November 22: Another Association

I'm two days --or 47 years--late on this one, but I think I'll pass it on anyway: November 22, whatever its other associations, is also St. Ceclia's Day, honoring the patron saint of music, and the source of one of the grandest pieces of formal poetry in the English language, and a highly agreeable pieces of music. Here's the first verse of John Dryden's "Ode for Saint Cecilia's Day:"

From harmony, from Heav’nly harmony
          This universal frame began.
     When Nature underneath a heap
          Of jarring atoms lay,
     And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
          Arise ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
     In order to their stations leap,
          And music’s pow’r obey.
From harmony, from Heav’nly harmony
          This universal frame began:
          From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
     The diapason closing full in man.

And here, a sample of the Handel:

Santa Fe Opera Notes

Back from Santa Fe; we caught three shows in three days: Marriage of Figaro; Falstaff; and (Handel's) Radamisto. We missed Billy Budd which, if you believe the lobby chatter, may be the hit of the season: surprising to me because I have sometimes suspected that I am the only person on the planet who actually likes Billy Budd. Evidently I need to get out more.

It's no disrespect to Santa Fe to say that Figaro is an opera that's hard to screw up: there is so much glorious invention here, and so much affability, and so much cheerful comedy, that something will survive even the limpest efforts. Indeed when you stop and think about it, the plot is pretty shambolic; tighter editing could have wound it all up in the third act. But there is so much to enjoy here that you forget all about that looseness as you kick back. In any event Santa Fe wasn't limp at all; it was buoyant and energetic altogether a delightful way to spend an evening. But who would have thought that you could have a Figaro carried by Count Almaviva? He's the villain of course, but a somewhat austere and off-putting villain, not one possessed of the malign magnetism of a Scarpio or an Iago. Mariusz Kwiecien (who? Oh, that guy.) brings it off: he's aggressive and dynamic and at home with himself--so much so that you forget that his character is mostly a rat.

I guess that Falstaff has long been a kind of favorite of mine, perhaps because it was the first opera I ever saw, back when I was 17, long before I had the least notion what it or any other opera was about. There's just an amazing amount of musical material here, almost as if Verdi, closing in on 80, felt he had to dump everything left in the trunk. In this light, people speak of Falstaff as a kind of valediction: a summing up, replete with mellow wisdom. But there is a problem here: strip off all the filigree, and you have to concede that Falstaff is one long, unkind--read "nasty"-- practical joke. It seems to me this is an issue with any production of Falstaff but for some reason, it seemed to come across more clearly in Santa Fe's setting than I've ever seen it before. It might be Falstaff himself: he is a vain, greedy, lecherous, old fool, of course, but in this production he's also a bit ridiculous: a more constrained putdown would seem a lot more appropriate than an extended and mean-spirited prank. And it might be the production: I remember seeing a Falstaff at the NYC Opera a few years back (I can't remember any names) which somehow sussed bits of darkness and melancholy behind the plot--altogether richer and more convincing.

I'm a big Handel fan, and I had never seen Radamisto before. On the whole, you'd have to say it was time well spent: great performance by David Daniels (the marquee name on this summer's Santa Fe card) with a good supporting cast. But Luca Pisaroni as the villain may have stolen the show. Remarkably: Pisaroni had played Figaro just two nights before: he was a good Figaro and he had a good comic sense, but he has perhaps a bit too much natural dignity for a role that almost requires Phil Silvers. In a posture of villainy, Handel gave him every opportunity to strut his stuff, and he rose to the occasion.

Opera insiders, by the way, seem to be treating this Radamisto as a showcase for the director, David Alden, "known" as Wiki says "for his post-modernist settings" (link). Well, whatever. Handel does present a challenge to the director, and the tendency today seems to be to declare tht all bets are off: nothing is too lurid, too excessive, too campy too--oh, go ahead and say it--to operatic for a Handel production. I guess you'd have to say that it didn't get in the way.

Handel: Let the Revival Continue

I see by the program for the San Francisco Opera that the entire 19^th Century passed without a single recorded performance of a Handel opera. Ironic, really. The standard beef on Handel is that his operas are too static (A-B-A over and over again, ad nauseam). Yet the 19^th Century was the time when portly ladies “performed” opera while seated on stools. Now in the 20^th Century, when opera has become drama again, we find Handel coming into his own.

One reason is that he is just too good to be left on the shelf. Accept the formal conventions and take him for what he is: Handel is as good as, perhaps better than, anybody else at portraying the inner life of a mind divided. In my youth I owned an LP record entitled The Unknown Handel (back when he truly was unknown—but not this one). As I recall, it was mostly mad (or almost-mad) scenes, which gave Handel his vehicle for exploring the depths. Listen to that sort of thing for a while and you are able to appreciate his virtues, while tolerating the (only seemingly) marmoreal format.

There’s another good reason for reviving Handel, although it isn’t as edifying. That would be: good parts for women. There are plenty of women in Handel operas in any event. But in an age when they used to cut the testes off little boys to enhance their musical ability, they weren’t too hung up on sex roles in general. Lots of the best Handel “male” roles are performed, or performable, by the ladies.

Handel’s Ariodante, the current Handel offering at the San Francisco offering, fills the bill on both counts. Indeed, as to style and format, Ariodante may confirm the main point. On the face of things, it’s a plot both dull and stupid. But Handel had his back to the wall on this one; he was operating in an unfamiliar house, against fierce competition. Somehow these challenges became opportunities and he produced some of his most listenable music.

At San Francisco, he also had one more important ally: Susan Graham, in the (“male”) title role. Graham seems to pretty much own the 18^th Century repertoire now; in the last year we’ve seen her in this Handel, a Gluck (Iphegenia) and a Mozart (Clemenza di Tito) and every time, she just seems to inhabit the part.

I can’t quite make my mind up about Ruth Ann Swenson as Ginevra, Graham’s opposite number. You certainly want to root for anyone who went under the knife for breast cancer just two years ago, and must still be staggering from the shock of chemo. But the truth is, I’ve always thought she lacks a certain something—more sweet than memorable, more cream than really peachy.

Graham and Swenson had good support from the rest of the cast, but for Mr. and Mrs. Buce, the cast labored under an unfortunate disadvantage: we’d just got through listening to a superb CD version from Spoleto, where the supporting cast sang, on the whole, rather better. In particular, Mary-Ellen Nessi, Spoleto’s Polinesso, was convincing enough to give villainy a bad name.

Still, I vote for more Handel. As we filed out, I heard the lady next to me say she figured one every four years was enough. Fine with me, she can give me all her extra tickets.

More Debunking (and a Handel Note)

Seems this is a time for debunking. Couple of days ago, I pointed out that Sir Cloudesley Shovel apparently did not hang that impertinent sailor. We turn today to the question of Handel's Messiah--surely you have heard how, at the "Halleluja Chorus," King George was so enraptured that he rose to his feet, impelling the entire audience to follow his example, and inaugurating a tradition that endures to this day?

You've got it: not true. Or so say the program notes from last night's performance at the Mondavi Center in Davis CA. The king in question would be George II, and apparently there no evidence that he ever attended such a performance (he did, apparenlty, sometimes go to the theatre incognito, but that can hardly count). And if he did atttend, and if he did rise, it's anybody's guess what prompted him to rise. Maybe he was startled into wakefulness. Maybe he was just going out to pee.

Oh, last night's performance: that would be the American Bach Soloists and the American Bach Choir, famed (at least in the Bay Area) for accuracy and precision in original-instrument performance. They were indeed impressive but (and I know I am striking a discordant note here) I wouldn't say they were perfection itself. Best we could tell, they seemed to have sacrificed strucural coherence for accuracy in detail: great discipline and precision, but the entire performance was oddly lacking in form. A shout-out,however for Jeremy Galyon, the young bass who seemed to handle anything that Handel could throw at him without seeming to break a sweat. We must have heard him before (though I admit I didn't notice) as an Adler Fellow in San Francisco. Suffice to say I look forward to hearing him again. A puzzled sort of "hmmm" for Jennifer Hines, the mezzo; her voice is flexible and nuanced and shows every sign of first-rate training. But it's one of the oddest tones I ever heard. Mrs. B loved it; I'd say it needs some getting used to.

And no, it wasn't a sing-along; my mistake.

And yes, we did stand up.