into distractingly fussy.  To be fair to production and performers, the fact that I failed to be drawn into the narrative had much to do with the audience.  I didn't hear the final chords of any of the acts.  I believe there was applause after every. single. aria. and. duet, interrupting the flow of Puccini's music and drama as misplaced periods interrupt a sentence (sorry.)  And applause for the Act II set drowned out "Aranci! Ninnoli! Caldi!"  I feel as though I aged about thirty years towards being an Opera Curmudgeon last night.  I also emerged with a persistent, niggling worry.  I am glad that there are "non-opera-goers" who decide that they want to invest an evening in getting tickets, getting dressed up, and Seeing La Bohème At the Met.  But... what if they decide that opera is quaint?

Che penna infame!

Last week's riotous indulgences in opera have been replaced by a whirl of scholarly activity. Monday: presenting to classmates a German article on "Theological Phenomenology of the Liturgical Commemoration of Saints"; Wednesday: lecturing; Thursday: lecturing and working in the history department; Friday: more working, and co-leading a seminar. Tomorrow and Sunday: an academic conference on medieval Scandinavia to attend. Meanwhile, celebrating Magda Olivero's 100th birthday, with the help of YouTube user Onegin65, and this clip (I love the photographs!) from MedeAilinel:



(The recording from which that is taken is available for purchase here. My mouth is watering.) Another joyous discovery this week was a new addition to the local library holdings: Lieder from Kasarova; my favorite of the lot was probably Schumann's "Widmung," of which I never tire. Another activity: listening to my cherished Fritz Wunderlich CDs a lot. Wunderlich is one of my love-at-first-note singers. I fall into adjectival clichés when trying to describe his voice: golden, honeyed, creamy. Maybe it's partially memories of Sunday afternoons with my father and his phonographs, but the beauty of Wunderlich's voice soothes me like few other sounds. Hearing him sing "Viens, gentille dame," or "Dies Bildnis," or "Dalla sua Pace," (all in German, creating a slew of exceptions to my sing-it-in-the-original-language-dang-it purism) is like receiving reassurance that everything, really, will be okay. There are times I want opera to set my pulse racing, and other times I need it to help me take deep, slow breaths. This week was one of the latter.

Questo mar rosso

On Wednesday, I went down to Lincoln Center and failed, for the first time in all my attempts, to get a rush ticket. However, there's nothing like standing on a line for a couple of hours to put me in the mood for an opera (what else is one going to do but read the libretto and talk to one's neighbors about memories of past performances, and hopes for this one?) so I trekked back up to my apartment and defied the piles of books by curling up with wine and Puccini. And I was reminded: yes, I really, really do like La Boheme. Maybe it's partly because I recognize far too much of Benoit in my own landlord that I never tire of spending time with the Bohemians. Never does verismo (which surely ought to be translated "verisimilitude," rather than "realism"?) seem quite so credible as when detailing students who are stretching their budget, stretching their pockets with secondhand books, sticking Latin words into their conversation as often as they can, and of course, complaining about work. Eerily familiar, really.

L'anima ho milionaria!

It's true that I have the very great fortune to live in a metropolis which boasts one of the world's great opera houses. For an opera-obsessed little girl in a big city, there may be no better place of refuge than the Met, with its sleek opulence, its friendly staff, and reliably glorious music (not to mention tickets for $20 and under at any non-gala performance.) However, when one is obsessed with opera, there are always more worlds to conquer. Right now, all over the world, opera is happening. While I cheerfully embrace the lofty-goals, low-income existence of a graduate student, there are times when I wish I could fly to Milan for Rigoletto, or budget a week at Bayreuth.

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.