Therefore, ignore everything I say

Unavoidable to wander away from the music and get sucked back into thinking about work, or to consuming lists of daily life. Happens to me at the Met, during awesome scenes, and more than I care to admit. I nearly had to slap my face back to the opera on Thursday, for the obligatory second helping of Lucia di Lammermoor, right at the vortex of the mad scene. Walking off into the clear fall night of New York, I could say how meticulous and thoughtful every placed note, every action was; how well the text was served, how professional the phrases were churned, and with undeniable passion; how world-class the grand musical performance just witnessed. But in the end, it comes down to an elementary question, of how much I really dug the underlying Natalie Dessay sound, and I can't say I really do. Lawd knows I'm trying.

But plug a favorite singer into a similar scenario, and a comparatively thoughtful and professional performance would yield an opposite reaction. Which is to say that all (my) criticism collapses from the arbitrary scaffolds built around ad hoc criteria. One's deep resonance (or dissonance) with a voice may be rationalized with creative words and witty metaphors, but at its heart it is really elusive to logic or explanation. This is my simple experience: this is how I adore Renee Fleming, how I can now fathom the possibility of liking (gulp!) Netrebko, etc.. For if a formula can be mapped out that can justify the level of ecstasy, then all magic that attends that ecstasy is, by definition, drained. I see that every other thing around the voice may help or diminish the way it touches me, but the prime thing is that it touches me. And in unnameable ways, so screwed up that the words in this blog cannot even point to the vicinity of that love.

Blog prec8m from a few bars of Arturo's music

I can give you the musical highlights in one sentence: Stephen Costello as Arturo sang beautifully, with gleaming, compact tone and jaw-dropping confidence.

I can't say Marcello Giordani had a very good night in the end. Stephen Costello's debut as Arturo was striking indeed; the young tenor sang with perfect confidence from the outset, his voice showing real personality as it blended clarity of line with grainy richness of texture. I found myself wishing he were singing Edgardo in Giordani's place; he will do so on October 25.

A heads up: you might want to catch the performance in which Stephen Costello graduates from...Shemp, or whatever the character's named, to Enrico, because I think in a year or two you may have trouble getting tickets to hear him. This is just a hunch still, based on not that much, but I will tell you the boy isn't even my type so I'm at least not listening with the ears in my pants.

The most secure singing came from debutant Stephen Costello in the small role of Arturo, his tone bright and hardy, with a strip of metal down the center.

(from a non-review of the open rehearsal) Young Stephen Costello will be making his Met debut as Arturo in Lucia on the Monday Opening Night. This young tenor is destined to become one of the greats, IMO. His voice is clear, beautiful, and carried extremely well in the large auditorium that is the Met. His performance leaves one wishing that Arturo has more to do in the opera!

The best part for visiting Philadelphians, though, was when tenor Stephen Costello (locally born and trained) arrived for Lucia's arranged Act II marriage. In his Met debut, he looked wooden - but outside the confines of the Academy of Vocal Arts' acoustically odd theater on Spruce Street, his tenor voice unfurled as though it had found its true home.

An appealing young tenor, Stephen Costello, had a solid Met debut as the well-meaning Arturo.

(That's it, Mr. Tommasini?)

Stephen Costello was sufficiently imposing in the minor duties of Arturo to justify his imminent promotion to Edgardo.

My personal favorite:

Monday night saw the Met debut of a lyric tenor with a big future: That's Stephen Costello, an American. He was Arturo, and, initially, he was a bit tight. But he was also focused, penetrating, and remarkable. He will graduate to the part of Edgardo soon — indeed, he will take it later in this Met run.

Initially = first few notes of his little stanza? (Tight & penetrating ... not going there.)

Yet another schizo evening

Gounod ROMEO ET JULIETTE, Met 25.IX.2007; c. Domingo; Netrebko, Alagna, Leonard, Degout, Sigmmundsson.

Anna Netrebko is nothing if not loud. And bosomy. Loud and bosomy. But this time, she was actually good. No matter for Sieglinde, she hears that crow tastes like chicken anyway. I wasn't exactly totally blown away--well, physically blown away by her sheer sonics, yes--but she delivered something mature, nuanced, sensitive: traits one doesn't normally associate with Hooter burgers. In dim lighting, away from the toxic limelight of fame (the day after the overhyped prima), I can see how some thoughtful people can fall in love with Anna: her instrument has a natural glow, a dark sheen, a texture that conveys joy in sorrow (and vice versa)--and when used well, there is magic. But she tends to sing awfully loud (did I mention how loud she was?), and by the end of the evening, my ears were shot (thanks to Domingo too, see below). And her tone sometimes sags like wet towels hung on a clothes line, but this time she was alert to correct much of it, which pleased me. And let me tell you, she inhabited this drab production much better than Natalie Dessay. Two years ago, tiny Dessay looked tinier and so out of place, while Netrebko embraced the kitsch with an abundance of game and spirit. She had what appeared to be a minor mad scene with the potion, energetic and in-the-moment, perhaps feeding off the spirit of Dessay's Lucia lingering in the air. Netrebko was brilliant in this scene and the last act, fully committed, solid in voice ... With these words you'd think Sieglinde's writing about someone else. But when well-behaved, and in the right rep (i.e., lyric) Netrebko can really rise to deserve her pop fame.

Roberto Alagna, on the other hand, performed slightly off the mark. I blame Netrebko's loudness, and Maestro Placido Domingo's utterly vapid and deafening orchestra, for Alagna's hopeless attempts to make his sound bigger. The result was major tone spreading, and what difficulty in the top range he's been experiencing of late was pushed front and center. Also, the desire to be as loud as Netrebko (nearly impossible) made for a monotonous and at times painful delivery, with none of the grace and sweetness that marked his Werther and Faust in my cherished memory. But he looked dashing in the turqouise tights, and moved as a Romeo moved, with a boyish charm and some innocence.

Does the Met get a wholesale discount when they employ Domingo as tenor and conductor in the same season? Because that's the only reason for finding him in the pit that I could think of. His tenor is legend, but his conducting is appalling in its crudeness. He refuses to reign in the dynamics, instead encouraging the orchestra to modulate only between loud and louder. So any trace of sweetness or hushed wonder is erased from the score (except those overtly quiet moments with the string solos and such, which even Domingo can't f*ck up), and the evening felt soooo long. Gounod's love opera ought to come as a nice cool breeze at sunset (with a drink of potion in hand), but Domingo is too muscular, too much of a tenor, not "gay" enough to revel in whispered affections. He is ruining my Bobby, and this opera.

So yeah, weird that Sieglinde would come out of an evening also headlined by Alagna and Domingo nearly raving about Netrebko. Stranger things have happened, certainly, but I'm happy to give credit, and happier to have appreciated her fine performance.

Oh, I almost forgot: the bed scene made everyone blush. Bobby and Anna made out like they were actually doing it prior to the curtain's rise. And then they did some "cowgirl" maneuvers that I never thought I'd see on the Met stage. The top of Anna's white negligee rested just a hair above her nipples, because it was showing ample mammary skin, even this thoroughly gay viewer was noticed gawking. Not so Juliette-ey, but then Anna isn't about such archaic notions anyway. (Another observation: Anna's feet are larger than Bobby's dainty pair. What could it mean?)

Morning-after pill

In this week following the thirtieth anniversary of her death, the spirit of Callas stalks our earthly realm. I’m guessing she’s in a rage right now. I know that I am, after seeing the abortion of a Lucia that discharged upon the stage of the Metropolitan Opera last night.

Skip the other Lucia blog reviews (I don't really mean that, but you know what I mean) and jump to vilaine fille for the rest of Marion Lignana Rosenberg's incisive analysis.

Meanwhile, Sieglinde is preparing to go back to the Met, this time for Roberto Alagna's Romeo. (We love Bobby here.)