Grounded should be grounded

Tesori GROUNDED, Met Opera 23.IX.24; c. Nezet-Seguin; D'Angelo, Bliss, Dehn, Miller, Grimsley.

Likely the only time the word "Cinnabon" will be uttered from the Met stage, in an opera that is as saccharine and trite as a cinnabon roll. Composer Jeanine Tesori stumbled upon moments of interest but never held our attention for more than a minute. You'd think an opera about drones and war would elicit music of some novelty if not fractured horror. Instead we got a sweeepingly forgettable melodrama that mezzo-soprano Emily D'Angelo's brilliance could not rescue. The one silver lining of the Met's opening night, D'Angelo is indeed a revelation. Other than that, a sad waste of everyone's couture.

Met flex

A heady time for opera stoners these past few days, with the Met opening up single tickets to subscribers last Thursday and to the general public this coming Monday. Sieglinde chose to cut the line this year and put together a so-called "flex" subscription consisting of at least six operas. What's odd is that they have to be different operas. Someone please explain to me why I can't be a "flex" subscriber just by opting to go to each of the six performances of Die Frau ohne Schatten. Why are they discriminating against us? And who has this idea of going to just one evening of a work you absolutely can't live without? Who does that? The Met should be staffed with more opera fans.

So yes, the issue occupying our recent meditations was to choose six. Splendidly, this coming season is actually more thrilling than the last, which featured only Tannhäuser and La Forza del Destino amidst a bunch of reruns and B-sides. This season, we finally have the FroSch revival we've all been waiting for, and this spectacle alone surpasses many recent seasons. And with the astonishing Elza van den Heever as the Empress! We are complete. (Sieglinde will speak more about her eternal love affair with this opera later on.) So which five did she lump with FroSch to make a "flex"? Well, Salome, of course, again with dear Elza. Fidelio also makes the list, with the terrifying giant Lise Davidsen easing into her fated fach and the ageless René Pape whom we haven't seen at the Met since 2021. Tosca isn't normally a contender but this time, since La Davidsen is getting her Italian itch scratched before she unleashes her entire soul in Wagner, why not catch a couple of those too? I am genuinely curious about Aidanamar and Antony & Cleopatra, so there you have it, ostensibly Sieglinde's six-evening season. Shortly after "flexing", we dived back into the Met website to hoard multiple tickets to FroSch, Salome, and Fidelio--which, if you were paying attention, was the entire point of this charade.

We will go to other evenings, but those will be on a case by case basis and depend on many boring factors (work, life, meds, etc.). Plus, Sieglinde will travel for opera! She's been doing that the past couple of years, and will get to recount the blow-by-blow here in Her Diaries ... eventually.

To be true is half the battle

Kathleen Battle RECITAL, Met Opera 12.V.24; Bridget Kibbey (harp), Chico Pinheiro (guitar).

What a beautiful fiasco. Something Sieglinde will never forgive is amplification of any kind in an opera house. Here was Kathleen Battle, Diva, 76 this year but from the boxes looked very much like her posters for this headline spectacular; returning triumphantly to the Met stage in a solo recital, the stuff of Joe Volpe's nightmares; possessing even today top notes like she was 36, the stuff of Ailyn Perez's dreams. Sure, there was the Underground Railroad concert in 2016, but that was about more than her Highness, with a major choir and other musicians and artists (Cicely Tyson, Wynton Marsalis, Cyrus Chestnut ...) participating to convey an actual serious message. This evening, her event was about her alone, and the way she had everyone wait while she leafed through her three-ring binder of music forwards and backwards and sideways, and unclasped it flippantly to take out some random pages and return others would impress even Joe Volpe--OMG what a masterclass in Diva that Sieglinde should emulate in her Biochemistry classes. So Kathy's first song, a Purcell, tested her prep and while a bit tentative, was properly placed, I thought, and projected remarkably well. But then when the second piece, from Semele, unfolded with unexpected bravado, the amplification revealed itself by degrees and by the end of the first segment of song I would say even Kathy's aspirations between phrases were more present than Asmik Grigorian's fff the day before (see below). Who at the Met decided that this was OK, and how did the Diva not decipher this intervention as a defeat? Her top notes--it was all there!--would have floated around the auditorium without any aid and invoked awe, and would have reminded every ear about the singular miracle of this art form. And why would Sieglinde have minded leaning forward to catch any whispered notes, and if there are rumpled patches forgive and move on to the next glorious phrase? But by the second half of the program, while the entire auditorium erupted indecorously after every piece, the experience reduced in Sieglinde's senses to a mediated admiration, akin to watching a YouTube of a memorable event, speakers in full blast. This would have been the first time Sieglinde's heard Kathleen Battle live, but alas! Yet still, after hearing the expected "Sweet Low, Sweet Chariot" encore, everyone stood grateful to have heard lovely echoes, though receding in time and eluding what shards are left of tradition.

Matinee meh

Puccini MADAMA BUTTERFLY, Met Opera 11.V.24; c. Zhang; Grigorian, DeShong, Tetelman, Meachem.

Hopeful anticipation for Asmik Grigorian turned to mush as her Butterfly drooled the touchstone "Ah! m'ha scordata" in a supposed peak of Act II. Does she know that spinto means pushed, the Met is the largest house in the known universe, Sieglinde is perched in her high box with such hopeful anticipation for a soprano who is coming to New York with unusual advance notice, and therefore was expecting hints of blood and acid in "Ah! m'ha scordata"? No one expects a Renata Scotto, for sure, but can we have at least a Cristina Gallardo-Domas this generation? Sieglinde dreamed Grigorian would circle the pantheon (not the Pantheon), but instead saw her flap her cut, undecorative wings to zero effect, like used tissue swirling on the Columbus Avenue sidewalk. Maybe that's too mean. Grigorian did deliver a heartrending "Ei torna e m'ama", which her flappers avidly applauded. But those moments were, uhm, momentary.

So what happened? Everyone can agree that Grigorian has modest sonic power, but that issue never stopped Gallardo-Domas or Veronica Villaroel, two women dear to Sieglinde's heart, both of whom found ways to harness their wares full-force and focus their will to shake the walls. Grigorian also has an muddled middle, at times almost spoken and washed of vibrato. Other Butterflys of Sieglinde's 30 years of opera going include the legend Diana Soviero, femme fatale Catherine Malfitano, Michele Crider, and Particia Racette, ladies who, in their own way, gave the illusion of transcending physics and, in effect, reify the pathos of the role beyond the text. Grigorian sounded like she was saving her voice for something else. Such a soprano has no business singing Butterfly at the Met. Perhaps in smaller houses in Europe she will flourish.

Meanwhile, Maestra Xian Zhang (also debuting this season) led a tumultuous and vitally present orchesta; she should be invited for more. Jonathan Tetelman is handsome as Pinkerton, with a clean voice but lacking that unmistakable ring we've come to expect from our Puccini tenors. As a sorrowful Suzuki, Elizabeth DeShong is the one singer on stage who woke up Sieglinde.The Minghella is aging gracefully, but still aging.

(Just like old times; let's see how long this lasts.)

The Empress Reawakens

OK, since late 2022 Sieglinde's been to a few more spectacles for sure, some in opera houses she'd never visited before. How can she restart this baby amidst this thrilling gloom? But the fire hydrant of life continues to spew experiences, her impressions rushing down the drain, emulsifying in the gray soup. Posts from decades ago, here in this blog, relive traces of faces and sound. As she reawakens, she looks around and finds that some recent feelings are also worth encoding, for the time when all she will have are these words.