This cold winter will last four more years. Anyway, I'm keeping my mind off these dismal events by hanging out with my laptop. First stop this morning is the feast prepared by the "other" NYC opera blogger, Roy "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" Wood. He's probably justified that to tell me that, "Sieglinde, I was dishing Fleming before you even had that hot cocoa ready for Siegmund." (However, in response, I would like to point out that I was dishing Liz Smith and Renéééée before Ms. Wood even had her hot, uhm, cocoa ready for Siegmund.) Her borrowed observation regarding the Tebaldi Butterfly recording freaked me out of my cocoas.
Blogworld friend and purveyor of good things MLR directed me to an even more shocking expose [NYMag] on the dearth of single men for Singles' Night at the Met. However, I don't think the “We do get a lot of doctors” rationale substantially accounts for the gender disparity. Could it be more obvious that "The female list was closed, leaving some in tears" is due mostly to the testosterone imbalance caused by a queer abundance at the opera promenade of single men of a more, uhm, choral persuasion (i.e., the likes of Roy "Who Says I Can't Wear This to the Opera" Wood)? By the way, MLR reviews the recent Blythe chest extravaganza at Alice Tully for Newsday, which I'm still not forgiving myself for missing.
TSR and Marcus ask why there isn't more blogchat regarding the passing of Victoria de los Angeles. My partner always likes to point out that he has one singer on his list that I had not seen live (and now never will). It was a late New York City recital; recently I looked through boxes of our saved programs, but I couldn't find a souvenir of his VDLA encounter. But he remembers being thoroughly disarmed by her direct, unaffected style. Yesterday, while cruising the local used CD store, I found a copy of the VDLA La Traviata (EMI, 1960), which oddly I had neither owned or heard previously. She is a unique Violetta. Whereas many singers "sing" Act II, it seemed she spoke her every line. The effect is haunting. Her "Dite alla giovine" was neither heavenly (Fleming) nor utterly anguished (Callas et al.); but more devastating (to my Traviata-seasoned ears) because it holds back like no one else can. It is miraculous.