Margaret Burke Sheridan - Visse d'Arte

First published in the Western People on Monday.

The birthday of the greatest female singer Ireland has ever produced falls on this Wednesday. She is not a national figure because she was an opera singer, and opera has never been popular in Ireland. It’s a pity though – opera is one of the great achievements in human art, and Margaret Burke Sheridan was one of our own.

Very much one of our own, in fact. Margaret Sheridan was born in a house on the Mall in Castlebar on October 15th, 1889, the fifth child of the postmaster in Castlebar at the time, John Burke Sheridan.

Margaret’s mother died when Margaret was five, and her father died when she was eleven. Effectively orphaned – the Sheridan family don’t seem to have been that close - Margaret was raised to adulthood in the Dominican convent at 19 Eccles Street, Dublin 7, now part of the Mater Hospital. And it was while a student with the Dominicans that Margaret Burke Sheridan discovered that she had a gift.

At the age of nineteen, Sheridan left Ireland to study music at the Royal Academy in London. She was a success, but there was a war on and the opera scene in London was something of a backwater. If you wanted to be a star, you had to go to Italy, where opera is all.

Sheridan went to Rome, and started training again under a teacher called Alfredo Martini. And it was while training that she made the decision that set her path for the rest of her life.

A singer in a production of La Bohème in the Constanzi Opera House (now the Teatro dell’Opera) fell ill while Margaret Sheridan was staying in the Quirinale Hotel. The Quirinale is on the other side of the block from the opera house, and the manager of the opera house had heard Margaret practicing - Sheridan was in the habit of practicing her singing at her open window in the hotel. The manager took a notion, and sent a cable to find out if the nobody wanted to become a star in four days, filling as Mimì in Giancomo Puccini’s beloved opera about young love.

Fantastic, you would think. But it wasn’t that simple. Martini, Margaret’s teacher, was dead set against the idea, and for reasons that are do with what makes opera such a challenging art form.

The singing that we do in the shower or when loaded with porter is a natural ability. Sometimes the singing isn’t too bad, sometimes it’s wretched – it’s down to accidents of birth.

But the singing done by opera singers isn’t at all natural. Yes, there are natural voices, but they have to be meticulously trained, not only to make sweeter, richer sounds, but to be able to make those sounds on demand, consistently, for show after show, for performance after performance.

Margaret Burke Sheridan had a natural gift. But she wasn’t yet fully in control of her voice. She could sing, but she couldn’t sing in such a way that she could guarantee her singing wouldn’t impair her ability to sing in future. That’s how severe operatic singing is – if you don’t know what you’re doing, you are in danger of destroying your voice every time you open your mouth.

On the other hand, Sheridan had been living off the kindness of strangers since her father died. Different benefactors had invested in her talent, but it’s not the same as making your own money. And opportunities to sing a major role in a major theatre don’t come along every day. What use was there in completing her training if she were to have a perfect instrument but nowhere to sing? Besides; she could always go back and finish up her training, couldn’t she?

Sheridan made her choice. She sang Mimì in Rome on February 3rd, 1918, and instantly became a star. Even today, Italians don’t always take to foreigners singing Italy’s national art form, but they couldn’t resist Sheridan.

For twelve years she ruled the operatic stage, something John McCormack could never do. Margaret Sheridan sang in London, Naples, Monte Carlo and Milan, and was acclaimed by all. And then, after a performance as Desdemona in Verdi’s Otello at Covent Garden in June, 1930, she never sang again.

She tried to, of course. At first, she would claim a cold or a chest infection and pull out of performances, in the fashion of primas donnas. But as the years went by it became clearer that she would never return to the stage. Alfredo Martini had been right. Without the proper grounding and technique, Margaret’s talent was a castle built on sand. It would last for so long but it was always doomed. And when the doom arrived, there would be no way to rescue it.

Sheridan was still a star. She was offered concert recitals – the form that made McCormack a household name and a very wealthy man - but she turned them down. As far as Sheridan was concerned, it was opera or nothing. Opera isn’t just the singing – it’s the acting, the music, the performance, the whole. To just sing without the rest of opera’s heady mix would be like drinking black tea. It just wasn’t the same.

Sheridan turned a brave face to the world, but the remaining thirty-odd years of her life were tough on her. She came back to live in Ireland but we are not a great nation for accepting our countrymen and countrywomen who have had success abroad.

But Margaret Sheridan was generous to the next generation, and did what she could for them. In her definitive biography of Sheridan, Anne Chambers writes of a Feis Ceoil winner, Phyllis Sullivan, who was tutored for a time by Margaret Sheridan.

Sullivan recalled Sheridan as being temperamental, but never mean. If Sullivan made a mistake, Sheridan would sing the line properly herself (while always avoiding high notes). Sullivan asked Sheridan why she didn’t sing in public anymore.

“My voice is finished,” replied Sheridan. “It’s all right singing for you, darling, but I would break on my top notes and I am nervous.”

Margaret Burke Sheridan died on April 16th, 1958, and is buried in Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin. The back of her headstone reads “Margherita Sheridan, Prima Donna. La Scala, Milan. Covent Garden, London.” Ar dheis Dé go raibh a h-anam uasal.

The National Anthems World Cup

First published in the Western People on Monday.

The World Cup isn’t quite what it was. This isn’t just old men getting misty-eyed after misspent youths, when hours in front of the telly were followed by the serial demolition of mothers’ flowers in the garden because not everybody’s eye for goal was quite as sharp as Emilio “The Vulture” Butragueño’s.

Once, the World Cup was the gold standard of soccer. But now, in the era of the superclub, how many national teams could keep it kicked out to Real Madrid, or Manchester City, or Bayern Munich? The softening of the ill-feeling against England in international tournaments may not be so much due to “moving on” as a vague feeling of pity for the poor eejits.

So why watch, especially when Ireland aren’t even in it? Because the World cup isn’t just about a game and who plays it best. The World Cup is about nation and identity and pride and who you are and who you want to be.

And anthems. Lots and lots of anthems.

Assessing the national anthems is one of the great hidden pleasures of the World Cup. It’s like watching the pint settle – no-one would buy pints if they couldn’t drink them, but savouring that moment when the pint turns completely black under its collar is one of the exquisite joys of life.

Disappointingly, most anthems are, not to put a tooth in it, cat. This is bad news for the smaller countries, for whom the anthem means so much. While you’re hearing some terrible dirge, salt tears of raw pride are streaming down everybody’s face back home in the competing country that Whereveria has finally taken her place among the nations of the earth.

Spain are the current World Champions, and Spain is one of those countries that has no lyrics to its national anthem. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as lyrics in national anthems aren’t always very good.

On the other hand, there are also anthems that have no end of lyrics. Step forward Greece, whose national anthem has a genuinely staggering 158 verses. Happily, they only sing two of them, or else the Greek anthem would last longer than their actual matches.

The most under-rated of the national anthems, in this neck of the woods certainly, is the Belgian anthem. La Brabançonne is surprisingly interesting and strangely beautiful. A plangent horn is sounded at the start, followed by a martial thrump-thrump-thrump of strings and drums, and then all the band sails in to sound a marvellous salute to king, law and liberty.

La Brabançonne isn’t a widely-known tune here because Belgium doesn’t play rugby and doesn’t get to that many international soccer tournaments. But the Belgians are dark horse bets for this World Cup, so maybe we’ll be hearing a lot of more of it.

An anthem that will not be heard often at the World Cup but that is very familiar to us thanks to Hollywood is the Star-Spangled Banner. This is interesting as an anthem because it’s such a difficult song to sing, with its huge range. Most anthems want to give that notorious fellow, the man in the street, some chance to bawl along in his or own fashion. The man in the street will not be reaching the rocket’s red glare or bombs bursting in air without a step-ladder at the very least.

One of the few sensible decisions taken by the current Russian Government was to use the old Soviet anthem as the anthem of the post-Czarist independent Russia. The USSR was a house of horror for the republics of which it was comprised and the serf nations it terrorised throughout its existence, but the Soviets cannot be faulted in their choice of soundtrack.

The Italian anthem, surprisingly, is a disappointment. The home of opera should have a better anthem than Fratelli d’Italia. What’s wrong with it? It doesn’t flow – it’s full of false starts, unsubtle changes, and bizarre stops, as if to give the singer(s) another lungful of breath. It sounds like a song written by a committee who never met, with the different pieces assembled together like Frankenstein’s monster, sent into the world to make the best of it.

It’s such a pity when you consider some of the best music produced in the western tradition is in Italian opera and could serve any nation as an anthem. You could use the Te Deum from Tosca if you’re a country that likes invading other countries and salting their fields. Alfredo’s first act declaration of love in La Traviata would do very nicely for a shoulders-back, chest-out sort of nation, and there’s the thrilling Di Quella Pira from Il Trovatore – who wouldn’t follow someone into battle with that ringing in their ears?

No such problem for the Germans, who are one of very few nations to have the music of their anthem written by a composer of genuine renown. Franz Joseph Haydn was a contemporary and friend of Mozart and a teacher of Beethoven. When you find yourself being swept away by the German anthem, know that it was written by a master.

And for all that, the greatest national anthem in the world was written by an amateur. La Marseillaise, the glorious national anthem of France, was written by an officer of artillery, Rouget de Lisle, in between battles in 1792. It proved so popular that it was adopted as the national anthem in 1795, and it’s been sung since.

The lyrics of La Marseillaise are surprisingly gory, with references to bloody banners and ferocious cut-throat soldiers. But there is something magical about how the first two lines of the chorus - “aux armes, citoyens! / Formez vos bataillons” - sit on the fanfare of their music that is unmatched in any anthem, anywhere.

Three years after the French adopted La Marseillaise as their national anthem, Napoleon sent an army here, under the command of General Humbert, to see what they could do to promote liberty, equality and fraternity in Ireland. It is quite something to think of La Marseillaise ringing out as that army marched down Bohernasup and into Ballina over two hundred years ago and what the natives must have made of it all. Vive la Republique!

Tosca at the Gaiety

Tosca is one of the most popular operas in the repertoire, yet it’s appeal isn’t immediately obvious. Tosca isn’t charming like La Bohème or heartbreaking like La Traviata; you don’t hear the faintest echo of the voice of God like you do when listening to Mozart, nor do you come away from Tosca trilling the tunes like you do from Carmen.

Luciano Pavarotti chose Tosca as his last ever opera (at the Met in New York in 2004) even though the tenor role, Carvaradossi, is a bit on the watery side. Floria Tosca herself isn’t the most appealing heroine in the repertoire either, yet all the greats have sung her.

Everyone comes back to Tosca for two reasons. The first is the quality of the drama which, after a slow-burning start, is as tight as any operatic drama can be. And the second is Baron Scarpia, the villain of the piece, who is the greatest original villain in opera.

“Avanti a lui tremava tutta Roma,” Tosca says of Scarpia at the end of the second act; before him, all Rome trembled. Scarpia is the chief of police in Rome at the start of the 19th century. What Scarpia wants, Scarpia gets, and he’s not too fussy how he gets it. And what he wants tonight is Tosca herself. He’s a bit of a buck that way, Scarpia.

The opening chords of the opera, are Scarpia’s theme, a motif that’s repeated throughout the piece. Scarpia dominates the opera just as Tosca says he dominates Rome and the story of the opera is how his uniquely evil shadow falls on the lovers, the painter and revolutionary Mario Carvaradossi and the opera singer Floria Tosca.

The first act is frustratingly complicated, but the drama really begins when Scarpia makes his sudden entrance half-way through, announced by his theme. This is the moment when you know if the opera will be a success; the singer playing Scarpia must carry the role or else the whole show falls apart.

You quickly find out if he can as, after a few minutes to con the flighty Tosca into thinking that Cavaradossi is cheating on her, Scarpia gets to sing his great set piece, Va, Tosca, against the Te Deum that the church choir sings to celebrate the defeat of Napoleon as first act finale.

There are other great arias in Tosca – Tosca’s own Vissi D’Arte, Cavaradossi’s E Lucevan Le Stelle – but nothing matches the Te Deum. The music builds up as Scarpia’s lust for Tosca contrasts with the religious music of the Te Deum itself until Scarpia becomes aware of his own damnation – because religion and faith, good and evil are strong themes of the opera – at the climax of the piece when he sings “Tosca, you make me forget God!” A fantastic exposition of what makes opera great as an art form, and worth the price of admission alone.

For those going to see Opera Ireland’s Tosca, the final production before the establishment of the new Irish National Opera, here’s a treat to whet the appetite. It’s the brilliantly bug-eyed Ruggero Raimondi singing the Te Deum in a TV Tosca from 1992 that was sung live in real time from the historical locations in Rome in which the opera is set – the Church of Sant’Andrea Della Valle, the Palazzo Farnese and the Castel Sant’Angelo. Staggering.

Ceoldráma Amuigh Faoin Aer ag Cé an Adhmaid, Bleá Cliath

Agus chomh hannamh atá an ceoldráma i mBaile Átha Cliath tá ceist á iarraidh ar duine nuair a freastalaíonn sé nó sí ar seó nach dtaitníonn leis nó léi. An fhírinne a insint nó a seachaint, ar eagla go gcaillfí misneach lucht cheoldráma go deo?

Bíonn ceoldrámaí amuigh faoin aer ar siúl sa gcathair sa Lúnasa, i ngearraí le Bárdas na Cathrach ag Cé an Adhmaid, cois Life, BÁC 8. Bhí Don Giovanni le Mozart, an ceoldráma foirfe dár le Gounod, ar siúl acu inné agus isteach leis an Spailpín chun breathnú air.

Bhí an gearraí lán le slua, ach thugas faoi déara gurbh daoine buailte go maith in aois ab ea an chuid is mó acu - ag am lóin i rith lae oibre, is bia choirp in ionad bia anama atá ag taisteal ón bpobal is mó.

Bhí ar daoine fanacht ina seasamh mura raibh suíocháin acu. Bhí roinnt suíochán infillte ann ar an bhféar - bhí a gceacht fóghlaimthe ag cuid an slua ag Aonach na gCapall ag an RDS céanna seo, sílim. Ach ag breathnú thall is abhus, bhuail sé ar an Spailpín go mbeadh sé deacair áire slua a choinnéal mura raibh siad ar a suamhneas gan suíocháin - an ndéanfaí suaimhneas an lucht féachána tionchar ar an gclár agus mar a gcasfaí ceoldráma á thógann trí uair is leath a chánadh go hiomlán?

Ní dhearna. Bhí tuairim greannmhar súgach ag na ceoltóirí Don Giovanni a thaispeáint mar galfaire gairmiúil, agus galfaire gairmiúil atá i bponc leis na mná sa nuacht na laethanta seo, cosuil leis an Don féin fadó.

Bhí cuma níos mó alickadoo an rugbaí istigh i dteach tábhairne Kiely's, an Domhnach Broc, ar an Don seo againne ná ar an ngalfaire is fearr sa domhain mór ach ba chuma más fhéidir leis na ceoltóirí áire an slua a choinnéal. Agus níl sé sin easca nuair atá ort ceoldráma atá scríofa don amharchlann sa tráthnóna a chur ar stáitse ag am lóin amuigh faoin aer.

Tá Don Giovanni scríofa i gceithre ghníomh. Rinne an comhlacht iarracht na gníomha a ghearradh chomh maith mar ab fhéidir agus bhí fear ann mar treoraí a n-inseodh don slua cad a dtarlódh os a gcomhair. Ach, mo léan, níor ghearr a dhótháin.

Is é an fadhb le sin ná go raibh an-iomarca gnó idir cathain a mbeadh an treoraí ar an ardán agus cathain a bhfillfeadh sé. Bhí se ró-easca dul amú leis an scéal agus an amhránaíocht.

Níl aithne nó meas ag an gcuid is mó daoine ar an gceoldráma. Le lucht an cheoldráma, is gnáth fotheideil istigh san amharclann. Leo féin amach faoin aer, tá níos mó cabhrach uathu ná óráid idir gníomha a maireann leathuair a chlog nó tuilleadh.

Agus an áiria catalóige a chasadh aige, bhris Leporello an ceathrú balla agus isteach sa slua leis, ag canadh le mná éigin. Shúigh sé síos taobh thiar léi agus seo leis:

"Nella bionda egli ha l'usanza
Di lodar la gentilezza,
Nella bruna la costanza,
Nella bianca la dolcezza."

Is cur síos ag Leporello ar mar a chuireann an Don faoi í an áiria seo. Cialltar an píosa sin ná mar a thaitníonn na mná eagsúla leis an Don. Aistrithe agam féin:

"Is gnáth leis moladh
na fionn as a ngalántacht
na donn as a dílseacht
na bána as a milseacht."

Greanmhar go leor - dá mbeadh an Iodáilis agat. Ach ní raibh tuiscint dá laghad ag an mbean bhocht cad a bhí ó Leporello mar níor mhínigh an treoraí an áiria catalóige ar dtús. Bhí an meas céanna ag an mbean ar Leporello taobh thiar di na mar a bhí ag Little Miss Muffet ar an domhan alla.

Níos measa arís, níor chóir do Leporello an ceathrú balla a bhriseach. Bhí a dhualgas roimh Donna Elvira - cantar an áiria catalóige do Donna Elvira, ach isteach le Leporollo sa slua in ionad an scéal a mhínigh le Donna Elvira. Dóchreite.

Bhí an t-amhránaíocht agus an ceol ceart go leor, agus an aisteoireacht níos fearr arís, Donna Elvira féin ach go háirithe. Is breá an smaoineamh é, an ceoldráma amuigh faoin aer, ach caithfear níos mó iarrachta a chur isteach agus a ghlacadh gur taispéanas ama lóin é seo, os comhair daoine nach bhfuil chomh cleachta leis na gceoldráma go dtuigfidís cuid den áiria catalóige. Caithfear an treoraí filleadh níos minice chun gluaiseacht an scéil a choinnéal beo.

Agus níos tábhachtaí ná dada eile, caithfear tuiscint agus glacadh níl ach uair amháin ag daoine mar ám lóin. Bhí ormsa imeacht nuair nach raibh an seó ach leath-críochnaithe, mar thugadar uair ar an gcéad dhá ghníomh. Teipeadh dóchreite.

Is breá an rud é an ceoldráma, agus ceoldráma amuigh faoi aer cosuil le seo, a dtógann áilleacht an cheoil amach ón dorchadas isteach faoi sholas gréine. Ach caithfear an seó a ghearradh gan faitíos gan trócaire go mbeidh sé tuillte le am lóin, le gnáthduine agus, go h-áirithe, le daoine a gcaithfear fanacht ina seasamh ar feadh na h-uaire.

Agus go raibh orm imeacht roimh deireadh, níor chuala mé críoch cailiúil Don Giovanni inné - teacht dealbh an Commendatore chun an Don a chuireadh chun tintí ifrinn. Seo chugaibh é anois, ar You Tube beannaithe. Bainígí sult.




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La Bohème at the Grand Canal Theatre, Dublin

The Scottish Opera production of La Bohème, on this week at Dublin’s Grand Canal Theatre, promotes the show as being about people who are young, poor and in love. This isn’t strictly true.

The Bohemians are skint, certainly, but being skint isn’t the same as being poor. It’s not the same at all. Strange though it seems, La Bohème is really about innocence. The joy of it, the loss of it and how much it stinks to grow up.

The Bohemians are young. They are the very personification of youth, with no constraints on their dreams or ambitions. Their music as soon as the curtain opens reflects that – everything is a joke or a chance to crack wise. They’re hungry, certainly, but they know they’re not going to starve. Something turns up. They know they’re behind in the rent, but that can be gotten around by blackguarding the landlord. Everything is possible.

The entrance of Mimì is this hope made flesh. Rodolfo sings beautifully to her, she sings beautifully to him, they duet beautifully together. It’s the natural order. Everything’s coming up roses.

Act II sees the Bohemians in society, dining out at the Café Momus. We also meet Musetta, whose relationship with Marcello exists in both counterpoint and parallel to that of Rodolfo and Mimì. Musetta also gets to sing one of the great arias in the canon, Quando men’ vo. It’s one of the great arias in a opera of great arias, and a great bravura moment for the second soprano.

Act III sees a changed environment. Mimi and Rodolfo have broken up. She thinks its because he’s jealous of her, but finds out it’s actually because he knows she’s dying, and the cold in the flat exacerbates that. For the time left to her, she’s better off with a better off boyfriend, who can look after her properly.

But when they meet again, love conquers all and they pledge to look forward to spring. This pledge occurs simultaneously to Musetta and Marcello having another blazing row, a clever way of demonstrating how everyday life goes on while your own is falling apart. Lots of different things can happen simultaneously in opera. It’s one of the things that make opera great.

Act IV sees us returned to the original Bohemian garret, with Marcello painting and Rodolfo writing. The return of the other two sees the young men indulge in their usual antics, but a grim sense of foreboding pervades things. The bad news breaks when Musetta bursts in, announces that Mimì is on her way, and she’s not a bit well.

Mimì gets one of the great deaths in opera. She quietly reprieves a part of her Act I aria, Sì, Mi chiamano Mimì, but dies in silence, while the rest are distracted by Colline’s return, he having sold his caught to buy medicine. And this is supreme art because death is like that. It does not come attended by comets and portents, bells and cymbals. It is a thief in the night, that you don’t see coming or going.

Marcello’s final “corragio,” “courage” to Rodolfo isn’t just about Rodolfo having courage in the face of Mimì’s death. It’s about having courage to bear up to the fact that life will and does kick you around, and you have to be ready for the blows. If it’s about anything, La Bohème is about growing up, leaving youth behind and accepting that not everything is going to work out. It’s said that Puccini cried when he wrote Mimì’s death scene. If so, it was the only civilised reaction.

An Spailpín is quite looking forward to this Scottish National Opera’s production of La Bohème at the Grand Canal Theatre. The updating of the opera to the art scene of current New York is quite clever – the Bohemians are shapers, fundamentally, and the New York art scene was always thick with that particular breed.

Whether the transfer works or not is the tricky bit, of course, but it’s to be hoped it does. The whole Grand Canal development is one of the few reason for optimism about the city in a future that looks quite bleak, and a regular home for opera in Ireland is something to be hoped for. After all, there’s only so much I'm No a Billy, He’s a Tim that the people can take.

Don Giovanni at the Gaiety

Anyone who wants to find out what all the fuss is about in opera could do a lot worse than to make his or her way as far as the Gaiety next month, where Opera Ireland will perform Mozart’s Don Giovanni, a constant delight to audiences in the 222 years since its premier in Prague in 1787.

Mozart wrote or collaborated on twenty-two operas during his short life – not a man to spend much time leaning on the shovel, Mozart – but three in particular stand out as exceptional, even for him. They are 1786’s Le Nozze di Figaro, 1787’s Don Giovanni and 1790’s Così Fan Tutte.

The reason those three stand out is because of the man who wrote the librettos. Most opera librettists don’t get a look-in – who ever raises a glass to Francesco Maria Piave? – but Lorenzo Da Ponte was a horse of a different colour. Born a Jew, Da Ponte’s father converted to Catholicism for reasons of eighteenth century expediency. Da Ponte, in an in for a penny, in for a pound moment, took holy orders, but was run out of that, and out of his home town of Venice as well, for showing a marked preference for committing sins of the flesh rather than condemning them.

Da Ponte eventually pitched up in Vienna and the court of the Holy Roman Emperor, Joseph II, known to history – insofar as he’s remembered at all – as Marie Antoinette’s Da. Joseph appointed Da Ponte as Poet to the Theatres in 1783, and that was how Da Ponte ended up sharing a desk with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart thirteen years later.

There is no question about which of the two supplied the genius in the relationship. There’s a marvellous vignette at the start of the movie Amadeus that shows just how overwhelming Mozart’s talents were in comparison to, well, just about anyone else, really. But Mozart still needed a dramatist to supply the bones on which to pin the melodies, and Da Ponte was just the man.

Figaro, Giovanni and Così are music dramas about boys meeting girls. But whereas much of opera is, by necessity, painted in broad strokes, there is a tremendous depth in characterisation and dramaturgy in those three operas that is very seldom replicated elsewhere in the canon. Da Ponte was a man of the world, one who was no stranger to fighting in the lists of love, and he was able to bring that vast experience to bear in his writing. Indeed, in the case of Don Giovanni, the greatest lover of all, Da Ponte’s own memoir of the composition of that masterpiece suggests he was just the man for the job:

A bottle of Tokay at my right, the inkstand before me, and a box of Spanish snuff on my left, I sat at my table for twelve consecutive hours. My landlady's daughter, a pretty girl of sixteen (for whom I wish I could have felt only paternal affection) came to my room whenever I called for her, which was very often, especially when it seemed to me that I was losing my inspiration.

Lock up your daughters, indeed.

Don Giovanni is the story of man who loved women, and whom women loved back. Until such time as he dumped them, of course, at which stage he invariably sends in his valet, Leporello, to clean up the mess while he himself moves on to further conquests.

The opera is subtitled “Il Dissoluto Punito, The Rake Punished,” as Don Giovanni meets his comeuppance at the end, but raking does not meet the disapproval now that it did once. Vide Colin Farrell. So a modern interpretation now sees the amorous Don as something of a Hugh Hefner of the Enlightenment, here for a good time, not a long time.

Whatever the rights or wrongs of that, the eternal human drama of boys and girls and the glory of the music remains magnificent and inviolate through the ages. Kierkegaard said he thought Don Giovanni perfect; George Bernard Shaw was obsessed with it, and wrote in a review in 1891 that he never expected to see a performance of Don Giovanni he liked in his lifetime. As the notorious old curmudgeon still had over half a century left in his span, An Spailpín hopes GBS found a production that was at least middling in the following fifty-nine years.

Opera Ireland have rather cleverly cast two brothers, Paul and Peter Edelmann, as the Don and Leporello. Leporello represents us, Joe Schmoe, in the drama. Ostensibly there as a foil to the dissolute and feckless Don, there are hints throughout the text that Leporello only wishes he had half the success himself. It will be fascinating to see how they tease it out.

Interestingly, as well as the shows in the theatre itself, Opera Ireland are broadcasting the opening night performance in two venues, the Park Inn Hotel in Smithfield Village, Dublin 7, and Meeting House Square in Temple Bar, Dublin 2. It’s a bold and praiseworthy initiative, but the scheduling is unfortunate. Because at half past five on that Saturday evening the rugby teams of Ireland and England will be having their own operatic encounter, and it may not be easy to concentrate on the opera while a gang of boozed up rugger fans razes Temple Bar.

But never mind – as a taster to the show, here’s the great Welsh baritone Bryn Terfel performing the Catalogue Aria, where Leporello reveals to a horrified Donna Elvira that she’s just a single name on a long, long list, from a performance in 1997. Enjoy.








Technorati Tags: Ireland, Dublin, culture, music, opera, Opera Ireland, Gaiety Theatre

Placido Domingo Duets with Miss Piggy

I found this on You Tube last night and it's so wonderful that I had to post it. If you're having a bad day, if you got perished at the bus stop this morning, if you're listening to a lot yakkety-yak at the office and it's three long weeks 'til payday, give yourself five minutes to listen to Placido and Piggy sing "Sometimes a Day Goes By." Fantastic.







Technorati Tags: culture, music, opera, Placido Domingo, Miss Piggy, YouTube

Aria Gettin' Outta Here!

Some culture paid a flying visit to Dublin yesterday evening. The Powerscourt Centre, for reasons best know to themselves, have decided that a spot of opera will be just the ticket to the take the consumer’s mind from the recession, and are now offering “Shopera” – a half-hour recital of operatic hits by baritone, soprano and piano.

The Powerscourt Centre itself is a Georgian house converted to a rather upmarket shopping centre. Its middle is scooped out, making it something of a well on the interior. There are rows of shops along the wall of the well, and at the bottom of the well there dining tables, where the consumer whose hunger exceeds his economics may spend five Euro on a cup of tea and a bun.

Directly opposite the till of the coffee shop there is roof which was used as a stage. A stage that contained a piano and two speakers, and, at six o’clock sharp yesterday evening, Mr John Molloy, bass-baritone, Ms. Sandra Oman, soprano, and Ms Mairéad Hurley, piano-player.

Below the artistes, a motley and disappointing assembly for what is, after all, a free show. There was a middle aged couple at the coffee bar, three ladies who had wintered not wisely but too well at a central table, and three pairs along the tables by the wall – two ladies of a certain age, two habituées of the Powerscourt Centre direct from central casting, and two Spanish ladies, who gave not a Figaro for the opera. Just inside the door there was a group of three or four, one of whom gave a thumbs up to the singers, and another of whom wore that mark of Cain that distinguishes the south Dublin middle classes – sunglasses up on his head on a dreary October evening. And in the far corner, hunched over that five pound tea meal, that caustic commentator on contemporary Irish life, His Impossible Excellency, An Spailpín Fánach.

Mr Molloy took in the house with a gaze, and decided to give the people what they wanted. He launched into Non Più Andrai from Le Nozze Di Figaro, a bravura choice to grab the audience from the get-go. Ms Oman matched him with a trilling Je Veux Vivre by Gonoud, and then they both duetted the gorgeous La Ci Darem La Mano, from Don Giovanni.

The result of the golden flow? The habituées left to go about their business, while the table next to An Spailpín was now taken by a couple who found the whole scenario most amusing. The performers gamely sang on over the crash of the crockery, tearing through Rossini, Puccini and a spot of Gershwin at the end. The applause was polite but sadly muted. Perhaps the bad summer means that Ms. Fenty’s Umbrella is the only music that has any meaning in Ireland any more.

A saddened Spailpín faced for home and went out into the night, where the smell of homeless person hung heavy on Trinity Street as the gloom descended on the city.

FOCAL SCOIR: No, I didn’t know until now that Chuck Norris sang opera either. I suppose Paul O’Connell will be at it next.





Technorati Tags: Culture, music, opera, Powerscourt Centre, Ireland, Dublin, John Molloy, Sandra Oman

Ar Son Lánúine Chun Phosadh

Tá cairde An Spailpín chun phosadh an deireadh seachtaine seo, in iarthar Chorcaí, agus, ar a son, seo Anna Netrebko ag casadh an amhráin álainn ó Le Nozze de Figaro, "Deh vieni, non tardar." Ní thaitníonn an léirigh (i Saltzburg i 2006, sílim) ró-mhór liom - an gcuirfeá do mhúinín i mo dhuine na gcleití sealbh na liathróide a ghlacadh ar son a fhairce? Ní chuirfinn ach an oiread - ach tá Netrebko ina fíor-realt agus comh gleoite go maithfidh sise aon locht. Go n-éirí leis an lánúin áthasacha uaisle go deo na ndeor.








Technorati Tags: culture, music, opera, Anna Netrebko, The Marriage of Figaro

So. Farewell Then, Luciano Pavarotti

An Spailpín Fánach loves opera, even though he seldom listens to it and certainly doesn’t fully understand it. After having a good whine for myself recently about a certain cynicism existing in modern popular music, your constant quillsman has to tip his hat to the opera boys and girls. They might diva and divo left, right and centre, but once they get up on stage they don’t mail it in. It’s a very thrilling art form, and we are correct to mourn the passing of its most famous exponent in our times.

Luciano Pavarotti told a story about his father that sums up the remarkable power of opera. Luciano’s father, who could be counted on for a few bars of a song himself, loved Beniamino Gigli, the tenor who succeeded Caruso as the greatest singer in the world. Father and son would listen to the radio, listening to Gigli singing Puccini.

And then one day, Luciano had a revelation. He was at home from school and he heard Giuseppe Di Stefano singing. Luciano was totally bowled over by Di Stefano and, when his father came home, Luciano told the old man that he had heard a new voice, Di Stefano’s, which was even better than Maestro Gigli’s.

The old man belted him. “Never say again that there is anyone greater than Gigli!” he said. Luciano said it was the only time his father hit him.

Over a singer singing a song. Go figure.

An Spailpín’s ear is far too tin to say whether Pavarotti was the best and, to be honest, if you played me Pavarotti and Domingo back to back I wouldn’t know one from another. I find the discussions fascinating, however, such as this explanation from Tom Sutcliffe’s obituary in yesterday’s Guardian as to just why Pavarotti was the King of the High C’s:

"The point was that he sang the high Cs in full voice, though Donizetti had expected them to be sung in head voice. Full voice means without any adjustment towards falsetto or even modified falsetto, the sound when the soft palette is pressed down. Head voice would have meant not going into the passagio and sustaining that sort of modified shout, which is how tenors make their top notes exciting. But Pavarotti had a relaxed natural vibrato right through, so there was no need for him to mix in any kind of lightness or lack of body at the very top: his singing was all of a piece. This ability was a sort of piratical feat, and Decca (Pavarotti's recording company) used the title King of the High Cs on a record he made. The success and fame of this achievement for a time helpfully focused his work on the bel canto repertoire in which Bonynge and Sutherland were contemporary pioneers, with roles like Arturo in Bellini's I Puritani and Fernando in Donizetti's La Favorita."

Isn’t that marvellous? Any art that displays that breadth of insight and learning has to be taken seriously.

It is true, of course, that Pavarotti was a terrible man for playing to the galley. The more srón-in-airde set of the operatic world didn’t care for the Big Man, thinking him a hopeless and irredeemable ham with the hankie-waving and the constant recitals instead of appearing on stage in actual, you know, operas. But An Spailpín won’t hold that against him. The Big Man made a lot of people happy and, while duetting with the Spice Girls or Liza with a Z might be below the salt as far as certain folks are concerned, if it brought culture to the masses it’s alright with An Spailpín Fánach. And your correspondent has to confess that, while carefully researching this as I do all my little contributions, I laughed out loud when I discovered that not only did he sing with the the likes of the Spice Girls, the Big Man also teamed up with the one group of musicians almost as eager as himself to perform anything, anywhere at any time, as long as the money is right. Singing perhaps the only song every written about a tremendous feat of civil engineering, here’s Luciano and the Chieftains, by dad, none other, giving it socks on Funiculì, Funiculà. Maestri, take it away!







Technorati Tags: Culture, music, opera, Pavarotti