Opera Chic

It's Kathleen. Ms. Battle if You're Nasty: Battle's Bash @ Carnegie Hall

(above: o battle how we've miss'd u soooo!)

It's been 14 years since she was fired from the Metropolitan Opera by then General Manager Joseph Volpe, and 6 years since she's sung at Carnegie Hall, so New York was more than ready for Kathleen Battle's Sunday afternoon come-back recital at Isaac Stern Auditorium on 57th & 7th. After 2 & 1/2 hours of Kathleen Battle charming the audience with her still-sweet lyric soprano, half-a-dozen standing ovations, and three generous encores, NYC unanimously was like, "This is luv". OC was proud to be among the fans, casual in black suede Gucci wedge boots, rag & bone str8 peg-leg denim, a black cashmere Brioni cape, and black Chloe Paddington bag.

Battle, true to legendary status, scripted herself a true diva's entrance. Instead of the predictable singer's entrance from backstage, the first performer on stage was instead lutenist Daniel Swenberg, who came out and began playing his theorbo, a type of olde-skooly lute. Just as the audience was hypnotically lulled into the soothing, understated purity of the theorbo, the stage door flew open, and Kathleen Battle came gliding out. As the audience bloomed with applause (ending in a standing ovation before the diva even birthed a single note), Battle graciously acknowledged her fans. Hair pulled neatly into a bun, an absence of bling (aside from gold sandals and earrings), Battle was in a two-layer, off-the-shoulder dress (an under-sheath of black silk topped with two gauzy layers of magenta and red, cleaved in the middle and trailing on the floor) which provided mild consternation for the diva through the performance, fussing playfully with the gauze train that refused to cooperate whichever way she moved.

(above: Carnegie Hall in New York City)

The first three selections were by Henry Purcell, accompanied by the theorbo. As Battle launched into her first work, her voice wrapped around the hall as comfortable as a vintage Pringle cashmere blanket, a Comme des Garçons silky t-shirt, a velvety soft pair of 7 For All Mankinds, or a pair of ballet-slipper-soft Louboutins. Such a familiar voice that belies the diva's upcoming 60th birthday. Still sweet as honey, with tinge of woody richness that foreshadows her years to come. Battle's voice is pretty much ageless, and sweet bubbles still froth at the surface of her tone, that same youthful tone that she mastered two decades ago.

Time for the Franz Schubert selections, and Battle was joined by pianist Ted Taylor. Battle was comfortable on stage and worked the audience well (who were all too eager to reciprocate), easily mastering a dramatic scale from sassy to tender, introspective to poignant. Nacht und Traume was short and sweet, while Versunken was troubling, one of the only struggles from the program. Between selections, Battle would mentally prepare herself, turning her back on the audience and channeling herself as the audience waited in complete silence at her shoulders.

(above: Carnegie Hall, NYC)

The standout from her Felix Mendelssohn set was Fruhlingslied, which she attacked immediately, a voice tireless and confident. She carried perfectly in the hall, cold killin' it. At the end of Fruhlingslied, pianist Taylor left the stage to retrieve a handkerchief for Battle to wipe away renegade sweat, while she softly apologized to the audience.

After the intermission, Battle slayed Franz Liszt's Die Lorelei, a potent, memorable standout of the recital, showing off a voice that was impervious to breakage, cobwebs, or cowbells, as if it had been shelved and air sealed the past dozen years.

Gabriel Fauré's French selections were overall sweet and lovely, Battle singing in a clear voice. For the last Fauré, Notre Amour, she mastered a delicious vibrato. It wasn't until Montsalvatge's "Ninghe, Ninghe" (Cinco Canciones Negras) that the sweetness worked against her. OC thinks such a lush, vivid song would have benefited better from a sultry wash, but Battle turned it towards a lullaby-ish predictability, sweet, but too timid. Joaquin Turina's Tu Pupilla es Azul was a stark contrast to the prior work, and Battle unleashed her full powah, sloughing the paint from the hall, to which the audience reciprocated with applause peppered with whistles.

But that was just a warm-up for her stellar, off tha hook (and a complete surprise, excluded from the written program), "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” Tremble, tremble indeed. Battle transformed herself into mechabattle Battle, and the gloves came off. The pianist excused himself, and Battle began the hymn alone, paced and solemn, voice easily filling the 3K capacity auditorium like a mousie in a matchbox. omg, who is this woman? bangin. the whole hall. spotless. o the powah!

(above: Battle during curtain call)

She returned to the program with composer Robert Sadin's "Good News", first taking time to thank the audience. She was gracious and grateful for the audience's presence and support, and said that the outpouring & excitement was heartwarming. Then she said that she's going to do a recital again next year, so if you missed out on the magic, you can scramble for tickets next year. Get on line behind OC, plebs. :-p~~~

Before the next selection (coincidentally a world premiere, never heard before a live audience), Robert Sadin's "Hold On", she spoke again, extolling the composer. She explained that he was a loyal friend and vocal coach from the beginning of her career (having met him in Cincinnati, he was the mentor for her first opera performance in Barbiere). The work was commissioned for Battle by Sadin, and was in the style of an African-American spiritual. At the end of the song (that spoke of holding one’s hand fast to the plow), Battle was floored, having poured her family legacy into the spiritual (Battle's grandfather was an emancipated slave, a man-made trauma that holds much resonance with the singer).

She was gracious to give three encores to the adoring audience, singing "O mio babbino caro" from Gianni Schicchi. Flawless, and it was the perfect antidote to erase the bitterness of OC's last live Lauretta (Nino Machaidze’s colic version at la Scala a month ago).

The second bis was "His Eye is on the Sparrow", another gospel hymn about Jesus stuff, from 1905 by composer Charles H. Gabriel, which was kinda yawnz0rs. Her last encore (although for technical reasons, it had to be the last…as her voice abruptly failed at the end) was another spiritual, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot".

Regardless of the fact that a forced note lodged in her throat -- which came out as a cough mid-measure -- Battle sang this one again without any accompaniment from pianist Taylor. She paced the stage dramatically as she laid down the tracks. At the end of the work, the diva was showered with much deserved, deafening cheers, the audience hoping to make up for the years of her censored and silenced absence from the NYC stages.

It was a comeback perfectly practiced and planned, paced and understated. We were all too happy to welcome her back, and hopefully this time, she won't stay away so long.

Sokolov Plays Conservatorio G. Verdi (He Won)

Opera Chic is back tonight from a late night passed at Conservatorio G. Verdi where she basked in the glory of Grigory Sokolov's piano recital in the white belly of that huge auditorium on via Conservatorio. The program consisted of Franz Schubert's Sonata in C minor D 958 which was played technically beyond-perfect, and suffused with tenderness and a wide range of color. The usual thirty-two minute composition (with four movements) took much longer under the careful caress of Sokolov, clocking-in at around forty. His pedal work is outstanding...his legato, his staccato, his transpositions...everything. He is appassionato in the fullest sense, and this performance quickly erased all prior memories of Barenboim’s momentous (but hey, kinda sloppy and heavy-handed) recital two nights ago at La Scala.

The second half of the program was, um, okay...a selection of Aleksandr Nikolaevich Skrjabin works with only a few standouts (not at the fault of the superb Sokolov, but my own incapacity to really get into Skrjabin). One "mistake" (we use this ironically) of Sokolov was launching directly into the astounding, trompe l'oeil splendor of "Opus 9 Prelude and Nocturne for the Left Hand", which demonstrated so much of his endless talent and received so much applause, that the following four program pieces sent the entire audience into proper applause etiquette confusion, with half the auditorium tepidly applauding, and the other half shushing them during each subsequent piece. jokes on us all. Again, his presentation of the Skrjabin work for the left hand was insane, his right hand hanging idly at his side. His phrasing and mastery of mixing legato with brighter staccato and spirito was beyond words. He used the voice of his left hand to mind-bogglingly sound like two. The Sonata No. 3 Opus 23 was also a standout, leaving the remaining works (Due Poemi Opus 69, Sonata No. 10 Opus 70, and Vers la flamme Opus 72) a bit of a chore (OC wanted the delicious encore already).

Six bis were given, starting with a sweet andante Frédéric Chopin's Prelude in E Minor, and then including another Chopin waltz, Liszt, Beethoven, Brahms, which all brought standing ovations. Opera Chic is just glad she was able to catch this great pianist play live in such a beautiful city that cherishes its musicians.

btw, we found one of Jessica's 2005 Sokolov performance reviews on a Sokolov website, and we love this quote: "And although he's a big bear of a man, he can be as graceful as a ballet dancer (take the hand crossings in the Schubert) and create sounds as delicate as a hummingbird." It's a wonderful quote because it's true! He's just perfect.

Now here's a picture of some random ladies mobbing the vendor in the lobby of Conservatorio after the show for Sokolov discs vvvvvvv

 

Barenboim's Hissy Fit, Part II

Big update!! Okay, so we know that there was a bit of mystery last night surrounding the Daniel Barenboim recital at Teatro alla Scala, as he shunned the adoring Milan audience by hastily leaving the theater without a single encore.

We just didn't understand: we showed Barenboim much love and respect last night and the audience (Maurizio Pollini among the crowd) applauded him heartily. We called for encores, and even gave him standing ovations (well, the platea seats are too expensive to raise one's a$$ off of them, people there never give standing ovations) but he still refused.   

Word has it that it was indeed the 2nd row camera sniper that had Barenboim's panties in a twist (btw, it seemed to OC last night that the photo detractor was in the first row, but apparently not)...

Opera Chic has learned that Barenboim was visibly pissed during the intermission, even after he scolded the detractor during his first curtain call (in front of the entire auditorium) by charging towards the camera-wielder and wagging his finger angrily.

La Scala General Manager Stéphane Lissner was brought in for damage-control, and asked a reluctant, still-pissed-off Barenboim to make the audience happy and play again, just once. But Barenboim was all like, awwww hells naw. And he decided to punish the entire hall (Maurizio Pollini included) for one guy's lack of discretion.

Even more jarring about his abduction is that a lovely reader from Bologna had written OC with a full report of Barenboim's Bologna recital just two days prior, where he treated the fans to a *full hour* of bis:

“The public started screaming non-stop, and we then had an hour of encores, Evgeny Kissin style. Mostly Frédéric Chopin, including a Polonaise that brought the house down!!!” [thanks for the review, again, Big D!]

Now, Opera Chic is on the record in this blog and in IRL as saying that Barenboim is a wonderful artist, a committed musician, a man of peace, and a generous intellectual.

He's also an ex-child prodigy...and OC knows he's still a prodigy; she just thought he wasn't a child anymore. *snaps*

(photo from daniel barenboim)

Barenboim at La Scala: Troppo Forte!

Opera Chic fought too many hours of traffic on the slick roads from Salzburg to Milan this afternoon, and with the constantly falling rain and crowds, we vow to fly next time – no more awesome Rosenberger Autobahn restaurants, no more awesome green scenery, no more bootleg gas station shops to explore – we’ll take our chances. And we’ll tell you more about the Salzburg festivities later, as well as full reports from the very awesome Muti Don Calandrino.

Arriving cranky and exhausted to a chilly Milan, OC quickly showered and changed into a pair of Levis and Aspesi windbreaker thrown over gray-as-rain cashmere sweater, Paul Smith fold-up umbrella thrown into my LV Speedles 30, and headed down to La Scala where Barenboim was scheduled to grace the La Scala stage with a piano recital, an Omaggio all'Italia that still managed to bring out the crowds into a soggy evening.

Here's a quick recap, since OC is seriously in need of some beauty rest: Maestro Scaligero Barenboim took the stage and began bowing. Simultaneously, a La Scala page came dashing over to an elderly man sitting in the first row. He stood directly in front of said man, placing his hand over the man's camera for at least five seconds until the camera was put down.

Here's the fun part: At the first curtain call after the first three Liszt selections, Barenboim jumped up from his piano bench and stared directly at the violator, waving/wagging his finger at him angrily, scolding him for his prior recording actions. He was visibly pissed. He was like, “Don’t make me come down there and smack that camera out of your hand!”

The last work before the intermission (from "Années de pèlerinage. Deuxième Année. Italie": Après une lecture de Dante. "Fantasia quasi sonata") was stellar, and Barenboim flogged the piano like a raging animal. He pounded on the keys like a man with a vengeance…like he had a beef with the piano or something...like he had cast Orichalcum’s Most Holy WTF, and the house went wild with his mad orc rushing skills.

During the intermission, two little stage elves came out and mopped up a puddle (??) from underneath the piano bench, and then changed the old busted one with a new sweet model. After the intermission, Barenboim began three little parafrasi of Verdi (Il Trovatore, Aida, and Rigoletto), which were sweet and enjoyable.

But here’s what is teh suck: Barenboim performed the same program in Bologna two nights ago at the Auditorium Teatro Manzoni, and a very adorable reader from Bologna wrote me a synopsis. He told me that on Saturday night to the Bologna audience, Barenboim commanded an hour of encores, reaching into a Chopin-heavy repertoire, bringing the house down. WTF?! Tonight at La Scala, Barenboim came out for maybe three curtain calls, and then at the fourth, he pushed the piano bench towards the piano, and closed the keyboard! WTF? Snubbed! No encore. La Scala gets no love. ;__;

Honestly? We think he was going to find the detractor from the first row who tried to film him, and kick his a$$.

Jonas Kaufmann Leads Lieder at La Scala

German h0ttie Tenor Jonas Kaufmann drew a small (but devoted) crowd at his Teatro alla Scala recital earlier this evening in Milan. The palchi were 1/3 full, and blocks of seats on the orchestra floor remained vacant, but for those that comprised the audience, Kaufmann seemed to deliver. For this Opera Chic, not so much. Full casual (thank gawd)…Paul Smith black embroidered blouse tucked into my vintage Levis (again), grey Repetto round-toe Victorian boots (although it was humid, it was kind of chilly today), and a matching grey Prada skinny belt. And the standby Louis Vuitton Speedy.

Kaufmann looked pretty good himself. omg teh hawt. He stepped-out in full frac, tailing pianist & "Lieder-Meister" Helmut Deutsch in the same. The tenor launched weakly into Schubert's Die Bürgschaft, and his small voice was worrisome. He couldn't seem to find the proper projection, and at first, the accompaniment played over him. Speaking of Deutsch, the man needs to lay off the damper pedal. His legato is insane (but as an outted legato junkie, it was strangely curious). His Schubert seemed a little sloppy, and dropping his place once, he left Kaufmann to sing a few measures in gaping silence.

Kaufmann undoubtedly creates a pleasant presence on stage (tall/dark/handsome), comes across as gentle/patient/cool, and has nailed plenty of his technique and training, but there's something strangled about his voice, and his color is just not my thang. Benjamin Britten's Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo Buonarroti was next...with a few haunting passages, but not enough to gather too much enthusiasm save the normal spectrum applause. The first half was rather boring, in all honesty. Even with Kaufmann's yummy appearance, OC found herself counting all the spent light bulbs of the centerpiece chandelier (at least a dozen on my visible side), counting all the completely empty palchi (I stopped at 35), and contemplating how different salons treat manicures here (short & rounded vs. nyc's long & squared). Interesting stuff.   

At la pausa, Opera Chic was considering leaving the recital, but something urged me to stay...and I'm glad I did. (btw, in the photo below, you can see just how empty La Scala was...during intermission.)

Any apprehension and uncomforting lapses that Kaufmann displayed in the first part of the recital had been chased away as he began Richard Strauss' Schlichte Weisen. It was almost immediate during "Du meines Herzens Krönelein" and the following "Ach Lieb', ich muss nun scheiden" that he channeled some sort of chocolaty Lieder goodness, drawing-out wild applause and bravi from the gallerie which was very much deserved. It all came to climax as he finished the last work of the evening, Strauss' Vier Lieder, which ended in the same rabid applause and praise.

The difference between the two segments was strange, but whatevs. It was a quick recital at an easy pace, and including the bis (and a twenty minute intermission), was less than two hours. Kaufmann took his calls, and gifted the audience with four encores: all various Lieder that OC can't place (considering the gigantic oeuvre of Lieder + my usual impatience for the art = all Lieder sounds the same to these ignorant ears). ok ha ha j/k.

As the recital ended, I was left with one question: I know that Kaufmann has done it before to good reviews, but I just can't imagine his Alfredo on the la Scala stage without getting swallowed whole by Maazel and the orchestra. Holy sh*t...Jonas(h) and the freaking whale. I love it. He's going to get swallowed on the 17th when he sings opposite Nucci "The Whale" Germont and Angela (if she bothers to show-up). Whatever happens, Opera Chic will be there blah blah blah.

Now before I jump, here's a blurry picture I took of Jonas' a$$:

Devia's Masterclass @ La Scala: Angela Gets Pwnd From 400 Miles Away

 

Tonight Opera Chic (wearing black & blue & masculine in deference to the new Campioni d'Italia: black Tod's ballerina shoes, black Costume National slacks, blue Gentry Comini blouse, black Miyake silky cotton jacket, red/white/emerald vintage Balenciaga silk scarf, Zenitissimo vintage watch, and swag in my vintage midollino Gucci black bag) has witnessed an event of extraordinary importance...a magic trick: Rome's unlucky Violetta, Angela Gheorghiu, has been srsly long-distance pwz0rd by Mariella Devia.

Devia's recital tonight at Teato alla Scala, until the last aria, had been a textbook case of jarring contrast: the frumpiest, lamest style (circa 1988 long red silk junior prom dress with sheer red sleeves like a figure-sk8ing outfit, bad reddish dye-job ...and no costume change during intermission omg), and very limited acting, almost constant stiff delivery, back-brace posture but with the cleanest, most flawless singing one is likely to hear in any opera house in this decade.

The decidedly uncharismatic Devia sang as if her sound had already been equalized, corrected, and digitally cleaned-up & amped in a studio: her delivery was so inhumanly flawless that, closing your eyes, you'd think that somebody had turned on the sound system and the lady (accompanied by a pretty plodding, uninspired pianist, Ms. Rosetta Cucchi) was just lip-synching.

It was a master class for the public, an overt "hay guys *this* is how you're supposed to sing opera" moment that would put most singers to shame  -- a singing lesson for contemporaries and, if anybody had the good sense to record this evening, for posterity.

Somewhat cold? Yeah, the way a Kubrick film can be cold -- the coldness of the "I'm so good at this I can do it blindfolded" master, or, in Devia's case, "I can do it with a bad case of laryngitis like what3vs".

After she tore through Rossini's Pensées Musicales as if they were a stick of half-melted buttah, she then proceeded to kill the second part of the recital as if simply singing the notes was the easiest thing in the world, without breaking a sweat or flashing a nervous smile. She enjoyed the monster ovation from the crowd, and it was the time for encores (keep in mind, she's been singing for almost one hour and 45 minutes at this point).

The piano lady (which btw, OC thinks is pretty kicka$$ to have female accompaniment...especially dressed in "screw-u-&-ur-dresscode" slack,s nonetheless) started playing a bare-bones Casta Diva, and you're like, no frkking way, kip, back it up. But it's on!! and Devia blows-up that soprano-killing-aria like it's a videogame and she's playing the L4MER level just for practice.

More cheering, clapping, people going insane, bis bis bis, elderly gentlemen yelling until they dropped their programs, society ladies clapping so hard the many pounds of gold and (blood) diamonds they're wearing around their wrists and their malnourished bones clash like bells.

And then -- around 10:15 pm Milan time -- Devia, who must have read lately how Opera di Roma has been selling Gheorghiu's Traviata as if the twin fighting ghosts of Callas and Tebaldi have been finally put to rest -- decided to send Angela a little txt message, something like, "cara angela listen 2 h0w violetta is s'posed 2 sound kthxbi xoxoxo to roburto".

So she starts "Addio del passato", and she (after almost two hours of singing) starts acting, and even if the pianist is plodding like mad, she attaches little pieces of lead to every note so that Verdi becomes Black Sabbath slowed down 10x and played backwards to try to evoke Satan or Rene Pape or something, and now she's acting, and she's getting all emo on us, and she's dying alone on that stage, it's almost unbearable -- Non croce col nome che copra quest'ossa -- and it becomes clear once again (like it does only when the very best ones are on the stage) Verdi is Shakespeare, inventor of the human, and you're all like, holy f4ck, Gheorghiu has been pwnd. Once again.

Angela -- the most hyped soprano in the last 20 years with the exception of younger, prettier (not necessarily more talented) Netrebko got served, twice in three days; first, live on-stage by a 71-year-old gramps who's as spent as William Holden in the last five minutes of The Wild Bunch. Then, 400 miles away, by a frumpster whose sublime technique and gilded voice managed to make a Steinway concert grand sound in comparison like the most garish, discordant instrument evar, and leaves the La Scala audience clamoring for encore after encore, which Devia gladly delivered.

Devia @ La Scala

Opera Chic, still severely hungover after the soccer-related Bacchanalia, is stumbling to la Scala for the Mariella Devia recital.

Review and photos later tonight.

(OC seriously considered showing up in her Internazionale jersey, but she won't. You know, dress codes and all that).

A Rapidshare of a 1987 Devia recital with an eerily similar program is here

Leo Nucci's Sing-A-Long at Teatro alla Scala

   

Last month, with the Alagna imbroglio, we all witnessed the dark, snarky side of the audience at Teatro alla Scala –- the "Roman Arena" (Alagna’s words) -- that smells a singer's blood and then goes for the jugular, booing and harassing some of the biggest names in the business (past victims include in recent years Fleming, Pavarotti and Ricciarelli, and in more distant times even Freni and Callas).

A few hours ago, Opera Chic has instead witnessed the other side of La Scala: a demonstration of pure exaltation and praise for a beniamino (idol) of the audience: Baritone Leo Nucci, who celebrated tonight his thirty years of opera at La Scala, (trent'anni alla Scala) gave an impressive, unusual recital: the "greatest opera hits"; arias plucked from the various operas that he has sung at Teatro alla Scala since 1977 (in the early 1970s, solista Maestro Nucci, displaying his humbleness and humility, decided to go back to study again singing technique and fundamentals, and joined the Coro del Teatro alla Scala for five years...a decision that he still considers key to his success as a singer, and frankly, a decision that should inspire some arrogant and ill-prepared young singers of these starstruck times). Message!

Tonight at Teatro alla Scala the Leo Nucci cult was in full effect at his recital di canto. Did I forget to mention the sing-a-long that Nucci staged during the bis? No?! Well, more on that later. First, my wardrobe: I wore a creamy white, high collar Miu Miu shirt, with a vintage grey Brigatti cashmere sweater. Covering my bottom was a Romeo Gigli pleated dark purple skirt, a pair of black Costume National boots, and my Fay black windbreaker. Lissner would be proud.

I arrived at the theater to an almost full house, and a sign on the placard outside of the theater declaring that the performance was completely sold-out. Nucci clearly has quite a following in Italy, and I was officially indoctrinated to the Nucci-phenomenon last year, during the night of the worst snowstorm to hit Milan since the late 1960s. The night was January 26, 2006, and I had a ticket to attend the La Scala Rigoletto with Maestro Riccardo Chailly at the helm.

Between tenor Piotr Beczala's insulting Duca di Mantova (his voice fully cracked two times during the performamce, once during La donna è mobile) and soprano Andrea Rost's weak and unimpressive Gilda, Leo Nucci's powerful interpretation of Rigoletto was the only thing (aside from Chailly's superb conducting) that kept afloat the entire performance. Exiting La Scala late that night under a white blanket of snow, Nucci's tormented Rigoletto haunted me with resounding sadness.

Since Nucci doesn't normally perform in recital format (his last one was twelve years ago), the house was packed, with a crowd that is better suited for an opening night of an opera. I've seen a handful of recitals at La Scala during this first year that I've been here (including Waltraud Meier, Angela Gheorghiu, José van Dam, and Renée Fleming) and the crowds are never as big as they are for the opera...but Nucci's fan club is apparently humongous. Lucky for all the Nucci fans, there were at least four video cameras stationed throughout the palchi, so this recital is sure to make it to DVD.

Sitting in the Presidents Box at the center third palco was none other than Maestro Carlo Bergonzi and his wife, Adele. His two sons were behind in Busseto to tend restaurant for the night. Bergonzi enthusiastically applauded Nucci's arias, and even acknowledged the baritone with a few standing ovations. (In the image below, Bergonzi is front-row left.)

The selected program was thorough, filled with greatest baritone hits ev4r. Classical Gold. Classical Thunder. Nucci started with an animated version of Largo al factotum from Rossini's Barbiere. He began fully warmed-up, in great shape, full of energy, and really hammed-up the performance. Nucci was extremely effective in his acting, emoting, and idiosyncrasies, that one almost felt that he was still within the reaches of the opera, transported in scene. It superseded most recitals that I've witnessed.

Although the program was basically flawless, from the first half there were quite a few delicacies: Nucci's Perfidi! All'Anglo..Pietà, rispetto, onore from Verdi's Macbeth was stunning. Another contender was Alzati!...Eri tu from Verdi's Un ballo in maschera that put other baritones to shame.

Almost all of the entire second half was stellar. Puccini's Era uguale la voce?...Ah! Vittoria from Gianni Scicchi was great fun. His two Verdi selections from after the intermission (Tutto e' deserto...Il balen del suo sorriso from Il trovatore, and Cortigiani, vil razza dannata from Rigoletto) were excellent and lovely. After the balen del suo sorriso, there were shouts of bis bis, as many wanted him to repeat the magic of that specific Verdi aria. At one point, there was a clear scream from the audience of, "Sei come Cappuccilli" -- The ultimate compliment, "You are like [Piero] Cappuccilli." And the audience reacted accordingly. There was a constant stream of bravo, bravissimo, and endless applause. It was intense, and almost exhausting the energy that pervaded throughout the theater.

Then came his encore, four selections total, interrupted by witty quips and fluid banter with the audience. He presented himself as an interactive singer. His first was an aria from Verdi's La traviata, Germont's Di Provenza il mar, il suol. He joked that he was practicing for his July appearance, and accordingly plugged his upcoming 2007 performances of La Traviata at Teatro alla Scala on July 17 and 21, where he will sing Germont in the highly anticipated Maazel/Vargas/Gheorghiu production.

The second bis was Nemico della Patria from Umberto Giordano's Andrea Chénier, which was outstanding (btw, here is a YouTube clip of Piero Cappuccilli singing the same aria). He joked that he would be auditioning for a slot next year, as the Giordano opera is planned to be in the La Scala line-up for 2008. ha ha.

The third encore I was familiar with, but just couldn't peg because Nucci launched right into it without any banter or commentary.

The last song was literally staged as a sing-a-long. Karaoke with Nucci. He introduced the selection, and asked the audience to help him out. He launched into an endearing, popular song by the name of Mamma, a hit from Beniamino Gigli in 1940. This Americana wasn't familiar with the traditional Italian canzone, but was nevertheless entertained by the loyal audience participation, who sang collectively, and quite vociferously during the chorus.

All in all, I would buy from again from this seller. Please sign me up for the newsletter. Voted 10.

 

Like buttah: Shlomo Mintz at Conservatorio

(You can view seven photos taken from the Shlomo Mintz performance last night here.)

Last night had me representing 20122 at the Sala Verdi del Conservatorio (the same venue as the Evgenij Kissin concerto from a few weeks ago) to hear violinista Shlomo Mintz interpret Mozart and Šostakovič, sponsored by Società del Quartetto di Milano.

Following a very enthusiastic article on Mintz in the Monday, November 27, 2006 print edition of Corriere della Sera, where the subline read: "Concerto: Il grande musicista russo domani in Conservatorio" (Translation: "The great Russian musician tomorrow at the Conservatorio"), I was determined to have myself a listen.

The article was somewhat intriguing, and briefly explored the fetish that Mintz had aquired of linking Mozart + butter. The headline reads, "Mintz: 'Per me Mozart e' un violino di burro'" (Translation: "Mintz says that to him, Mozart is a violin of butter"). hmmmm.

In the article, Mintz says that when playing Mozart, the tone is akin to the sensation of audio butter (if butter could replicate a sound). He says that when he was five-years-old, it was the first time he fell in love with Mozart, because it made his house sound like it was filled with butter. Mozart’s violins, to him, are the most round, full, and buttery sounds of all composers. (Ok Shlomo, I'm not sure where you're going with this one, but I'm willing to give it a try.) So I was off to search for some buttery-goodness...you know, winter is coming, and we've all got to stock-up on our precious oils.

Unfortunately, an ailing Dmitri Alexeev inexplicably cancelled accompaniment on piano, and they instead brought in a petit Hungarian pianista, Adrienne Krausz. Because of Alexeev’s absence, the dynamic was a bit strained, and Mintz played a quick, rather standard performance. Again I dressed basic, as the major contingent of audience at Conservatorio is 70+, and therefore donned a Jil Sander grey cashmere sweater set and shell, my Paper, Demin & Cloth indigo rinse jeans, a pair of modest Tods gommini chukkas, and my Aspesi black windbreaker with a Vuitton black cashmere scarf. Rainy, drab weather deserves a gray, drab pallet.

The program consisted of two segments: The first interval was two Mozart sonatas for piano and violin, K.378 in B-flat major, and K.526 in A major, which Mintz played with fluency, depth, and dexterity. But I did not hear teh buttah! Whar ist buttar?

At the end of the two sonatas, during the curtain call, Mintz took an encore. He spoke to the audience in his practiced Italian, and said rather robustly, “Ho deciso a suonare un 'piece' adesso.” (heh...translation: "I decided to play a 'piece' now"), which isn’t really the most concordant construction, but endearing nonetheless. He then played a Mendelssohn piece for violin and piano, but I am not terribly familiar with the composer, so I don’t know what it was. 

The second half began with Šostakovič’s Sonata opus 147, inherent to Šostakovič style. Mintz played with controlled movement and calmness to counteract the turbulent, discordant notes of the sonata.

And that was it. No encore for his admirers. I spoke to my mother after the concert, and lamented that I was unable to isolate the buttery-goodness of Mintz's sawing. She, an accomplished violinist who played her first “G” before she even knew how to write, replied quite flippantly that my inexperienced ear was incapable of discerning such values. Great. My evening wasted. Next time I swear I’m going instead to Rosticceria Leoni on Corso Venzia when I need a fix of buttery love.

I ain’t dissin’ on the Kissin

This past Friday night, November 10, 2006 at 9:00 pm, found me at Conservatorio “G. Verdi” for thirty-five-year-old Pianista Evgenij Kissin’s recital, organized by Fondazione La Società dei Concerti. Venue Conservatorio is fairly informal, with open seating, so people start queuing immediately. This demanded a comfortable and austere wardrobe, so I went in a basic white miu miu cotton t-shirt, a pair of Paper, Demin & Cloth indigo rinse jeans, a pair of miu miu black wedge boots, an Aspesi black windbreaker over it all, and my Chloe Paddington black bag. 

Since I arrived a bit late, I was in full bum-rushing mode, and started pushing over old ladies left and right for the best seat to ogle “teh Kissin”. The auditorium is a bit intimidating, shaped with maximum acoustic delivery in mind, and therefore you feel like you are trapped inside a giant, gilled whale. After the PR director made an announcement of the details of the entire program (which he did because they had apparently run-out of issues) Kissin appeared instantly in white tie, and a matching pallid face. His demeanor was very curt, distant, and professional…and I was all like, “In Soviet Russia, piano plays YOU!”

The first piece was Franz Schubert’s four movements of Sonata in E Flat Major D.568 (Op. 122). Kissin played it sweetly, but still retained a bit of coldness beneath. Beautiful but cold, he is seriously the ice prince. His interpretation of Ludwig van Beethoven’s 32 Variation (Eroica) in C Minor W.o.O 80 was tumultuous and thunderous, quick and light, and it was definitely the highlight of the first half. Kissin kept me entertained throughout with something I came to recognize as “goldfishing”: As he progressed through the movements, he involuntary snapped at the air with his mouth - about once every ten minutes - which reminded me of a goldfish coming up for food during feeding-time; it was quite endearing. 

Overall, I found the Kissin-style to be a bit sterile, a bit too perfect, too cool and too distant for me. But I recognize that this is because of my own shortcomings (which I discussed with my companion after the performance) that I continue to hold everyone up to the paradigm of Dinu Lipatti, who resonates epochs. As a former pianista myself (for twenty years), Lipatti is my voice, my timbre, and my mood. I can appreciate the others, but it is with Lipatti that all of my desires echo. But hey, comparing Lipatti to other pianists is like comparing your boyfriend to John Holmes. It’s just not done…

After the pause, Kissin returned from backstage, strode to the piano in his characteristic gait, and I swear this to you: his fingers connected with the keys like a heat-seeking missile to a warm target; and he began playing Brahms before his ass even touched that piano bench. That boy got mad money $kill$. For him, placing his hands on the keys is inherently more natural than placing his butt on the bench. I’ve never seen anyone launch into the pieces quicker than Kissin, and it was actually pretty hawt. Unfortunately for me, I find Brahms piano composition intolerable, especially Friday night’s selection of Brahms, his Klavierstücke opus 118. Brahms on piano to me is the boringest bore that ever bored, and I was fantasizing through this one, imagining that I was running my fingers through Kissin’s silky ‘fro. heh. kek. j/k. Clearly the sentiment was universal, as the “cough-to-silence ratio” must have tripled during the subsequent twenty-two minutes of the composition. Frédéric Chopin’s Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise brillante, Opus 22 was the highlight of the entire performance, and Kissin demonstrated his litheness and complete competence of the piano. Chopin is my most favorite piano composer like ev4r, and Kissin interpreted it much to my liking.

So there we have it: applause, applause, yay, yay, bravo, complimenti! Of course, Kissin arrives for his first encore, and we are all eager for his small gifts. Again: applause, applause, bows, flowers, bows, applause, and then another encore. This pattern continued for one hour and a half, as Kissin returned continuously for eleven more encores to play Mozart, Debussy, Liszt, Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Joplin…it was an eruption of “Piano Gold” all over that stage. Personally, I was hoping that in all this time, Kissin was stalling so that BFF Levine could show-up for a guest performance and/or duet [insert tapemeasure + afro circumference jokes here]. One of the more curious of his encores was an interpretive rendition of the Chanson Bohemienne, "Les tringles des sistres tintaient” from the beginning of Act II of Bizet's Carmen.

I don’t know why someone didn’t stop him...his agent, the musical director, the ushers…it was insanity! OMG Kissin iz da greatest. You’d betta believe dat 'cause it’s true, baby!

Kissin for three hours, and my lips are chapped...

And I need you to remember one thing:
I came, I saw, I conquered
From record sales, to sold-out concerts
So motherf**ker if you want this encore
I need you to scream ‘til your lungs get sore
(Jay-Z, The Black Album, Encore)

I just returned home after a three-hour concerto from Evgeny Kissin (we know him as “Evgenij” in Italy) at Conservatorio "G. Verdi" on Via Conservatorio, Milan.

But when I say, “three-hour concerto”, I really mean a one-and-a-half-hour concerto, followed by a one-and-a-half-hour encore. I. Am. Not. Kidding.

Guess how many encores?  Guess.
Go on…I’m waiting.... 
Five encores?  heh.  Not even close.
Eight? Hardly there. Give up?
Okay, okay, I'll tell you. Here you go:

T to the W to the E to the L to the V to the E

Fo’ reals, fo’ reals.

Highlights?

There are too many to list, but I’ll leave you with a non sequitur before I return tomorrow with a full review and tons of media: Joplin, afro, Bizet, goldfish, Rondo alla turca, and bis.

New Pictures from Ascanio in Alba and the Renée Fleming Gala to FAUNO over...

Quiet extraordinarily, I would like to offer my new readers rare images from both la prima of Ascanio in Alba and the Renée Fleming Gala that surfaced in my caches today. Since I want to present them to you in the highest resolution and quality as possible, I have decided to host all large media on flickr. You can find me there as none other than, "Opera Chic", and you can find my photostream here. And you'll all be happy to hear that Renée did indeed change dresses for the Gala. (Take that, Angela Gheorghiu!)

Here’s just a little tease of what I put up today:

(the Renée that we all know and love...with Gianfranco Ferré)

Renée + Ferré sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

(Click here to view eleven pictures from the performance.)

(Click here to view four additional high-resolution pictures from the evening.)

I know that some of you may be giddy in anticipation to hear yet another blogger slam Renée Fleming, and want me to be all like, “NICE ______ YOU ______  _______”, but let me establish from this from the beginning: I like (yes, like) La Fleming. By circumstance of my numerous MET Opera mentors, I was indoctrinated at an early age, and finally saw her live in NYC in 2003 as a haunted, fragile Violetta under the direction of Gergiev. Granted, as I mature, I am able to distinguish the annoying idiosyncrasies that profoundly affect her voice...and I haven’t been able to stomach anything of hers after the legendary 2004 Conlon Rusalka DVD. But it was not even a question if I should attend or not, having submissively remembered the infamous booing incident ("va [sic] via, put*na americana"), during her high “G” of Lucrezia Borgia that sent her scurrying from La Scala in 1998.

The Renée recital was backed by Fondazione Francesca Rava with a charitable agenda of establishing medical facilities and hospice care for children of economically-depressed nations. On the Fondazione website, you can find the press release (in Italian), which ostentatiously conveys their overall tone via one piece of copy: they describe La Fleming as, "il migliore soprano al mondo", (trans: the best soprano in the world). lol. (btw, for all you “Flemmers”, you can download the official “Save the Date” pdf file here.)

Another prominent benefactor that night was couturier Gianfranco Ferré, who not only designed La Fleming’s dress for the evening, but was hosting a Gala after the recital. I was worried that the dress would be a particularly horrendous concoction, like the ones seen on certain album covers (I'm looking at you By Request! *shakes fist*), but it was nothing too improbable, and it was inspired by a typical ball gown style - with a long skirt and bosom-skimming, tight bodice - that Renée favors. The tint and fabric was a bit odd because it was that shiny, multifaceted textile that changes color in light. So it was unpredictable, and appeared both chocolate-brown and deep maroon at the same time. I really think that Ferré was going for a whole, “we must coordinate your dress with the La Scala interior” theme, because she sort of blended into her surroundings in the murky, amorphous colors that he chose. Her hair was equally drab: relatively flat, blond, parted towards one side, and lacquered. Hartmut Höll (pianista) complemented La Fleming in his dashing, full white tie (in italian, "il frac") with very long, deep tails. 

For all these reasons, I made sure to dress myself accordingly in classic, and indisputably chic designers. I chose from my closet a Marios Schwab black cashmere shell dress with a pair of vintage Chanel round-toe heels, and black stockings bought at Kristina Ti. Over it went my Ann Demeulmeester double-breasted silk jacket, with a matching black silk scarf to keep at bay the chills, and my Chloe Paddington black bag.

Onto the recital! A summery first: Höll played magnificently as Renée showed-off her trademark tortured, breathless, meek, lamenting...as well as her patented missy-piggy-esque, strangled, roundhouse punches, all to an unenthused and blasé La Scala audience that, not once, uttered a single “brava”.

Interestingly, La Fleming had arranged to be basked in the glow of a peachy, pinkish spotlight. Hartmut Höll instead was replete in the flat, sterile, blue/white light, which by default, is implemented for every other normal recital. I mean, homegirl looked good, but it was like Liz Taylor and her vaseline filters.

The first flub of the night (there were only two major stress-points) started immediately with an excerpt from Mozart's Great Mass in C Minor, K427, Laudamus Te. She unfortunately went too breathless and thin towards the final crescendo - only a few bars away from the end of the movement - and her voice fell flat. However, by the next work - Schumann's Ständchen, Opus 36, Number 2 - she had returned with controlled elegance, and finished the subsequent five movements with charisma and confidence.

She took to exiting the stage after each selection was over, and would dissapear with Höll for a good twenty seconds before returning. Well, that didn’t fly with the La Scala directors, and someone clearly told her to, “cut the Diva crap”. Because after the intermission, she only exited one time during the final half.

Her trademark Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém (Song of the Moon) from Rusalka was perfect; but really, how many times do you have to sing something before you master it? She sang it in full Fleming mode, with the breathlessness of an asthmatic, and her voice breaking with emotion like dry twigs snapping. I found it gorgeous, but I always have. However, it did not elicit a single brava from the La Scala audience, and they remained nonplussed.

La Fleming then took an intermission, which was one of the longest ones I’ve ever witnessed at La Scala. Which is why, when she reappeared in the SAME EXACT DRESS (travesty!), I was incredulous. I mean, even Angela Gheorghiu changed dresses during intermission for her April 2006 recital at La Scala, and it looked like she browsed for hers at a mall bridal store! Instead, Renée reappeared in the same dress with a huge swath of maroon velvet wrapped around her shoulders. She tried to fool us with her velvet wrap! Naughty! RENÉE, I SAW WHAT YOU DID THERE!

It was during the second half of the recital that things got a bit more interesting. First there was the inexplicable “laughing spell”, which infected her during Gounod's Le ciel rayonne...Ŏ légère hirondelle. Initially, she had excelled with the scales and arpeggios. But halfway through, she dropped one of the scales so devastatingly hard, that she tried to pass it off as a dramatic laugh, and inserted a tittering giggle mid-measure. What the hell happened there? The aberration was so glaring, because prior to the giggle, she had precisely nailed each scale and note with a very confident, light touch. After the piece, while she took her applause, she egregiously smiled and laughed, leaving us all to wonder what drug she had taken before the show.

Harold Arlen's Over the Rainbow was a disaster. Her diction was clear, but she did this annoying freestyle at the end, where on the very last “I” of the final lyrics, “Why, oh why can't I?", she “broke it down”, and did one of those Mariah Carey/Christina Aguilera spontaneous “look at me, I’ve got soul” tirades. Meanwhile, the whole thing was just too reminiscent of a cruise lounge act.

After the performance, Renée stationed herself beside the piano with a small card in her hand. She began to explain in English that her Italian is not pristine so she would rather read from a prompt. She proceeded to read a handful of basic sentences in Italian, which included gratitude for the audience, the needy Hatian children, and then a final, gushing thanks to her, “grande amico Gianfranco Ferré”. heh. RF +GF = BFFFF4ev4&E&E&E!!11!

She then performed two encores: and now you musicologists are going to maim me for this omission, but it was really hard to hear what she was mumbling; so I heard composer and work, but no titles of arias. The first bis was a short aria from Wagner's Das Rheingold. It was a sweet lullaby with a short recitative in the middle. Second bis was another aria from Massenet's Manon.

La Fleming had only two curtain calls after the bis, and the crowd nonchalantly packed their programs away, and headed home. The charity gala dinner was hosted by Gianfranco Ferré at his palazzo, which resides at the beginning of Corso Garibaldi on via Pontaccio, 21. (I pulled-up the actual address on TuttoCittà, which is our version of MapQuest). The palazzo is beautiful; but honestly, I walk by it at least once a week, as we live in the same zona, and I always mistook it for a private gallery space or auditorium – certainly not as a living space.

If you happened not to be in the beneficence of Il Maestro Ferré and his cohort of Milanese glitterati, there was still hope for the tragically bourgeois transplants and expatriates to attend through the Benvenuto Milano Club: a loosely organized group of English-speaking women from an international arena, who organize coffee, outings, and general socialization for bored, listless housewives who are baffled and intimidated by their new Medieval settings. For the price of 160€ per person, ($205.00 USD), the pleasure of fretting among Ferré, Renée, and a bunch of other people with accented names, this enticing ticket could be yours. I passed, fearing that Ferré would corner me and try to swap my Marios Schwab for one of his ghastly creations.

La Scala vs. Van DAMN! Round 1: FIGHT!

(Click here to view one photo from the night of the recital.)

This recital. just. this recital. If I had to describe it in one sentence, it would be: “Old and depressing German Lieder, accompanied by a sweaty pianist, sung by an equally old and mildly depressing baritone whose name is routinely confused with a Belgian martial artist (The Muscles from Brussels), who took about fifteen poems to get a proper warm-up.”

Thankfully I had lovely seats nel primo palco (La Scala’s equivalent of the MET’s parterre box), and at least I had dressed comfortably in a pair of pair of vintage Levi's 505s that I had bought at B-fly on Corso di Porta Ticinese, which I had tucked into my Belfiore handmade riding boots (the store is located right behind Piazza Wagner, which is two blocks from la tomba di Verdi where he is buried nella Casa di Reposo per Musicisti). On top I wore a simple, white gauze eyelet blouse from Pupi Solari, covered by my vintage brown cashmere Pringle cardigan found at Shabby Chic on via B.Cellini. I threw all my crap into a vintage Gucci hobo bag with midollino (bamboo) handles, which had been gifted from my mother.

Roberto Giordano (pianist) and José Van Dam made their entrances promptly at 8:00 pm, and although I knew that Giordano was young, I did not know that Giordano was moderately hawt (however, all of that hawtness was quickly erased by his incredibly image-heavy-loading website, and [gah] excessive use of the ‘scroll tag’ on his homepage). The poor boy either runs hot, or was extremely nervous, because he proceeded to wipe-down his hands, face, and piano keys between almost every movement with a white handkerchief. Giordano’s polished appearance in a well-fitted tuxedo with a crisp, white oxford, was contrasted by Van Dam’s dreary black dinner jacket, baggy black pants, and black silk, mock-turtleneck. Yes, you heard right: a silk blend mock-tutleneck, last seen in 1995 on stand-up comedians, and on MLB players in their ‘street gear’ for clubhouse post-game interviews.

But Van Dam just didn’t have it together for his recital. It was only after one hour into the recital – while fifteen poems had elapsed – that he was properly warmed-up. After those first fifteen Lieder, he sang adequately, and finished Winterreise with decent grace, sweetness, and care. If only he had been able to master the first hour, the recital would have been much more pleasurable. 

But for those first dozen poems (save Der Lindenbaum, in rare treatment, which he sang remarkably slow and sweet, with great pronunciation and tenderness), he was rusty. He did poorly with the higher registers where he had to sing forte. In contrast, his high register with pianissimo was fair. His voice was generally flat, without much emotion. He was also erratic, and while some movements were disastrous, others were adequate and capable.

His body language was also distressing. He sang into his chest, with his head tucked towards the floor. Clutched tightly in his fist during the entire recital was a print-out (of what I’m guessing) Wilhelm Müller’s Lieder, which he would consult during the brief pauses between the poems. He barely moved, didn’t emote with his arms at all, and had his feet planted in the same spot for the entire hour-and-a-half.

Another drawback was that Van Dam didn't take an intermission. Having arrived at Teatro alla Scala after drinking four glasses of Alpi Cozie at home, and un latte macchiato at Trussardi alla Scala Café, one certainly can do so in good faith knowing that there will be an intermission no less than sixty, and no more than ninety minutes into the performance. But there was no pee-break, nor did he grant his audience much-needed repose from such a heavy pall of sadness, which I though was pretty lame.  I mean, droning German Lieder (lol Winterreise lol) for almost two hours straight? He also didn’t take an encore. I’ve never seen him in recital before, so maybe this is modus operandi, and he just doesn’t “do” encores (or bis, as we call it at La Scala). But almost all singers use this in recital as a chance show personality and wit; clearly Van Dam didn’t think it was necessary. My bladder was pretty pleased, though.