THE NEW ZEALAND OPERA SOCIETY

The full list of this year's award winners can be found here. Winners of the important categories are as follows.

Best Music Direction: Richard Hickox, Billy Budd (Opera Australia)Best Direction of an Opera: Neil Armfield, Billy Budd (Opera Australia)Best Male Performer in a Supporting Role in an Opera: John Wegner, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (Opera Australia)Best Female Performer in a Supporting Role in an Opera: Dominica Matthews, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (Opera Australia)Best Symphony Orchestra Concert: A Flowering Tree (Perth International Arts Festival/WA Opera/West Australian Symphony Orchestra)Best Male Performer in an Opera: John Wegner, Billy Budd (Opera Australia)Best Female Performer in an Opera: Tiffany Speight, The Coronation of Poppea (Victorian Opera)Best Opera: Billy Budd (Opera Australia)
I agree enthusiastically with almost all of these. I'm very pleased to see Billy Budd take out so many categories: particularly Best Music Direction for the much missed Richard Hickox and, of course, Best Opera, which it absolutely was. (Arabella fell into — and won — the previous year's competition, so I can say that without qualification.) I probably would have picked Phillip Langridge for Best Male over Wegner but both were amazing. And naturally I'm disappointed our Cheryl didn't win for Makropulos (could there really be anything better than her Marty?) but hearty congratulations to Tiffany Speight for topping such a strong field.

In the midst of half a dozen (or half a million, so it seemed) other performances last week, I made the fleetingest of visits to Melbourne for opening night of Victorian Opera's Ariadne auf Naxos. Richard Strauss alone is temptation enough to travel, but my chief reason — or at least, my initial reason — for making the trip was, as usual, slightly more divacentric. Ever since I sat up and took notice of Jacqueline Dark as Tisbe in La Cenerentola, she's been a regular feature in my fantasy casting games — and one role which I kept imagining her in was Strauss's Komponist. Sigh, I thought: I'd love that, but how likely is Opera Australia to stage Ariadne? 

Well, I still don't have an answer to that question. But when I discovered that Richard Gill had read my thoughts and cast Jacqui in his company's Ariadne, I felt I really had to go. Between then and now, other reasons have arisen. More sensible ones. Like the chance to see a fabulous opera by one of my favourite composers. And the chance finally to see Victorian Opera in action. So while Jacqui was certainly the motivating factor, in the end it turned out just to be a nice little trip to see a different company in a different city, and with or without the diva, it would have been worthwhile.
I can't claim to be crazy about James McCaughey's staging. I've always thought that one of the extraordinary things about Ariadne is that, despite the fact that the concept of the simultaneous entertainments is absurd — and despite that the principals acknowledge as much in the Prologue — somehow the meeting between Zerbinetta and Ariadne (and between their respective musical and psychological worlds) does actually result in something quite beautiful and interesting and maybe even revelatory. 
McCaughey seemed to disagree, because he apparently did everything he could to keep them apart. Ariadne hung around for the very beginning of Zerbinetta's aria, but then quietly slipped offstage and left her to it, so that the entire scene was staged with only the comic troupe onstage. Gone was the sense that the group were improvising themselves into an existing opera seria. Instead it was opera and cabaret in alternation: the two entertainments might as well have been staged back to back after all, for all the interaction they had. It didn't help that he seemed to have lavished all his creative energy upon the music hall antics of Zerbinetta & co, leaving Ariadne with nothing much to do except circle her rock while Bacchus stood on it, looking heroic. 
The Prologue was quite charmingly realised, however: rather like watching No, No, Nanette or something of the sort, all Art Deco sets, girls with bobbed hair and men in their shirtsleeves and suspenders. It was nice picture of backstage chaos. Zerbinetta and her troupe were especially well done — shingled starlet and her back up boys — and there was a fantastically imperious turn by Grant Smith in the spoken role of the Haushofmeister. I'd have assumed he was a native speaker were it not for the name. 
Strong singing throughout the Prologue, more or less. The beginning is so like a play it took me a little while to really process it as opera, although Gary Rowley certainly made a favourable vocal impression as the Music Master. But the heart of the Prologue (and the best of the music) is the Composer, and Jacqui Dark was a total delight, moving engagingly between the ridiculous and the sublime, from youthful impetuosity to the rapture of an artist at work. That big, beautiful voice of hers just bloomed, opening up to the role's soaring climaxes with warmth and infectious energy. If I needed any more proof that she's underutilised by the national company, this was it: this is one classy singer, and she deserves far better than the bit parts she's getting.
The one great tragedy of Ariadne is that it offers us a plum mezzo role in the first half, only to snatch it away in the second. But if anything could console me for the absence of Jacqui, it was our Ariadne and our Bacchus. These are not easy roles to cast, but Victorian Opera managed to do so quite magnificently. Elizabeth Stannard was not a name familiar to me, but it seems she's making quite a name for herself internationally in dramatic soprano repertoire; fans of the Adelaide Ring no doubt know her from there. She was a glorious Ariadne, with all the dignity, expansive sound and Straussian style you could hope for, not to mention an excellent sense of pacing, which allowed her to start strong and finish even stronger: a convincing journey to divine bliss. John Mac Master was her Bacchus. This is the man who substituted for Ben Heppner on the opening night of Tristan at the Met, for heaven's sake, so what else can I say? He was fantastic, heroic and thrillingly secure. Rather static and solid onstage, but then, the production and his costume more or less demanded as much. 
What a shame our Zerbinetta was not at the same level. Theresa Borg had all kinds of things going for her: she gave us an adorable characterisation, strutting, posing and dancing with panache. She could have been fabulousness itself; but, alas, all that personality was not matched by a voice that could handle the role. Zerbinetta must be one of the most gruelling roles a coloratura soprano can take on. Borg coped reasonably well in the Prologue, where charisma mostly compensated for her very light voice, but she was already frequently being swamped, and in the opera proper it only got worse. Full marks for effort — she certainly threw herself into it — but she just didn't have the agility, the vibrancy of tone or the high notes to pull it off: a pretty uncomfortable situation in a role which contains one of the most insanely difficult coloratura arias in the repertoire. She was supported magnificently, however, by her entourage of very funny and very talented song-and-dance men. They were all pretty great, but especial praise must go to Samuel Dundas, who lived up to the promise of his showing in Opera Australia's YAP final with an irresistible, show-stealing Arlecchino. 
Ariadne, too, had a strong entourage, in the shape of Melanie Adams (Naiad), Roxane Hislop (Dryad) and Jessica Aszodi. The combination of their varying vibratos was a little bit overpowering at times, but they still made an impressive and quite luxuriously cast trio. Most striking of the three, I thought, was Aszodi's Echo: there's not much chance to show one's own vocal personality off in that role, but somehow she did. I've since discovered the clips of her on this page and have become mildly besotted, to the point that I'm considering going back next month for Xerxes to hear her Atalanta. We'll see, but at any rate, she was great. It was also lovely to hear Roxane again, for the first time in ... two years? Three? I don't think she's sung anything here since Rigoletto, which was late 2006. 
Orchestra Victoria sounded brilliant. The acoustic in the Playhouse (as its name would suggest) isn't wonderful for opera (although it's not a total disaster either) but they still managed to fill it with plenty of rich and varied colour and firm, focused playing. Richard Gill led them with grace and wit. I did sometimes wish he'd dig a bit deeper into the opera's most ecstatic passages, but for the most part this was a gorgeous and lyrical reading, sensitive both to the singers and to the twisting, turning, ever changing textures of the score. 
I can't say this was a perfect Ariadne. But Ariadne ain't easy. The mere fact that Victorian Opera decided to take it on is laudable enough. That they've done so in such inventive and rewarding style is, despite any of the show's flaw, cause for great joy. Absolutely worth the trip. 

This is getting to be a bit of a habit. Adrian Collette appeared on stage before Manon Lescaut to announce that Cheryl Barker was suffering from a "winter ailment" and wouldn't be singing, since she knew she couldn't do so "to her satisfaction or to yours". Oh, Cheryl, you could speak the thing and I'd be happy, but that's fine, you know best. I can't be mad at her for cancelling, as much as I miss her, because ultimately, she's the guardian of one of the things I treasure most in the world — her own voice — and I'm happy for her to do whatever she deems necessary to look after it. 

It helped that I was forewarned. I'd been quietly preparing myself for a cancellation since Wednesday's performance. Don't ask me why. She was in perfectly resplendent voice but some sixth sense had me thinking I wouldn't be surprised if she cancelled the next one. And by this afternoon I had concrete evidence in favour of my suspicions. So I was ready, and it hurt much less.

Our cover was Teresa La Rocca, a perfectly lovely singer but one whose CV is full of Inas and Ettas, so a curious choice for Manon. I mean, Cheryl told Margaret Throsby the other day that she was offered the role five years ago, and even then, with Cio-Cio San, Tosca and Katya Kabanova under her belt and Salome in her sights, she felt she wasn't yet ready. That's how big it is. But all things considered, Teresa coped admirably and I was quite impressed by her. I'd be very keen now to see her in a different sort of role, and I think she'd be excellent as Massenet's Manon. 
And yet I did something I've never done before. I left halfway through. Don't take this as a slight on Teresa's performance, it isn't that. But I have to be honest. The only reason I booked the whole season of this opera is Cheryl. It has no other claim on me. It's not like Butterfly, where, yes, Cheryl was the reason I booked ten times but where the opera and the character meant so much to me that even when she cancelled, I'd have stayed to the end no matter who the substitute was: you just can't walk out on Cio-Cio San. Not so Manon. I am not des Grieux. I can resist her. Cheryl is my downfall, not Manon Lescaut, and since I'm starting to sense that this opera — and this production — will suffer a little with every subsequent viewing, I thought it best to save myself as far as possible for her return. 
Leaving also meant I could gift my front row seat to one of the most dedicated operagoers I know, who was suffering not only from Cheryl's absence but also from a loge seat. So she got my seat and I got an early(ish) night. To Teresa I say: well done. And to Cheryl: get well soon. Absence makes the heart grow fonder but I'm still rather partial to presence.  

Radio New Zealand Concert network
Sunday 26th of July 2009 at 3 - 6 pm

HANDEL: Partenope, an opera in three acts
Partenope............................... Christine Schäfer
Prince Emilio of Cuma............. Kurt Streit
Prince Arsace of Corinth ....David Daniels
Rosmira.................................. Patricia Bardon
Ormonte................................. Florian Boesch
Prince Armindo of Rhodes...... Matthias Rexroth
Les Talens Lyriques/Christophe Rousset
(recorded in the Theater an der Wien, Vienna)

INTRODUCTION (Wikipedia)
REVIEW (ENO 2008, set in Paris in 1920s)

We might roll our eyes at the liberties that composers and librettists have taken in adapting literary subjects for the lyric stage but sometimes they're entirely justified in doing so. There's no excuse for the happy ending of Thomas's Hamlet, but I think both Massenet and Puccini (and their respective librettists) should be applauded for much of what they did to Manon Lescaut. A straight adaptation would most likely have given us one spectacularly sappy hero, one shallow love interest, and an audience unable to decide whom they'd like to throttle more. The des Grieux of the novel spends most of his time making terrible decisions, deceiving his friends, and crying. Manon exists only as the object of his obsessive love: she has practically no personality of her own, she barely even speaks — and when she does, it's usually to say something selfish, disingenuous or vain. It takes abject misery and squalor — the total absence of any better option — to bring out a bit of  honest emotion in Manon, and the fact that she dies in such misery, while certainly sad, is hardly heroism. 
It is to her operatic adaptors that we owe any sense of Manon's inner life. Massenet's "Adieu, notre petite table" has no equivalent in the novel — it can't, because we cannot, of necessity, see Manon alone; and it's hard to imagine the Manon do see making any such speech — and much of the rest of his version is likewise pure invention. The four fragmented vignettes of Puccini's Manon Lescaut are slightly closer to their source (although the gaps are many and chasm-like) but they still give Manon a better chance to display a bit of complex personality. Besides, the rich, varied and impassioned music Puccini gives her to sing is in itself proof of a far more fascinating, if no more likeable, character. We probably still don't sympathise with Manon, but at least we might now be better able to fathom des Grieux's fatal attraction to her.

It takes a special sort of singer to contend satisfactorily with this difficult character — to explore Manon's conflicted psychology and to convey her charms and her faults in equally compelling measure, and to do all of this without falling into trap of one easy stereotype or another, victim or temptress or virgin or whore. And even that isn't enough. She also needs to be able to sing Manon's spectacularly demanding and wide ranging music, and to sing it fantastically well: this is not a role to be coasted through. Puccini's orchestration is dense to say the least, and our Manon must somehow find a way to slice through it, soar above it and yet integrate herself within its varied textures. She has to be heard, and when she is, she must sound magnificent — there should be no such thing as an ordinary Manon Lescaut.
I don't imagine anybody has ever called Cheryl Barker ordinary. Entrancing as ever, she has found her way into Manon with her characteristic blend of intelligence, subtlety and apparent abandon, and she has done it at a time when her voice is as ideal for the role as it will ever be. She has the bright pliability of tone to capture Manon's youth and the maturity to chart her downfall convincingly; the sheer power to encompass the role's dynamic extremes and the artistry to make sense of everything that lies between those extremes. It's a massive role and she doesn't have a massive voice, but she is a master of her craft and has taken possession of this role as electrifyingly as she always does. 
The three faces of Manon — country girl, kept woman, convict — are so different from one another, and so vividly sketched within themselves, that they are almost three separate characters; one could even oversimplify and compare them to Trittico's Lauretta, Giorgetta and Angelica. Any reasonably talented singing actress could probably succeed quite well in capturing one or all of them in isolation. It's the special gift of an artist like Cheryl that she is able to bridge the gaps, to overcome (as far as possible) the obstacles inherent in the opera itself and join the contrasting facets of Manon's story into one complicated but coherent characterisation. She doesn't try to turn her into a tragic heroine, but nor is this Manon's beauty skin deep: instead she inhabits a shifting middle ground, and she scintillates. Her Manon is exactly as adorable as she should be — no more and definitely no less.
Puccini might have allowed Manon a dash of extra life but he's not quite so kind to des Grieux. At least our pauvre chevalier doesn't spend quite so much time crying as in the novel, but in creating its four focused scenes it inevitably clears away a lot of what informs his wretched life. From the moment he meets Manon, we only ever see him in pursuit of her or prostrated by her. His escalating misbehaviour and attendant self hatred is all omitted. Admittedly, it wouldn't make for fascinating theatre — you'd risk a sort of boy's own version of Suor Angelica — it does serve to underline just how pathological and desperate his relationship with Manon is, not to mention the difference in the way each of them suffers for love. 
Jorge Lopez-Yanez works as succesfully within these confines as anyone might. With opportunities for characterisation limited, he channels as much tremulous Italianate anguish into his voice as it will take. He takes full advantage of des Grieux's brief pre-Manon scenes. His "Tra voi belle" is sung with charming lightness of touch and he's convincing as an amiable but studious young man, highlighting the drastic change his fortunes will soon begin to take. He sings beautifully throughout, with only the very top of his voice showing signs of some wear and tear. It's just a joy to hear a secure, idiomatic Italianate tenor in our opera theatre, because heaven knows, we don't have enough of them. He does stagger about a bit more than necessary in the desert but his singing there is focused, brilliant and deeply felt; and occasionally he'll throw in a genuinely swoonworthy pianissimo — always appreciated.
The first encounter between Manon and des Grieux is more convincing vocally than physically. Jorge's firm, ardent voice is well matched as the dominant partner to Cheryl's lightly sung, susceptible Manon. The air between them doesn't exactly quiver with romantic tension, however, so that when she suddenly capitulates to his plea that she meet him again, it's not entirely clearly why she feels so compelled. Then again, there's something telling in the way they interact in this first scene: des Grieux, all sighs and longing looks, is excited solely by Manon, whereas she seems as thrilled by the experience as by her suitor. Their later interactions are more persuasive but the chemistry never really sizzles. (He's also hampered in the Act Two love scene by her extraordinary gold frock.) Both are appealing and committed performers in their own ways but their different approaches don't collide as explosively as one might have hoped from a couple who suffer so much for one another. Each is more compelling in separation than in togetherness — perhaps that's fitting after all. 
The two other men in Manon's life are not quite so well cast. I love Teddy Tahu Rhodes as much as anyone (well, maybe not as much some people, but you get the idea) and he's certainly a charismatic and imposing presence onstage, but I don't think Puccini is really ideal repertoire for him. He's in great voice as Manon's brother, and he is rather good in his semi-aria in Act Two, but I don't think he has quite the oily sound I'd to hear in this role: Lescaut is bad news. It's also hard to reconcile his bouncy roguishness in Act One with his self-serving creepiness in Act Two. Of course, like des Grieux, he's not helped by all the information left out of the opera: it's very hard to get a handle on Lescaut's true nature when most of his life goes unexplained. I have bigger issues with the casting of Richard Alexander as Geronte di Ravoir. They're not vocal issues: he sings wonderfully well. I just think he looks and sounds too young, and no amount of makeup and body padding can disguise that — in fact, they only make it more obvious. The point about Geronte, as far as I'm concerned, is that he represents a character (or characters) in the novel who, while they are old and foolish, also hold, by virtue of their wealth and social status, a degree of real power over Manon. Geronte might be stupid, but he's dangerous: he can ruin Manon, and he does. Casting Alexander, and costuming him as they have, turns him into a commedia dell'arte buffoon — he might as well be Bartolo — and I'd much rather a Geronte who looks and sounds like a genuine threat. 
The revelation among the bit parts is Stephen Smith, although after his excellent Beppe in Pagliacci I'm not sure if revelation is exactly the word. At any rate, he bounds about the stage exuding youthful exuberance, and his light, bright tenor is in top form. His Edmondo is a sort of Arlecchino-like figure, dashing about engineering intrigues, and doing it all with such a palpable sense of fun. He's a joy to watch, and if that voice keeps developing as it is, I daresay we'll see him in larger roles before very long. Meanwhile there's a clutch of quite luxuriously cast cameos: Dominica Matthews as the Madrigal Singer, Andrew Brunsdon as the Lamplighter and Graeme Macfarlane at his flitting, effete best as the Dancing Master. The chorus (women especially) camp it up as villagers and tarts, and sing with that same enthusiasm. Alexander Polianichko's reading is grand and sensuous and all those things you expect from a Manon Lescaut; the singers are occasionally swamped but I'm inclined to blame Puccini as much as anyone else for that. The Intermezzo is quite beautifully played but spoiled somewhat by the crashes and bangs from behind the curtain as the set is changed. 
There's not a vast deal I can say about Gale Edwards's production. It's reasonably solid and traditional but far from lifeless. She gives her singers the tools to just get on with telling the story and that's what they do, supported by some fantastic sets and costumes. The only really unusual flourish is her suggestion that Lescaut harbours some pretty unbrotherly feelings for Manon: she spends much of their Act Two conversation gently removing his wandering hands. It's an unexpected thought but an intriguing one: like the set of old aristocrats who come to stare at her during her dance lesson, it reinforces the sense of Manon as a commodity, as something to be consumed. It also functions quite well as a substitute for all the other morally reprehensible behaviour which Lescaut gets up to in the novel, and a symbol of the corruption of Manon's gilded life: especially since her reaction to his caresses is only mild annoyance — like batting a fly away — rather than outrage. Otherwise it's all reasonably straightforward. There's enough to mull over (and just plain enjoy) in the story as is, so Edwards just lets it play itself out.
Let's be honest. Manon Lescaut is important in terms of Puccini's development. It has definite charms and some extraordinary passages. But it's not a great opera, or at least, not Great with a capital G. Flawed Puccini, however, is still Puccini, and still a rewarding experience, especially when sung and staged as well as this one has been. Opera doesn't always need to be transcendent and sublime, even when it's a tragedy of sorts. This Manon Lescaut probably won't shatter your nerves completely, but it is grand and gorgeous, and when it really wants to move you — it can. Or, dare I say it, she can. It's a strong production from top to toe, but when solid gives way to special, the reason is usually Cheryl Barker. She can't help but shine, and the show is all the richer for it. 

A few more words about Opera Australia's Young Artist Program audition concert, although Bryce Hallett has already covered the nuts and bolts of it quite nicely in the Herald. I remain as conflicted as ever about whether and how much to write about competition situations, but a blanket ban would deny me the chance to heap praise, so I have to write something.

I love it when a competition goes the way I want it to. After the first round (one aria) each, I Tweeted Samuel Dundas and Nicole Car as my favourites; after round two, I added Jane Parkin, who was in principle my favourite from the beginning: I just wasn't sure whether she'd done herself justice in her first aria. 
The longer I sat and waited for the result, the more I felt and hoped that Jane would take the prize. I don't think she necessarily gave the most perfect performances on the night, but more than anybody else, she demonstrated that entry into the program was the obvious next step in her career — and that she had all the skills and raw (and not-so-raw!) material to benefit greatly from it. She also has a distinctive and interesting voice which can fill that problematic theatre. I also think she's just a fabulous performer and love to see a personal favourite of mine moving up in the world. Besides, whatever the difficulties of the Handel she began with (Alcina's "Ah, mio cor"), her "O marno to je" (I still think the world of her for choosing to make a signature piece of Rusalka's other aria) was abundant proof that she is the Real Thing. She gets extra kudos for making an entry at high speed in serious heels and launching into an aria which is, well, not exactly easy going. 
I was absolutely thrilled with Nicole Car. Not just because she sang so well, but because she was so much better than the last time I heard her, in the 2008 Mathy semi-finals. She sang "Non mi dir" in both competitions, and improvement was quite remarkable: no doubt something to do with the fact that she's sung Donna Anna (for Victorian Opera) in the interim. She came back with a gorgeous "Depuis le jour", such a contrast to her first aria in every sense, and it was lovely and just as characterful. If this is how far she's come in less than a year, then she's definitely a talent to be fostered. 
Samuel Dundas is one of those baritones — you know the type — who just exude star quality the moment they wander out on stage, and then manage to back it up with a real voice and musical sensitivity. He gave us a Mozart Standard — "Aprite un po' quegli occhi" — and managed to put his own hilarious spin on it, then came back with something utterly unexpected, a very Italian and melancholy aria from Puccini's Edgar, of all things, and somehow managed to pull that off brilliantly as well. He provided that crucial moment in any singing competition: the moment when you get to forget that it is a competition and just enjoy the performance. I also saw him as Arlecchino in Victorian Opera's Ariadne auf Naxos, where he sailed perilously close to stealing Zerbinetta's thunder. 
With a panel of five terribly distinguished and high-powered judges (Anthony Legge, Ian McCahon, Andrew Greene, Peter Coleman-Wright and Yvonne Kenny, for heaven's sake) the eight finalists are no doubt facing a vast quantity of detailed and genuinely useful criticism, so I'll refrain from adding any of my own to the pile and shall instead just list a few of the things that made me especially happy. First, well done to all three baritones (Samuel Dundas, Matthew Thomas and Hadleigh Adams) for contrasting their tried-and-true Mozart arias with interesting rarities: with selections from La jolie fille de Perth, Tito Manlio and Edgar on offer, I might even have forgiven a "Hai gia vinta la causa". Maxine Montgomery was just impossibly adorable as Frau Fluth in "Nun eilt herbei". I have real respect for Victoria Lambourn for beginning with an aria as delicate and exposed as Mignon's "Connais-tu le pays". And after a rather ordinary "Dies Bildnis", it was great to see Martin Buckingham let his hair down — literally and figuratively — for such a warm and genuine "De' miei bollenti spiriti". 
That will do. We already know the result. Jane Parkin and Samuel Dundas will enter the program next year, and Nicole Car will follow in 2011. Just as it should be. I was so excited by the result I may have made a slight spectacle of myself. Well done to all. 

The winners of tonight's final of the 2010 Opera Australia Young Artist auditions are as follows:

1. Jane Parkin2. Samuel Dundas3. Nicole Car (who will join the program in 2011)
I'll write a bit more when I get the chance, but for now let me just say that this was pretty much exactly the way I wanted and expected it to go. It had to be those three in some order, and the order chosen is spot on. I'm not at all surprised that the five judges came to a unanimous decision. And I'm so pleased about Jane. I've been determined for two years — since the first time I saw her — that she was one to watch, that she ought to be moved from the chorus into solo roles, and I'm delighted to see that coming to pass: first OzOpera and now this. It's all very good news. 

The only place in the world I should be right now is bed but some things just will not wait. I want to say this right now or it will never be said the way I mean. 
Remember the added layer of brilliance I talked about in Yvonne's fourth Dido (my second)? Tonight it returned, brighter than ever. Of the four performances I've seen, this, her last, was her greatest. And great is the word. I knew straight away the voice would be strong and beautiful — it's the security in her lower register which tips me off  — but somewhere in the first scene she tapped into something and brought off a Dido not quite like any of the rest. It might just have been what I'd been quietly hoping for: the performance where she would channel whatever spirit it was that makes her performance as Cavalli's Dido one of her very finest recordings. Tonight the fire in her eyes and the blaze of her voice were terrifying and magnificent. She nailed the first scene. She outclassed everyone in the hunt scene with her single phrase. And the end, my God. It was as intense as anything she did in Streetcar or La voix humaine. The look in her eyes as she delivered that final "Away!" to Aeneas could have frozen us all, motionless, for days. 
As for the Lament ... words fail. I sat there, front and centre, as she moved forward, ringed by light and sang ... did she sing it? or speak it? ... It was opera, it was life, it was love, it was death, it was Dido. It was perfection. I'm raving. I'm sorry. It was like that. 
She is always great and always moving and always all those things she should be, but this was, I think, a moment in a million: spontaneous, more than just the result of artistry and talent. It came from somewhere else, we don't know and don't need to know where, and there it was. Whatever Yvonne found in it or in herself or whatever, she shared it with us in a way I can't describe, that way that stops you in your tracks. I was a mess. I'd be a mess again if I kept writing. 
This was the Dido I had in mind when I first knew she'd sing it. And the Dido I had in mind when I just wished she'd sing it. Maybe even the Dido I had in mind when I was seventeen and read the Aeneid and was instantly fascinated by beautiful, strong Elissa, who loved too much and against her will. I will say it once more and then I'll stop. Perfection. Yvonne. 

Radio New Zealand Concert network
Sunday 19th of July 2009 at 3 - 5.10 pm

INTRODUCTION
(Wikipedia, with links to the libretto)

BERLIOZ: Béatrice et Bénédict, an opera in two acts
Leonato........................ Christophe Fel
Don Pedro.................... Nicolas Cavallier
Hero............................. Nathalie Manfrino
Claudio......................... Jean-François Lapointe
Béatrice........................ Joyce DiDonato
Bénédict........................ Charles Workman
Somarone..................... Jean-Philippe Laffont
Ursula........................... Elodie Méchain
French National Chorus & Orch/Colin Davis
(recorded in Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, Paris)

With regard to opera, I don't have favourites (not even Richard Wagner and Anna Netrebko) but I will say that I have a soft spot for Hector Berlioz; I get excited about his music (example: Symphonie funèbre et triomphale, which impressed Wagner), and his wicked wit (I remember sitting in the Melbourne University library giggling and guffawing over his Nights in the Orchestra, in which his satirical essays are represented as discussions by orchestra players in the pit of a theatre, while an opera is being performed).

The four completed operas are: Benvenuto Cellini (1838), La Damnation de Faust (1846), Béatrice et Bénédict (1862), Les Troyens (1863). In our local opera group we have viewed Damned Faust, and Ruined Troy (The Trojans), but the other two are unlikely to appear in any opera house in New Zealand or Australia (but I don't mind at all if you can prove me wrong). Mention also Roméo et Juliette, and L'Enfance du Christ (the only Berlioz work I have sung in), which are only performed in concert halls, though they have a story-line.

Berlioz was crazy about Shakespeare, and he was married to an English Shakespearean actress (for a while). Beatrice and Benedict is a gutted version of Shakespeare's Much ado about nothing, with some dialogue borrowed directly from the Bard, and the rest written by the composer himself. Actually, even the "ado" is pruned out, the threat to the marriage of Claudio and Hero (the bride); they become an idealized couple, and Beatrice and Benedick come to the fore (Perfick!).

So, we miss out on this speech from Dogberry (replaced by Somarone) when the malefactors who have maligned Hero are brought to justice:"Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders [sic]; and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly they have verified unjust things: and, to conclude, they are lying knaves."

The two recordings I have are conducted by Colin Davis, and here he is again, in Paris. Beatrice is sung by Josephine Veasey in one and Janet Baker in the other; here it is Joyce DiDonato (the only name familiar to me in the cast-list; we hear her at the NYMetropera). Colin Davis has conducted all the Berlioz works which have an orchestra (name one that does not!).

A while back, Melba Recordings very kindly sent me a selection of their recent vocal releases. True to form, I'm only now getting around to finally reviewing them. But here we go. Clicking the titles will take you to Melba's own page for each album.
Deborah Riedel: Cherry Ripe — Vocal Treasures of the 18th & 19th centuries
This disc of rarities is the last recording made by the much loved Deborah Riedel, who sadly passed away at the beginning of this year. And while you can't listen to this recital without a touch of sadness, there's so much life and joy in Riedel's singing that in the end it's a very happy celebration. The repertoire is unusual and not all of it is first rate: I'm all for the rediscovery of obscurity, but we shouldn't forget that there's a reason why some music stays famous and some fades away. Still, a disc such as this is a perfect platform for these unusual Italian and English arias — you mightn't ever need to hear the whole of, say, Storace's Lodoiska or Zingarelli's Giulette e Romeo (and even if you do, you might never have the chance) but a single aria sung with style is a nice treat. Riedel's singing is warm and engaging. The disc might be part of Melba's "Richard Bonynge Edition" and the repertoire more his bag than hers, but it is Riedel's convincing delivery which ultimately sells it. Her best arias are those which sit in the honeyed middle of her voice and those with a dash of seriousness (and fewer coloratura frills) to them. Her higher notes do sound a bit pushed, and the silliest and most sentimental of the pieces (especially those in English) would possibly be better suited to a younger, more soubrettish voice. Her legato, however, is fabulous, and the slight heaviness of her voice lends a touch of real dignity to arias which might other sound plain and formulaic. I can't say I'm head over heels for this disc — the repertoire is an acquired taste, especially in such quantity, and not all of it is ideal for Riedel's voice or style — but it's got a definite charm to it, and it does this greatly missed artist credit. The Arcadia Lane Orchestra (no doubt assembled purely for this recording) under Richard Bonynge gives the whole venture an authentic period feeling with plenty of personality. 
Steve Davislim: Schubert — Winterreise
If you needed further proof that one needn't be a growly echt-Deutsch baritone to capture the peculiar melancholy of this song cycle, Steve Davislim is it. This is a gorgeously sung Winterreise, as bleak, wintry and beautiful as the photography (by Bill Henson, no less) which accompanies the liner notes. Davislim's voice is an ideal mix of light and shadow, the lyrical sheen of it underpinned with a dark, occasionally baritonal quality. His interpretations are fluid and evocative, intelligent but not overthought, and idiomatic in the extreme: Davislim has sung a lot in Germany, to great acclaim, and it shows. Each song is differentiated, given its own particular voice, and yet there's a happy continuity to the whole, just as there should be, and ultimately an almost hypnotic quality. Anthony Romaniuk (for whom accompanist is just not the word) makes an ideal partner; the two voices, singer and pianist, meeting as one. Schubert lieder is not exactly an uncrowded field in terms of recordings but this Winterreise deserves to be sought out by even those with two dozen recordings of it already in their collections. 
Steve Davislim: Britten — Folksong Arrangements
I must confess that despite my undying love for Benjamin Britten, my immediate reaction to the prospect English folksongs (in anyone's arrangements) is not what you'd call positive. Even though amost every time I listen to them I end up liking them. I can't account for this irrational response but at least I'm able to overcome it: a very good thing in this case, because this recital is an utter delight. In some ways it's the flipside to the Schubert, cheerier, brighter and of course so very English, but it does have its fair share of desolation too, and Davislim captures them wonderfully. These are funny little songs, some of them, but he gives them a sort of grandeur: "The Bonny Earl o'Moray", for instance, is almost operatic in scope. And his gift for character makes even the female narrator of "The Trees They Grow So High" quite convincing. Britten's characteristic arrangements of course lend complexity (and an extra layer of psychology) to these songs, but they don't necessarily prevent twee delivery; Davislim, thankfully, gives us nothing of the sort. He even turns "Sally In Our Alley" into a something approaching a work of art. A highlight of a different sort is "The Foggy, Foggy Dew", for its oh-so-familiar tune — the melody was later recycled for Monty Python's masterpiece, The Lumberjack Song. (I've enjoyed playing this disc at work and watching customers try to figure out where they know the song from.) Davislim is joined this time around by none other than Simone Young (perhaps they met at the I Don't Seem To Appear At Opera Australia Any More club) and she's another good partner for him, sensitive to the balance he's striking between jolly humour and careful artistry. 

How odd. After Baroque Masterpieces and Aida I stayed up well past bedtime to blog about them, just for the instant gratification of a write up of some of the thoughts buzzing about my brain. So you'd think Manon Lescaut would have me keener than ever to shout a thousand and one things from the rooftops. Instead, I'm happy to let it sit for a bit.

Why? I think the answer is pure contentment. I'll write my reviews soon enough, but for tonight I'm happy to let my critical faculties take a break. I don't want to pull it apart tonight. I'm not trying to suggest that it was mindshatteringly perfect. Just that it worked. Very well indeed. I loved it.

A part of my contentment is the joy of plain old good storytelling, the sort which leaves me mulling over the drama itself far more than the merits and machinery of its staging. A part of it is Puccini. And part of it is the afterglow which follows an evening spent in the company of my luminous favourite soprano: Cheryl Barker, whose singular intelligence, boundless energy and ohthatvoice make her Manon a force to be reckoned with.

For now, c'est tout.

Please forgive any infelicities or outright stupidity in what follows. I am a victim of my own bad planning. Having determined to write everything I wanted to write about Aida before the opening night of Manon Lescaut, I now find myself accordingly obliged to blog about it at a time when a sensible person would be asleep. I'll try and be briefish, but you know me: that never really works. 

I get the sense that many people have welcomed Graeme Murphy's production as a work of triumphant genius. So when I say that I don't entirely agree with that sentiment, I acknowledge at the same time that this might have as much to do with me as with him. I just know that when I write what I'm about to write, somebody will either shout at me or want to shout at me that I am missing the point. However, here it is. In the end, I did actually think this show was pretty fabulous, but the important words there are in the end. For me, the first two acts fell — no pun intended — a little flat. Murphy has this idea of 3D people in a 2D world — meaning top-of-the-line cardboard cutouts — which definitely has its moments of striking appeal. But for me it also has moments, especially at the beginning, of looking like an old fashioned Aida with cardboard sets; that is, the stylisation doesn't always (particularly at close range) look deliberate. I understand that it is deliberate, but the contrast isn't always as vividly made as it might be. That quite possibly has something to do with the performers as well: it's a while before they really take ownership of the space and let their own performances blossom, and in the meantime they risk being as two-dimensional as the sets. 

But as I've written already, whatever my reservations about the first half, they were magically obliterated by the fantastic second half, in which everything just came together brilliantly. Sets, costumes, lighting, acting, singing, orchestral playing — you name it, it was better. And it wasn't just a case of individual improvements: all the artistic forces at play seemed to feed off each other's energy so that the show as a whole became its own vibrant identity and took flight. For all the spectacle of the earlier acts, nothing in this show will remain as strong in my memory as the clear, simple and genius way Murphy staged the final act. Coupled with the heightened musical intensity and singers whose voices seemed to be gaining richness and power with every phrase, it was simply extraordinary. I'm getting worked up again now just thinking about it, a week later.
However, the point of praise I'm really rushing towards is the fantastic Tamara Wilson. Even the bitterest of last year's complainers could surely raise no objections to this import. She was outstanding. She's only young (young enough that her name still seems to have "rising star" permanently attached to it) but that is some voice, and she knows how to use it. This is her first ever Aida, and I think she said in an interview somewhere that she hadn't expected to sing the role so early in her career. Yet here she is doing it, and what I love is that she embraces that youthfulness. She doesn't try and blast the hell out of it or march about the place Acting Like A Star. Her Aida is sweet and gentle while still tackling the big moments with real power, so that she fills that theatre not with sheer volume but with a sound so perfectly spun and so controlled that it floats and swirls into the ether. If this is what her début sounds like, then "rising star" is right: she's definitely somebody special. 
Dongwon Shin's success isn't as immediate but ultimately it's hardly less impressive. His "Celeste Aida" was excellent but not what I'd call exceptional. It was only in those final two acts that his voice seemed really to open up, and once it had, the sounds that man was making were pretty amazing. Fabulous Italianate tenors are all too rare in our Opera Theatre, alas, so Shin is one we must keep in our grasp. Maybe not the subtlest actor but far from dull, and for that kind of ringing, secure tone I'd forgive far worse sins; besides, there's plenty of life and colour in the voice, and that's what really counts. Like the show itself, Milijana Nikolic takes until Act Three to come suddenly and wonderfully into her own. Of course she looks amazing from the outset, exotic and Cleopatra-esque, but to begin with her voice isn't quite as electrifying or as gorgeous as she is. Once Amneris gets a chance to make a scene, however, everything begins to change, and when she gets to her big solo scene — you could probably even call it a mad scene — she's all aflame, with voice to match, and you start to realise why Grace Bumbry (reportedly) told Leontyne Price that the opera should really be titled Amneris. 
My hat is off to Michael Lewis as well. I'd sort of forgotten he was in it, until Amonasro arrived and I had the sudden joy of a real live Verdi baritone. Lewis is in his element in this role, marrying impeccable Verdi style to a firm, flexible and suitably authoritative voice. Even if my first half reservations had continued to the end, Michael Lewis's performance (along with Tamara's) would still have remained with me as an unalloyed pleasure. Jud Arthur had a couple of minor tangles with a tricky throat but otherwise was in his usual sononorous form as Ramfis, and it was great to see David Parkin making his official company début as The King. I wasn't massively impressed with Amy Wilkinson's Priestess, although it's hard to draw too many conclusions from such a brief and distant appearane; she sang quite nicely but there wasn't much celestial about her. 
I've already in my earlier post expressed my abject love for the Opera Australia chorus. There's not much I can add to that. Hearing them in an opera like this, so grand and sweeping and with such big hits for them to sing, is just another reminder of what a wonderful sound they make. I won't declare myself quite so besotted with Sir Richard Armstrong but I was happy at least that his Aida wasn't as decibel-driven as his Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (where loud worked) and his leadership of the Radiance concert (where loud ruined things). Anyway, he drew a reasonably robust and at times quite lyrical performance from the AOBO. There did seem to be some grappling over tempi happening at the beginning but it sorted itself out — along with everything else — and in those last two acts the orchestra's playing really began to glow. 
I'm still puzzling over this Aida a bit. If you'd told me at the first or second interval how I'd feel by the end, I would not have believed you, and yet it happened. I don't recall reacting to a show like this before, dismissing one half only to fall head over heels for the other. And now what I'd like to see is an incarnation of this Aida in which it's all at the level of the second half. For all I know that might happen within this (rather long) season. Maybe it even happened on opening night and I was just too slow on the uptake. These — and Tamara Wilson! — are all good reasons for paying a second visit, and that's precisely what I plan to do.

Back in May, when Opera Australia gave us the excellent news that it was opening up the application process for its Young Artist program, one of the most exciting parts of that press release for me was this sentence: "The final audition will take place in front of an audience in the Opera Theatre of the Sydney Opera House at 7.30pm on July 19, 2009."

Well, the 19th is this Sunday and I haven't heard one single thing more about this concert, not in my capacity as a ticket buyer, newsletter subscriber or reviewer. There's no mention of it on the company website, nor any concert listing at the Opera House's website. Evidently it is happening though. One imagines by invitation only, and it's been suggested to me that this invitation may have gone out exclusively to subscribers. 
Such is life. There's nothing I love more than a good singing competition but it appears I'm just plain out of luck in this case. Serves me right for forgetting every year to organise a youth subscription. (By the time I remember I'll no doubt be too old to qualify.) I shall just have to hang on till August — Eisteddfod time. In the meantime, though, if any of you out there are subscribers or have otherwise qualified to attend this concert, I'd love a report from Sunday's concert. And best of luck to all the finalists, whoever they may be. 
Update: I managed to get a ticket. I promise a full report.

These two clips surfaced recently on YouTube. I didn't put them there: a user by the name of asdfopera did. But I thought I'd take the tiny liberty of embedding them here, since it occurs to me that they may well be of interest to more people than would find them on YouTube. 

Any Australian who's read a newspaper profile or two of Yvonne Kenny knows how her big break happened. In 1975, at extraordinarily short notice, she stepped in for an ailing Janet Price in the title of Donizetti's Rosmonda d'Inghilterra, in a concert performance staged by Opera Rara in London. Audience, critics and impresarios went incidentally mad and a star was born.

What you mightn't know is that the opera was given again in a concert in Dublin Belfast just a few months later, with mostly (possibly all?) the same cast, including the newly acclaimed leading lady. It was recorded, but as far as I can tell, the records were available only to some sort of Opera Rara club, and never made commercially available. I picked up a set on eBay several years ago. I believe Celestial Audio is now selling a CD transfer of the same recording. And the aforementioned asdfopera has now paired a couple of excerpts from that recording with appropriate paintings and posted them for the world to enjoy.

So in an effort to spread that enjoyment, here are the two clips. This is the youngest you're likely to hear Australia's Favourite SopranoTM. The only earlier recording I've heard is a very scratchy one of the Xerxes she did in 1972 (also at the last moment), the one which made her decide to be an opera singer rather than a biochemist, and I'd imagine it's even harder to come by than Rosmonda. Enjoy.

[Double-clicking on either video will of course take you to its individual YouTube page, wherein lie further details of the recording.]

I didn't mean to wait this long to write at length about Opera Australia's so-called Baroque Masterpieces, but as it turns out, I'm very pleased that I did. It means I'm able to do tonight's performance full justice, rather than relegate it to a paragraph or a Tweet. Not that it was earthshattering overall, or that there was any massive fundamental change to either opera. It's just nice, after expending so many words over opening night, to have even this slight change of subject, and besides, June 27th is in the far, far distant past by now, is it not? And there was one change, of sorts — but we'll come to that.

As far as Patrick Nolan's two productions go, I can do little more than attempt to summarise what I've already covered at length elsewhere (to the point that I'm sick of reading myself on the subject). The Acis & Galatea I think sounded more interesting in pre-show publicity than it turned out to be in practice. I did enjoy it, and it does have some nicely managed moments, but as a whole I think it doesn't quite scream triumph. The whole concept supposedly turns on the constant scrutiny that comes with modern celebrity, and yet to me, neither the people nor their surroundings evoke that kind of celebrity. They just seem a bit rich and bored, but otherwise unremarkable except for the stunning coincidence of their all preferring white. And if the sense of the celebrity falls down then so does the significance of the scrutiny, and you're just left with a party full of white dresses and people who happened to bring their digital cameras. Large scale projections on the scrim between the party and Galatea are effective but more as an appealing decoration than as insightful social commentary.
And for a production which manages to cram cocaine, heavy petting and simulated fellatio [oh, I hate to think of the search hits I'm going to start receiving now...]  into one aria, there is a disheartening amount elsewhere of standing (or pacing) and singing at the front of the stage, especially by the two title characters. Da capo arias needn't seem interminable — just ask Sandrine Piau — but they will if they're sung as plotless concert pieces. 
The Dido & Aeneas, as practically everyone has said by now, works much better. Maybe that's because Nolan was tweaking an existing production, one which has had a chance to marinate and to gain a bit more polish and depth than its brand new companion. He doesn't try and make this one reflect any part of Our Modern WorldTM, he just (with considerable help from Gabriela Tylesova's sets and costumes) creates an unreal Carthage, where some things are normal and most things are — or soon will be — strange and wrong. Dido's palace and the Sorceress's lair share a common set and, once they've stripped to their underwear, the same attendants, and the Sorceress herself is a like some horrible, malformed evil twin, her/his (she's sung by Kanen Breen, in every register his voice possesses) wig and attire styled in ugly mockery of Dido's own. Best of all, no silly or superfluous demands are made of Dido herself. She need only be regal, graceful and sincere, and the rest of the show sets her off like the jewel she is. (And I apply that to any Dido this production might have. We'll get to tonight's particular jewel in a moment.)
The singing in Acis is an uneven and mildly frustrating affair. I say mildly, because nobody sounds bad — in fact, everyone sounds fine, more or less — but this opera is full of music with the potential to make a person like me weak at the knees, and yet on this occasion, barely manages to do so. Taryn Fiebig is a puzzle to me. She seems caught in a war between her early music background and the musical theatre habits of her very extended season as Eliza Doolittle. When her voice is at its purest and best, it is absolutely lovely; but it is inconsistent, and is not helped by diction so strange that she almost sounds French. Henry Choo has the light, nimble touch a Handel tenor needs but alas, not the charisma; his freshness of tone is appealing, but it takes more than that to carry a da capo aria (let alone a whole role) to a satisfying conclusion. He's an amiable enough presence on stage but also a bit gormless and detached — nothing, except maybe his gory death — seems to affect him very deeply. Kanen Breen, on the other hand, is all personality, a true character tenor. Until the monster arrives, Breen's Damon is definitely the most interesting person on stage, even before all the sex and drugtaking. 
The monster, however, conquers all. Shane Lowrencev's Polyphemus takes possession of this show from the moment of his first, silent appearance on the projection screen, and when he starts to sing, his ownership is total. His diction is crystal clear, his coloratura precise, his lowest notes wonderfully secure; but above all, he makes every word and every note live, and marries all of that to a witty and engaging characterisation. His appallingly (and indiscrimately) lecherous manner, his vivid facial expressions, and yes, even his extraordinary height (Lowrencev would tower over an average cast in his bare feet, but in this production he wears very high heels) all help to make him a curiously appealing sort of Cyclops. Not sympathetic — he's unremittingly awful, in fact— but so fascinating (and so splendidly sung) that, lo and behold, I've lavished a paragraph on the villain of the piece. I'd considered showing up to the next two performances only in time for Dido, but for Shane, I might just need to see two more Acis & Galateas as well. 
And meanwhile, the band plays on. Antony Walker and the Orchestra of the Antipodes are robust, bright and, well, just as stylish as they always are. What a bonus to have the annual Christmas joy of Pinchgut recreated in July, albeit in a less friendly acoustic. Tonight, perched at the front point of Loge X, I was in an especially good spot to hear them and they provided some of the most beautiful sounds of the evening. As did the chorus, with whom I am now, as ever, quite musically besotted. The choruses in Acis, especially towards the end, are just sublime, and their rather more energetic work in Dido is just as impressive. I especially like "Destruction's our delight", which Walker takes at a blistering pace and the chorus delivers with suitably menacing gusto. 
Dido & Aeneas also contains Taryn Fiebig, suddenly (both on opening night and tonight) in far clearer and more consistent voice: maybe Purcell just agrees with her better than Handel, or maybe she responds better to the simplicity of a seconda donna role. She's just right as Belinda: sweet and supportive to her queen, with just enough guts to push Dido in the right (well, okay, wrong) direction. Kanen Breen also makes a reappearance, in performance whose brilliance it's really taken me two performancs to appreciate. He's a Sorceress of indeterminate gender, writhing about the place and exploiting every bit of his voice to genuinely spooky effect. His skills as a puppeteer are also on display as he plays grotesquely with a pair of horrible little baby dolls, their movements mirrored by a pair of dancers costumed to match. When this production premiered in 2004, Breen's Sorceress was a sort of bright green frog-man, but I think I like this new Gothic version better. 
Luke Gabbedy's smooth baritone blooms beautifully in this role: a bit dull to start, but becoming richer and richer so that by the time he reaches "How, Royal Fair, shall I impart the God's decree" he's really quite compelling. He's definitely too young to be cast Aeneas to Yvonne's Dido, but there's nothing to be done about that now, and in the circumstances he does a very dignified job. Among the bit parts, my favourite remains Margaret Plummer as the Spirit, and in fact she sounded even prettier tonight — I hope this is a token of more solo roles to come. Of the two witches I think I prefer Teresa La Rocca ever so slightly to Rachael Cunningham, mostly just because I'm drawn to singing witches who sound evil without impersonating Margaret Hamilton — but that's just personal taste, a Wicked Witch accent in this opera is a totally valid choice. 
Thus we come to the change of the evening. It was wrought in our star. If I'd thought about it, I would have expected this, but having missed the last two performances, it wasn't until she started singing that I remembered. This was my second Dido, but it was her fourth — which, by my experience, meant it was highly probably that this would be that performance. The one in which her voice shines with more than its accustomed beauty; the one in which she shakes off the traces of a decades-long career and her singing takes on a special sheen and focus not previously attained, whose brilliance is taken up in turn by every aspect of her performance. It's happened in every full or partial season of hers I've seen, and it happened in tonight's Dido.
Of course, the role is already made for her. Dignity mingled with loving vulnerability is exactly what she does best. Royalty suits her beautifully and so does baroque repertoire. The role sits nicely in what is now (and in fact, if you ask me, always was) the best and most interesting part of her voice. She moves gracefully (the dance with Aeneas is just perfect) and sings with all the mastery of style one would expect from a singer who is, after all, among the greatest this country has ever produced. And that's the point, really. Her limitations are what they are. I'm not going to deny them, but I'm not going to itemise them here either. But there is a reason Yvonne Kenny is Yvonne Kenny, and her Dido is proof of it. This is what true artistry at the highest professional standard looks and sounds like. 
And then sometimes you get the thrill of a performance like tonight's: an extra special blaze burning across the surface of fundamental greatness. Striking enough to begin with, tonight the glow and humanity of her Dido, from the tender caution of her first confession to the raw emotion of her barely contained breakdown, were somehow intensified. Add the particular deliciousness of her voice as it sounded tonight, et voilà, a night to remember. 

I said last week that I would write again more fully about Acis and Dido, and I did mean to, but things got in the way and then I exhausted myself writing rather long reviews of the double bill for elsewhere. That said, I still want to do a proper write-up here, not because I imagine anyone's hungering for it, but for my own peace of mind, really. But that might as well wait now until Thursday, when I finally see the show for the second time. (Can you believe it? I've missed not one but two performances of a show containing Yvonne Kenny.) 

Meanwhile — at the risk of this becoming a bad habit — just a few words about Aida, which opened tonight. Genuine brevity this time — at least by my standards. Not even paragraphs, just a list. What I'd like to say about Aida is: 1. Please, can we keep Tamara Wilson? Alert customs. Don't let her leave. She's fabulous.
2. Surely Opera Australia has one of the finest opera choruses anywhere. Michael Black — and all choristers — I salute you.
3. This was almost like seeing two different performances of Aida on the same evening. Acts I & II were less than inspiring, despite some excellent singing. But just as I was resigning myself to more of the same, Acts III and IV came along and blew me away. Honestly, it was the strangest thing: a decidedly unspecial first half, followed by an amazing second half which has me determined to catch at least one more performance before this cast disbands. 
4. Graeme Murphy's production seems designed to be viewed from the dead centre of the theatre, so if you're booking,you might want to try for seats near the middle. I was in E14 and often felt (in the first half) that I was seeing it all side on.
5. The dancing is inevitable and occasionally superfluous, but a lot of it is pretty fantastic and a couple of numbers are pure genius. 
6. Milijana Nikolic's Amneris takes a while to warm up. But when she does... watch out. 
7. I don't think I've ever stamped my feet for so many members of a cast. 
8. The verdict? See it. It ain't perfect, but see it. With this cast if you can. 

Radio New Zealand Concert network
Sunday 5th of July 2009 at 3 - 6.10 pm

OVERVIEW (Wikipedia)
PREVIEW (with audio-visual trailer)
REVIEW (with photographs)
GUIDE

BERNSTEIN: Candide, an operetta in two acts
Candide............................................. Toby Spence
Pangloss............................................. Alex Jennings
Cunégonde......................................... Marnie Breckenridge
Old Lady............................................ Beverley Klein
Voltaire.............................................. Alex Jennings
Paquette............................................. Mairéad Buicke
Maximilian.......................................... Mark Stone
Cacambo........................................... Ferlyn Brass
Baron/Informer/Inquisitor/Steward...... James Glenister
Sailor/Inquisitor/Steward/Evangelist..... Simon Butteriss
Officer/Inquisitor/Don Cardinale.......... Graeme Danby
Officer/James the Anabaptist............... Philip Sheffield
Baroness............................................ Claire Mitcher
English National Opera Chorus & Orch/Rumon Gamba
(recorded at the London Coliseum by the BBC)

Leonard Bernstein's Candide is a comedy with a happy ending but tragic events at every turn; terrible things happen to the optimistic characters, including death, but they always bounce back and get over it, regularly being resurrected, in fact (or fantasy). The work is not a 'musical' (play), like his West Side Story, and is not an opera, like his Trouble in Tahiti, but is classed as an operetta; though the composer's 'final revised version' (1989), performed in a concert, is something like an oratorietta.

This production by Robert Carsen (2006) updates it to the 20th century, with Westphalia saying West-failure. It will be good to hear the dialogue in between the singing, and hear if not see the dancing. This looks like the one with visual features that should be seen: Cunégonde as Marilyn Monroe, for example. But the Preview and the Review give us samples (moving and still). The introduction of Voltaire himself (with a wavy wig) is a novelty.

Leonard Bernstein, a musical genius, was born in 1918, died too soon in 1990 (I blame cigarettes and whisky), but was still alive in 1989 when his recording of Candide was made. Candide was based on the novel (or novella) by Voltaire (1759), 86 pages in the modern edition I have in my hand; I remember reading it in French when I was at school, finding that Voltaire’s style and language is so clear. It is subtitled L’Optimisme, and it pursues the philosophical thought that this is “the best of all possible worlds”.

For Lenny Bernstein, Candide was always a work in progress, constantly being revised. He conducted the London Symphony Orchestra, in a defiitive concert performance, available on audio disc and video disc. Bernstein and Adolph Green tell us what is going on. Watch for Jerry Hadley (Candide, but in real life Jerry got weighed down with troubles and shot himself), June Anderson (Cunégonde) Christa Ludwig (Old Lady), Della Jones (Paquette), Kurt Ollmann (Maximilian), and eventually Nicolai Gedda (three roles in Act 2).

Candide, or Optimism (MDCCLIX). Reading Voltaire’s novella again in the original French (on the title page he jokes that it was translated from German, then believed to be the least harmonious of all the European languages) I have been amused (and appalled) by his satire on the beliefs and practices and events of his own time (the horrendous Lisbon earthquake; the burning alive of alleged heretics; the execution of an English admiral for not winning a victory over his French opponent; Italian opera has lousy librettos and bad actors).

ACT ONE
[1] The busy-busy overture. Candide will roam over Europe and America.
[1a] Westphalia Chorale, “All hail Westphalia”, and that is where Candide hails from.
[2] "Life is happiness indeed". Candide is the illegitimate nephew of a Baron, whose castle he lives in, with the Baroness and her son Maximilian, who both look down on him as their inferior, but the sweet daughter Cunégonde loves him, and he is very happy.
[3] He is ‘optimistic’, because his teacher Pangloss has taught him that this is "the best of all possible worlds", in which everything is wisely planned, and is right and good.
The maid Paquette gets along well with the tutor Pangloss, who gives her lessons in elementary physics, in the bushes.
[4] "Oh, Happy We". C and C both agree, life together will be lovely:
HE: Soon, when we think we can afford it, we’ll build a modest little farm.
SHE: We’ll buy a yacht and live aboard it, rolling in luxury and stylish charm. //Cows and chickens / Social whirls //Peas and cabbage / Ropes of pearls //Smiling babies /Marble halls // Sunday picnics / Costume balls.
For his presumption in reaching above his station, Candide is expelled from the Schloss.
[5] "It must be so": My world is dust now, and all I loved is dead, Oh, let me trust now in what my master said: ‘There is a sweetness in every woe’, it must be so.
[6] "Sieg Heil Westphalia". Candide is press-ganged into the army of the brutal Bulgars (the Prussians are meant); they slaughter everyone in his Schloss.
[7] Candide’s lament. Cunégonde was reportedly raped and ripped (but she will be resurrected, though in the book she reveals later that she was saved by an officer); Maximilian will return as a Jesuit, and Pangloss will be revived in a mortuary.
[8] When Pangloss meets Candide again he tells how he contracted syphilis, but he is not complaining. "Dear boy, you will not hear me speak with sorrow or with rancor of what has shrivelled up my cheek, and blasted it with canker."
They sail with a merchant to Lisbon, see a volcano explode, and thirty thousand people killed in an earthquake; but Pangloss argues it must be for the best. They are arrested as heretics.
[9] What a day for an auto-da-fé. Pangloss continues his long account of how syphilis (allegedly introduced by Columbus) passed from person to person and to Paquette and himself.
He is hanged. Candide is flogged, and he resumes his travels.
[10] "It must be me." Candide is apparently seeing unkindness and darkness everywhere, but he presumes it must be his own blindness hiding the kindness and sunlight.
[11] The Paris Waltz. Cunégonde has turned up in Paris, the shared mistress of a Jew (Don Issachar) and a Christian prelate (the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris). The Jew has her on Tuesday, Thursday, and his Sabbath (Saturday); the Christian has access on Wedensday (or Wenzdey), Friday, and his Sabbath (Sunday); disputes may occur about Friday and Saturday night (the beginning and end of the Jewish Sabbath).
[12] Cunégonde laments. "Glitter and be gay, that's the role I play; forced to bend my soul to a sordid role." Nevertheless the trinkets that go with the job (for example, a twenty-carat earring) are very endearing; if she's not pure, at least her jewels are; observe how bravely she conceals the dreadful shame she feels.
[13] "You were dead you know." Candide is astonished when he discovers Cunégonde. He reminds her that she was shot and bayoneted. True, but love finds a way, and she changes the subject. They are now reunited after so much pain.
Unfortunately, and inadvertently, Candide stabs the Jew and the Cardinal to death. They flee to Cadiz, together with Cunégonde's jewels and the old lady who has been guarding her. She tells them her life story (through the mouth of the narrator): daughter of a Polish Pope, abducted by a pirate, enslaved by Turks, and in a siege one of her buttocks was used as emergency rations (more details in [20] below). As they listen intently, their goods are stolen. She offers to sing for their supper.
[14] The Old Lady's Tango. "I am easily assimilated." She starts speaking Spanish immediately.
[15] Quartet Finale. The French police are in pursuit, so Candide accepts a commission to fight for the Jesuits in South America. "Once again we must be gone, moving onward to the New world.... Farewell to the Old! We're bound for the realms of Gold!"

ACT TWO
[16] Universal Good: “Have we learned and understood, everything that is, is good; everything that is, is planned, is wisely planned, is right and good?”
After that lesson in “Intelligent Design”, we resume the picaresque tale of Candide the optimist.
By chance, the whole family arrives in Buenos Aires at the same time. Maximilian and Paquette (the walking dead) are disguised as slave-girls. Don Fernando (et cetera, a list of names longer than his moustache) the Governor (Nicolai Gedda, in Bernstein's recording) is attracted to Maximilian, but settles for Cunégonde, and woos her with a serenade.
[17] “Poets have said love is undying; don’t be misled, they were all lying.... Why talk of morals when springtime is flying? Why end in quarrels, reproaches, and sighing, crying for love, my love?.... [But] since you’re so pure. I shall betroth you, my love, though I feel sure I’ll come to loathe you, my love....”
Max is taken away by an amorous Jesuit father.
The old woman tells Candide the police are pursuing him, and he flees into the jungle.
[18] The two ladies celebrate their conquest of the Governor: “We are women.... Every male I meet must acclaim for weeks my twinkling thighs my flaxen cheeks, my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks, high above a wine-dark sea....”
[19] Pilgrim’s procession, including Maximilian (now a Jesuit father) and Paquette (Jesuit abbess):
“Come, heathen of America! Come , see the new domains of God! Ye who in darkness plod, come and dwell where Satan’s hoof has never trod.... in this new Eden Garden”.
Candide is joyfully reunited with them, and he tells Maximilian that Cunégonde is also miraculously alive, and he intends to marry her; but Max is outraged at the the thought of his sister marrying a social inferior, and he attacks Candide, who accidentally kills him, and must flee back into the jungle.
Three years have passed; in the Governor’s palace the two ladies are suffering the miseries of the rich and idle.
[20] Quiet! (the governor repeatedly interjects). Lady: “... I have suffered a lot and I’m certainly not unaware that this life has its black side; I have starved in a ditch, I’ve been burned for a witch, and I’m missing one half of my backside. I’ve been beaten and whipped, and repeatedly stripped, and forced into all kinds of whoredom; but I’m finding of late that the very worst fate is to perish of comfort and boredom.... But I’d far rather be in a tempest at sea, or a bloody North African riot, than to sit in this dump on what’s left of my rump and put up with this terrible quiet!
[21] Orchestral interlude. Candide and Cacambo (who?) take to a boat and drift into a dark cavern, and the stream leads them to El Dorado.
[22] Candide’s ballad of Eldorado: “a land of happy people, just and kind and bold and free...They have no words for fear and greed, for lies and war, revenge and rage”.
Yet they have untold wealth! Candide must drag himself away from this American Shangri-la to find his beloved. He is given numerous golden sheep (with golden fleeces?), but only two survive the hazardous journey. He sends Cacambo off to ransom Cunégonde with one of the sheep, and to take her to Venice.
In Surinam Candide meets Martin, a professional pessimist, whose philosophy is the opposite of Pangloss (remember Pangloss?).
[23] Martin’s laughing song: Words, words, words, words. “... Absurd ... Nothing to trust in this worst of all possible worlds...”
[24] Bon voyage. Candide is innocently optimistic again, when he acquires a ship going to Venice; but he has been ‘fleeced’ of his last precious sheep in exchange for “a perfect wreck of a boat”. Vanderdendur, the Dutchman who gave it to him, bids him farewell and bon voyage; he acknowledges to himself that he is bad, for deceiving this fine lad, he is a cad, and it makes him sad.
The ship sinks; Martin drowns; and the same fate subsequently befalls Vanderdendur; the golden sheep floats in the sea, and Candide shares a raft with it and five dethroned kings, and also a galley-slave; it is the long-lost Pangloss, and he leads the kings in a repentance session.
[25] The Kings’ Barcarolle: “Yo-ho for the Simple Life”
They arrive in Venice at carnival time, and every one is masked. The Casino is the centre of attraction; the kings go in to pursue the simple life of baccarat and roulette; Cunégonde and the Dame are employed to encourage the gamblers; Paquette is the reigning courtesan; Maximilian is the corrupt Prefect of Police.
[26] Venice gambling scene: “Money, money, money”.
[27] “What’s the use? There’s no use in cheating, it’s all so defeating, and wrong, oh so wrong, if you just have to pass it along!” (Old Lady, Ragotski [casino owner], Maximilian, a Crook)
[28] The Venice Gavotte: “It’s a very moving tale” (Candide and the company). Pangloss breaks the bank, and ladies flock around him.
When the masks fall C and C recognize each other; Candide is shocked into silence, but first sings his lament!
[29] Nothing more than this?
He rebukes His beloved for her love of luxury. They all retire to a farm, but are not happy.
[30] Universal Good: “Life is neither good nor bad”.
[31] Make our garden grow: “You’ve been a fool and so have I .... We’ll build our house, and chop our wood, and make our garden grow”.
Pangloss has the last say: "Any questions?"

In the video version of Bernstein's recording, the white-haired man we see as narrator, and Pangloss, and Martin, is Adolph Green; he and his partner, Betty Comden, have written such classics as On the Town and Singin’ in the Rain.