ROME MAY BE ANCIENT BUT IT NEVER GETS OLD

 

A brief interim piece before I continue next month with my chronological survey of assorted opera scores. This week I decided to tackle Monteverdi’s “L’Incoronazione di Poppea” a baroque era work whose imposing reputation has tended to intimidate me. Rather than just listen to the score I decided to watch a production online. I’m glad I did. Because I don’t think the work would have taken hold of me if I’d merely listened – even after reading a plot synopsis. Initially – at least for me - the score, though solid, seemed lacking in standout arias, the kind that knock you out on first listen. The opera, set in ancient Rome, revolves around the schemes of Emperor Nero’s ambitious mistress, Poppea, who’s determined to get him to marry her and make her Empress. The version I chose was a 1979 Zurich Opera production directed by Jean-Pierre Ponnelle and  conducted by the famous Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Wow, was this a lucky choice! In the original, Nero was sung by a female, a common practice at the time. This version casts a man, in this case a tenor. Productions over the past fifty years have gone both ways, sometimes using a tenor or baritone, sometimes sticking to the original female in trousers approach. For whatever reasons, I tend to like the male casting. I prefer the complete differentiation of vocal sounds in the duets. And I guess I’m seldom convinced by women playing men. Few, as far as I’m concerned, can pull it off. Square that I am, I’m not generally a fan of spartan opera productions that update period pieces to stark modern settings, be they post-apocalyptic wastelands, cyberpunk gang war sites. space capsules or whatever. The fact that this “Poppea” mixes two distinct historical periods doesn’t bother me a whit. Because both are presented in the most eye-filling and lavish way possible. The design plan for this production is a mix of early 18^th century and ancient Roman, with the costumes all representing the former. This is very likely the way the initial cast was costumed in 1718. So I have zero problem convincing myself that it’s both pleasurable and appropriate.

Two things in particular make this “Poppea” a thrilling experience. The cast is quite wonderful. It’s always marvelous for a newbie like me to discover great operatic performers from the past, people about whom I previously had no idea. Swiss tenor Erik Tappy (who plays Nero) is a wonderful case in point. A fine actor, a handsome, commanding presence (in his red Bonnie Prince Charlie wig) and fortunately(considering who he’s playing) this man can pull out the dangerously unhinged card at a moment’s notice. He’s also a glorious singer. The score gives him plenty of opportunity to do just that and – for me - he never puts a wrong foot forward, dramatically or vocally. Another discovery for me was mezzo Trudeliese Schmidt as Ottavia, the emperor’s about to be cast off wife. At first I thought she was just an imposing beauty with a good voice – but she soon makes it clear she’s an actress of tremendous power too. Her climactic moments are just that. There’s a large cast of characters – and I’ve got to say these performers are terrific across the board. I’d have preferred a more traditionally beautiful Poppea; besotted characters are ready to kill or die for her throughout the piece. And frankly Rachel Yakar’s no Hedy Lamarr. But I can’t fault the lady’s singing. It just strikes me that several of the women around her are not just prettier but also have acting and singing chops that make me feel they should have been playing Poppea. Still, having so many talented, exciting performers on stage can’t really be considered a problem. And there’s not a moment in the score that isn’t significantly embellished by the sheer quality of the singing.

But what really astounds about “L’incoronazione di Poppea” is the libretto. It leaps across the centuries with a bristling timelessness that’s frankly Shakespearean in its impact. There are a great many supporting characters in the piece. Yet, each gets a chance to shine while displaying intriguing levels of emotional complexity. It’s hard not to feel thunderstruck when you realize all this was written more than four hundred years ago - yet still displays an absolutely up to the minute dramatic edge and potency. Motivations are multi-layered; there are no cardboard figures. The man who wrote the words is one Giovanni Francisco Busenello. And I’m certain knowledgeable opera fans already know him as a genius. But a novice like myself is just left gasping with newly minted admiration. This man absolutely knew the workings of the human mind and – luckily for us – also had a sublime ability to translate his insights into words. Had I just listened to a CD of “L’Incoronazione” instead of watching an English subtitled performance, I’d have never grasped what a towering work this is.  Apparently Busenello (a successful lawyer in Venice) didn’t write too many opera libretti – and some of them are sadly lost. But thank God we have this one. It’s a masterpiece, the wind beneath the wings of Monteverdi’s music.  I fully expect that with repeated viewings (which there will indeed be) I’ll eventually love the music too. I already enjoy and admire it.

I’ve just ordered another version of the opera on DVD. This one, a late 1970’s Glyndebourne production  directed by Peter Hall, stars the exciting  Maria Ewing (her Glyndebourne “Carmen” – also directed by Hall - is among my favourite opera DVD’s). I expect this second “Poppea” will also be impressive. But it’ll have some distance to go to match the one I’ve seen.

Here’s a YouTube link to the Harnoncourt . Enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfuFVK3TyA4

FIRST THINGS FIRST

 

Prelude

What follows is a rather haphazard collection of my own thoughts – some absurdly brief, some long and rambling – on the scores of several dozen operas I’ve discovered. Though listening to music’s always been integral for me, I came to opera very late – just a few years ago when I was already past seventy. I’ve arranged the works chronologically.  Expect no negatives reviews here. Every one of these scores delighted me.

Certainly, one purpose is to alert people who may not know this music. Consider it a random and rudimentary set of guideposts for folks feeling their way around the genre – as I myself still am.

I’m no emperor nor is anyone likely to mistake me for one. But I do realize that anyone with a genuine knowledge of music - and opera in particular - is likely to see me as strutting around emperor’s new clothes style. Raiment-free I may be – but I’m fully aware of the fact.

I know it’s presumptuous on my part to even consider writing anything on the subject of opera. My technical knowledge regarding music is negligible. When I was a child I could play “Chopsticks” on the piano. Now even that questionable skill has deserted me. Yet listening – intently listening - to music has been a vital part of my existence as long as I can remember. Not a day goes by that I don’t devote some of my time to it. For me, it’s usually very much a foreground activity, the music specifically chosen and enthusiastically ingested. I’m a playlist obsessive, organizing my listening into groupings that - when the combination’s perfect – gives me the feeling the train’s arrived at its perfect destination. And – with the playlist set – I can make that journey again whenever I choose. I suppose it makes me feel participatory. At moments I can almost convince myself I’m exercising some level of collaborative control over a genuinely magical force. I embrace the music and it embraces me back.

This first instalment includes brief comments on ten different works, all from the 17^th and 18^th centuries. I expect to continue on chronologically in future posts. Also adding some bits and bobs about exactly how I was inspired toward (or deluded myself into) putting this together.

I can’t honestly claim that this represents an altruistic urge to share my knowledge. I’d hardly even call it knowledge, just impressions of what I’ve experienced. More likely, it’s simply that my enthusiasm gives me the urge to talk about it – largely for my own enjoyment. I guess, in the end, I just wanted to leave some kind of footprint on this particular moon.

 

By the way, most of the titles I discuss below (plus the ones I expect to address in future posts) are available for free listening on YouTube. And your local library may well have CD or online versions you can borrow. It's a great cost-effective way to explore what's out there. And if you find something you feel you'd like to own, iTunes has a wealth of opera recordings for purchase. There's also Amazon where good quality used copies sometimes turn up at very reasonable prices.

 

PART ONE

L'EURIDICE(Caccini-1600)

Generally considered the first opera to be published and preserved, this lovely work recounts the Greek legend of Orpheus and Euridice but gives it a happy ending.  It’s all told in a prologue and a single act. A small cast, predominantly tenor and soprano sing in a flowing, almost conversational style that still leaves room for individual voices to shine. Ensemble portions achieve an understated majesty that’s very appealing. Echoes of liturgical and madrigal music are everywhere; the whole thing conjures up visions of torchlit castle chambers. And the vocalists are encouraged to add considerable melismatic ornamentation, gently anticipating the coloratura stylings that were to so fascinate baroque and bel canto lovers in the years to come.  All in all, a rewarding and very atmospheric musical experience. A 2008 recording by the Scherzi Musicali is especially pleasurable.

L’ORFEO(Monteverdi-1607)

Here we are once again accompanying Orpheus into the Underworld. Although not the first operatic spin on the subject, it’s the earliest one that’s still regularly performed. And - after more than four hundred years - that indicates some serious staying power. The piece was premiered at the court of Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga (Monteverdi’s patron and employer) in Mantua. The originally planned ending (which involved grieving Orpheus being wafted into the heavens by a sympathetic Apollo) was not used, apparently because the intimate space couldn’t accommodate the elaborate stage machinery necessary for the effect. Subsequent performances (in theaters) usually reinstated it. Dance and drama were crucial elements in “L’Orfeo”. But Monteverdi’s beguiling music is the show’s undoubted star, the expected influences of madrigal singing and liturgical music (for both soloists and groups) blended into a seamless thread. Buoyed, of course, by a variety of instruments – strings, harp, harpsichord, brass and bass all prominently featured. “L’Orfeo” remained popular through the first half of the 17^th century, but Monteverdi’s works drifted into relative obscurity afterwards. That begin to change a couple of hundred years later when music scholars started to rediscover and reassess the composer’s legacy. “L’Orfeo” received its first recording in 1939. But it was thirty years later when conductor Nikolaus Harnoncourt put together an LP version using period instruments. The reception was rapturous. And no wonder. This is one of the great listening experiences, bringing the music thrillingly to life. To listen is to board a time machine to the Renaissance. Suddenly you’re seated in the ducal court in Mantua, drinking in the sounds just as the original audience did in 1607. The sound quality on Harnoncourt’s recording is superb. So are the performers, instrumentalists and vocalists. One can hardly imagine a better Orpheus than Laos Kozma; the character must have a voice to enchant the gods and Kozma’s rich supple tone, coupled with a striking emotional commitment, comes as close as humanly possible to that ideal. With Monteverdi’s opera reestablished in the canon, there have been many other recordings since. But I think Harnoncourt’s is still considered the gold standard. For those just beginning their journey into opera, whatever your entry point, definitely follow your heart from there to see where it leads. But at some point you really should explore Monteverdi’s “L’Orfeo”. It’s an essential, ground-level work that – more than four hundred year’s after its first appearance – continues to delight and surprise.  

ARMIDE(Lully-1686)

An excellent version of Tasso’s story of Armida, the sorceress intent on seducing a brave Crusader. It shines with that infectious blend of the stately and the jaunty that characterizes much of the best baroque music. The stop and start quality of so many other recitative heavy works of the time isn’t present here. Every part flows seamlessly into the next.

LA DESCENTE D’ORPHEE AUX ENFERS(Charpentier-1686)

The tale of Orpheus and Eurydice was virtually the first to captivate opera composers. And over the next centuries the story remained a favourite among operatic creatives and audiences. By the time Marc-Antoine Charpentier crafted his version in the mid 1680’s, there had already been more than a dozen major opera adaptations. With countless more to follow well into the present century. During Charpentier’s life, his was only staged privately (for a gathering of French aristocrats). It’s also widely believed (though not proven with absolute certainty) that “La Descente” was not fully completed. In conventional tellings of the story, musician Orpheus travels (with supernatural aid) to the Underworld, hoping to rescue his dead fiancée, Eurydice. His singing is so beautiful, his entreaties so powerful that Pluto, the Underworld King, agrees to let him lead her back to the world. But on the strict condition that he not look at her till they’re back on Earth. Unfortunately, Eurydice’s not fully apprised of this condition. When Orpheus refuses to look back at her, she suspects he no longer loves her and is abandoning her. Her cries of distress are so wrenching that Orpheus finally turns to reassure her. The agreement broken, all ends in disaster. In Charpentier’s spin, the opera ends with Orpheus just beginning to lead Eurydice out of Hades. At which point the curtain falls. I actually find this a perfectly satisfactory conclusion (if the word conclusion, with its strong suggestions of closure, can actually be applied here). It makes me think of Steven Spielberg’s “Lincoln”. There’s a marvelous sequence in that film where we watch Lincoln and his wife, their backs to us, images inexorably receding as they embark on their ill-fated journey to the theater. The scene is stunningly composed and Spielberg certainly should have ended his movie here (he didn’t). The moment’s infused with a powerful melancholy because we know from history that Lincoln will never return. Yet the fact that we’re absorbed in watching a film gives us hope that this time the outcome will be different. Result: a prospective final image that’s profoundly resonant. I find the last moments of Charpentier’s “La Descente” to carry the same kind of implicit charge. In Gluck’s 18^th century Orpheus opera all ends in unambiguous happiness. Pluto’s so affected by Orpheus’ second loss of Eurydice that he cancels the agreement and allows them both to return to the world amid much operatic rejoicing. All ends in a mood that’s very much up but – for me – lacks the power of either the traditional conclusion or Charpentier’s beautifully unresolved ending. The 2014 CPO recording from the Boston Early Music Festival is the one I’m familiar with and it’s a honey. Fine singers across the board, excellent choral work - all supported by an exquisite instrumental ensemble. Highly recommended. As a postscript, I’d add that continued brushes with the Orpheus story have had me thinking about the Greeks’ concept of the Underworld. It’s not exactly Hell. Because almost everyone – good or bad – winds up there after they die. Certainly a few figures of colossal wickedness are met with eternal – and grisly - punishments. But the vast majority of the dead just wander rather aimlessly around a vast dimly nondescript landscape. Not the drastic inferno we usually think of as Hell. But definitely no Heaven either. Yet – just as dire eternal punishments were meted out just to an unlucky few - the Greek equivalent of Heaven, Elysium, was an exclusive country club meant only for those who’d distinguished themselves with outstanding – usually ringingly heroic – conduct during their earthly lives.  No humans joined the gods as residents of Olympus. No wonder the Christian establishment invented their own compellingly regimented Heaven and Hell concepts. Definitely the most widely efficient way to either lure us or terrify us into compliance.   

 ARSILDA REGINA DI PONTO(Vivaldi-1718)

Here’s where I fully display the Philistine nature of my tastes (though some will say I’ve been doing that all along). As I’ve stated earlier, opera is a listening rather than a viewing experience for me. I’ve watched some operas on video – and some have been splendid experiences. But I’ve seen very little opera live. Nor have I any great desire to do so. Seeing first-rate productions would require travel. And I have neither the time, money or energy to do that. Don’t even have a passport any more. But thanks to the library, to YouTube and to the occasional purchase of second-hand opera CD’s, I’ve been able to explore a wonderful (and to me) new world full of great performances by exciting artists. Performances that have been permanently preserved, usually in full sonic splendor. A key component of 17^th and 18^th century operas were the recitatives, passages set to minimal - almost static – accompaniment wherein characters usually expressed statements of intent or imparted bits of plot exposition. True afficionados of opera often treasure these as much as the showpiece arias. Not me. I suppose they have their uses if you’re watching a live performance and are determined to master plot minutiae. I’d be more likely to spend the time admiring the costumes and décor or simply enjoying the sound of the singers’ voices (if they’re good) as they basically tread water. CPO released a marvelous 3 CD set of Vivaldi’s “Arsilda” in 2004. The opera’s loaded with recitatives which – to me – operate as annoying speed bumps interrupting the flow. I almost always edit them out. What remains is an absolutely wonderful – and cohesive - listening experience, one that transports me every time I listen. It’s hard for me to imagine someone not enjoying the recitative free “Arsilda”. Strings strut, sweep and soar. Royal bursts of brass ring out. And singers perform exquisite feats of coloratura acrobatics. One of my favorite arias is Act 1’s “Perche veggo nel tuo volto” where Vivaldi’s melody delights in veering off in unexpected directions complete with deliciously spontaneous key changes. Several times in the opera sudden choral explosions materialize when you least expect them – but always to lovely effect. The whole opera’s like that rarest of things, a beautiful fireworks display that actually goes on just as long as you want it to. The plot of “Arsilda” was considered quite racy in its day. The twin sister of a supposedly deceased young king must pose as her brother to preserve the throne. And in the course of her deception must balance the romantic demands of her fiancé (a man) and her brother’s intended (a woman) who believes her to be a man. In the end the young king turns up, still alive - and after three acts of gender bending confusion the two sets of lovers pair off harmoniously. The story apparently left 1718 audiences equally scandalized and titillated. But now it’s only the music that matters. And Vivaldi’s score is like a gigantic birthday cake. A regal confection out of which fly – not four and twenty blackbirds – but an endlessly melodic array of larks and nightingales.

LES INDES GALANTES(Rameau-1735)

Rameau’s creation is something of an epic, including as it does, a prologue involving the Roman gods followed by stories about love in four different exotic locations – the Ottoman Empire, Persia, the Land of the Incas and Native North America. All well-stocked with choral interludes and dances. There’s nothing in the music that – to modern ears - would suggest the ethnic flavor of any of these locales. It’s pure 18th century European baroque. But, that said, the score is consistently appealing and buoyant. No small accomplishment in a work that’s more than three hours long. The recording I have (conducted by William Christie) incorporates period-authentic instruments. And initially the string instruments emit a dry sound that might suggest grasshoppers scraping their thoraxes together. But one soon becomes accustomed to it; in fact, the effect ultimately conveys a certain antique charm of its own.  

SIROE RE DI PERSIA(Hasse-1763)

A radiantly atmospheric piece that makes you feel like you’re gliding through the halls of some gleaming palace. Full of spectacular coloratura embellishments. A real showcase for its singers. Hasse had a magical touch.

ARMIDA(Haydn-1784)

Grand, timeless music. Haydn wasn’t the first to inject vivid new life into the old tale of the sorceress undone by love. But his take ranks among the best. There’s a marvelous recording from 2000 conducted by the esteemed Nikolaus Harnancourt and starring Cecilia Bartoli. Both come through magnificently – as does tenor Christian Pregardien, voice gleaming, as the Crusader hero Rinaldo.

LES DANAIDES(Salieri-1784)

Prepare to be swept away by this one. From opening note to final stirring chord it’s a wonderful musical experience. An orchestral prologue opens on a somber note then explodes into a fireworks display of swirling energy. A particularly beguiling snatch of melody briefly takes hold, music that will return at various points throughout the opera. The first vocalists we hear are a baritone and tenor in a back and forth duet. Both are well served by Salieri’s music. Though I have to admit some bias here. There are few things more appealing to me than the sound of a first-rate French tenor. There’s a sudden eruption of choral work; the choral element remains prominent throughout the production – another plus for me. The story’s set in the Greece of mythological times. King Danaus is involved in a bitter rivalry with his brother Aegyptus. When Aegyptus dies, his son Lynceus proposes peace. Danaus pretends to agree but has no intention of honoring the agreement. The peace terms involve the marriage of Lynceus and his 49(!) brothers to Danaus’ 50(!!) daughters, the Danaides of the title. Compared to this situation, the numerics of “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” seem like pretty small potatoes. The vindictive Danaus is further enraged by a superstitious belief that his continued survival depends on the eradication of all 50 brothers. He convinces his daughters to carry out a deadly plan. They will marry their intendeds but on the wedding night will poison each of them, Danaus’ daughters  thus becoming the instruments of their father’s vengeance. But a fly appears in the murderous ointment. One of Danaus’ daughters, Hypermnestra, falls madly in love with her bridegroom. And it’s mutual. Their main love duet, “Oublions tous les jours de peine” turns out to be the point when that delectable snatch of melody first heard in the prologue, bursts into full glorious bloom onstage. She helps him escape his fate but the two are unable to prevent the deaths of his virtual band of brothers. At this point the gods intervene. One might wish their divine ire had been roused a little sooner. But certainly the mass murder provides justification for severe punishment.  Danaus and his 49 guilty daughters are sentenced to take up permanently unpleasant residence in the Underworld. The king himself lands the not unfamiliar fate (at least in mythology) of being chained to a rock and having his entrails eternally ripped out by vultures. In its initial production, this final spectacle was staged using the very latest in 18^th century stagecraft. And apparently left audiences reeling. One can only imagine that - whatever reeling there was among the spectators – a good deal of it was of the positive sort, arising from the sheer brilliance of Salieri’s score. Aside from the magnificent vocal sections there were some extended instrumental passages that invariably hit the mark. And if these suggested images of gleaming 18^th century ballrooms rather than the columns of ancient Greece, it was still grandeur. One of Salieri’s mentors was Gluck. And probably because the music in “Les Danaides” was so splendid there was some talk at the time that Gluck, not Salieri, had actually written it. Gluck himself was quick to dispel the rumours, giving Salieri full credit. A Bru Zane recording from 2015 conducted by Christophe Rousset captures the work to flawless effect. Peter Shaffer and his 20th century play “Amadeus” may have made a concerted effort to undermine Antonio Salieri’s reputation. But a single listen to “Les Danaides” provides irrefutable proof of the composer’s genius. Operatic ambrosia.

RICHARD COEUR DE LION(Gretry-1786)

An altogether jolly entertainment based on the well-known tale of Richard the Lion Heart, captured while off crusading and hidden in a tower somewhere in Europe. A loyal knight goes searching for him, determined to sing the king’s favorite song outside every tower he can find till the captive monarch sings back. As this is storybook stuff, of course, it works. That particular song looms large over the proceedings, getting frequent repetitions. But it’s a charmer and easily bears repeated listenings. The rest of the score is also of a high standard and very atmospheric. So reminiscent of the adventures of Ivanhoe and Robin Hood you can practically smell the fresh greenwood forests.

There’s a lovely EMI recording from 1977 featuring Mady Mesples, for decades the queen of that company’s recorded operetta output. And she’s joined by some fine tenors operating in the lovely light style favored by French audiences (as opposed to the belters Italian fans tended to love). Though “Richard Coeur de Lion” is certainly accepted as an opera, it’s actually more of an operetta, with considerable spoken passages between songs. That’s included on the EMI CD. But, thanks to convenient track formatting, can be easily omitted for uninterrupted listening pleasure.