The word is in my head after The Death of Stalin. Iannucci’s film takes music and uses it in new ways. Whether we’re talking about John Hughes, Stanley Kubrick or your organist at church, the re-use of an existing piece of music is the oldest trick in the book.

Re-purposing is a new word for an old process.

The cue sheets used in silent film and melodrama are lists of instructions, usually prescribing the use of a composition that had an earlier context than the one in that melodrama or film. Last year, in the wake of Charlottesville I played a church postlude, re-purposing an existing piece of music because it seemed to fit that Sunday.

Ideally a composer can make something new that matches the required situation, whether it’s a play or an opera, or a church service. The employer may prefer something pre-existing even if there’s an available composer. At weddings and funerals we select music that’s apt for the occasion, to express love or sorrow. The recognition in hearing something we’ve heard before is part of the magic. It may jar us a bit at first, even though upon closer examination it works in its new context.

In Death of Stalin there’s a scene showing Russians lining up to pay their respects to their dead leader, Stalin lying in state while thousands upon thousands filed past to pay their respects. The choice to play a selection from Tchaikovsky was a bit unexpected, yet instantly invoked a passionate Slavic angst. I was shocked at how it grabbed me involuntarily.

Earlier in the day, I had another sort of encounter with re-purposing. I have a Mendelssohn piano book out from the library, that I chased down after hearing the piece on the radio earlier this week, his Spinning Song.  It’s a much happier piece than the one we know from Schubert, Gretchen am Spinnrade. This one is in the sunny key of C, a joyful romp really, so long as you keep it light and don’t let it spook you.  At the very least it’s joyful for the listener.

However I first knew the piece not at the piano but through its re-purposed incarnation, rather than the original (which is why I was so thrilled to hear the original on the radio). As I think I’ve probably mentioned a few times, Max Reinhardt’s A Midsummernight’s Dream is one of my favourite films, especially for Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s brilliant adaptations of Mendelssohn throughout: not just his well-known music meant for the Shakespeare play, but other Mendelssohn as well. By putting so many other Mendelssohn pieces into the film, re-purposed for the film of course, he gives his score a curious sort of integrity, similar in spirit to what I heard in the more recent Stalin film. Here’s what Korngold did with that piano spinning song, followed by another tasty bit of Mendelssohn from one of his symphonies. Korngold then segues into a series of variations / sendups of that overdone wedding march, but in a series of playful versions leading up to the climax as Oberon captures the faery boy, now neglected by the infatuated Titania.  Even Mendelssohn sounds new in Korngold’s adaptation.

Notice how the gossamer lightness of the music seems to be manifest in the spinning we see before our eyes. One wonders: did Korngold play the tune on the piano for Reinhardt, and suggest he use this music for this purpose? Which came first, I wonder.

We’ll likely never know.

Later, when Bottom & Titania are about to sleep, we hear a lullaby from Titania, as she sings “sleep thou”. As the tune proceeds, Bottom sings backup, a lovely series of perfectly in tune “hee haw” accompaniment phrases, possibly sung by James Cagney himself. I don’t think Anita Louise (Titania) actually sang the lullaby, some of the prettiest singing in the whole film (and sorry but I can’t find it in a short excerpt anywhere to illustrate; it’s in the complete film of course). Imagine my surprise, playing through my Mendelssohn book when I stumbled upon the piece –minus the lovely singer & her donkey backup singer— but now in its original piano solo. It’s a gentle Venetian Boat Song.

Everything old is new again if you find a place to re-use / re-purpose.

I’ve been listening to Jeremy Dutcher’s debut CD, Wolastoqiyik Lintuwakonawa. When I googled to try to find out what that means, the phrase “Our Maliseets Songs” came up.

Wikipedia tells me that “The Wolastoqiyik, or Maliseet are an Algonquian-speaking First Nation of the Wabanaki Confederacy. They are the Indigenous people of the Saint John River.”

I heard some of this music for the first time in a live performance back in April at the Richard Bradshaw Amphitheatre when Dutcher sang & played one of the most powerful noon-hour concerts I’ve yet seen, grabbing a copy of the CD on my way out of the RBA. I’ve been listening & reverberating to the CD ever since. If you’re interested in obtaining it, try here directly from his website.

Dutcher explained some of his subtext, his motivation. I’d never thought about Indigenous languages in terms of numbers of native speakers, but of course this is fundamental to any notion of languages that are understood as “living languages” (given that designation because people speak the language from birth, rather than as an academic exercise) as opposed to those in danger of becoming a “dead language” like Latin or Sanskrit (which are only spoken in the academic sense, as a second, third or fourth language and never from birth). But of course this is precisely the concern underlying the conversation about cultural genocide & the residential schools, where children were forcibly assimilated into our western culture while being stripped of the language & customs with which they were born & are their birthright.

Listening to this CD, it gives a whole new meaning to this idea, when one realizes that song, dance and ritual celebration were also torn away from these children. Dutcher’s album is 100% positive, a celebration of song across generations, as the talented young singer & pianist puts forth the premise that the songs –in whatever form—make the culture live.

I recall the reverence with which Dutcher circled the stage at RBA, softly drumming as he addressed the unseen in our midst as well as the seen.  The CD is several songs in different styles, but includes a brief fervent conversation that I keep listening to over and over, a reminder of his project to make the culture live. I paraphrase roughly:

“When you bring the songs back you bring the dances back
You bring the people back
You’re going to bring everything back
Music will bring you back
It will be just like when we first started.”

It’s a gently moving vision of cultural rebirth.  His work is informed by spirituality, a deep reverence for those who went before and who come to life in his work.

And speaking of incarnations, Dutcher manages to be several sorts of artist at the same time. While his singing voice is classically trained, we’re in territory closer to something like folk or even popular music, a powerful voice that is more direct and straight-forward than what you usually get from classical singing. I recall the opera of my youth, before the advent of surtitles, when it was normal to hear music in an unfamiliar language without having a clue what it means. I let it wash over me the same way I would listening to Puccini or Verdi, beautiful meaningful sounds.

The resulting creation is a curious blend, suggesting something post-modern in the way he straddles several idioms and cultures, creating a synthesis that is neither this nor that. I sense him throughout, a modern man walking on the land, with a simultaneous awareness of the new occupants of Turtle Island with whom he collaborates, and his own culture. I think of a pragmatic post-modern creation such as the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal at the ROM, a modern building that is attached to a beautiful old structure, allowing us to see old and new at once, both old and new at the same time. Another metaphor I recall is Linda Hutcheon’s notion of the palimpsest, whereby one sees through layers, to view what came before and what is overlaid in the new adaptation. Dutcher sets old songs as though putting diamonds into platinum rings, complete with the occasional sample of the original voice from long ago.

I could also mention an idea from John Ralston Saul, that Canada is a Métis country.  The most authentic Canadian music must somehow be a blend, a mix of the cultures we blend in making Canada.  I think Dutcher is enacting that blend, striving towards an ideal that is more genuinely Canadian than anything I’ve ever heard.

While I’m thinking of his music as though he’s enacting a kind of crossover, simultaneously new and old, traditional and hybrid, I am less concerned about genre & form than what’s in his heart. Above all we are in the presence of his spirituality, unmistakable throughout this album, working to bring a culture to life.

And Dutcher’s out there, performing his music. This Saturday August 18th he’s at the Grand Theatre, Greater Sudbury, Saturday September 8th at the Northern Arts and Cultural Centre in Yellowknife, Saturday November 3rd in Québec City and Saturday December 15th at The Danforth Music Hall here in Toronto. For tickets and/or information about any of these see https://jeremydutcher.com/tour/

Serendipity leads me in my choices at the library. Sometimes I get lucky.

There is so much more to Liszt than his abilities as a pianist, or his virtuoso compositions for piano such as the Hungarian Rhapsodies. Did you first encounter this music with the help of Bugs Bunny (for Rhapsody #2)?

By coincidence you may have heard that Sardanapale a Lisztian opera has been unearthed, recently completed and premiered this week. I can only go by
• what I have read online
• What I heard in the trailer

As it turns out Sardanapale is mentioned and is an important piece of subtext in one of the three recent Liszt books I’ve taken out of the library.  As I said, sometimes we get lucky.

The first of the books that I began this summer was by Joanne Cormac. When I saw the title—Liszt and the Symphonic Poem – I was hesitant: because I don’t know his symphonic poems. Is it enough to admire a composer, to like their music, even when you don’t know the works in question? I figured I’d learn something about the subject, discover a reason why I should want to listen to the symphonic poems, and perhaps find not only a new way of listening to them but even the other music of Liszt as well.

Yes there’s so much more to Liszt than just symphonic poems. For example early in the book Cormac tells us about Liszt’s ambition to be the next Donizetti, perhaps through Sardanapale and subsequent compositions. When I read this I wondered what he could be thinking. But with the completion of the work and an eventual recording of the project on the way we will have a whole different way of understanding his choices, and indeed to wonder at what might have been.

Let me repeat, there is so much to Liszt, he is still not fully understood. Cormac sheds some light on Liszt’s thinking:

Though Liszt’s decision to move to Weimar certainly raised eyebrows, it was perhaps less surprising than it first appeared. Through the 1840s, Liszt began to tire of his exhausting lifestyle and wanted to concentrate on composition…However Liszt had not won his place at the Weimar court because of his reputation as a composer, but through his virtuosic playing. The programme from his first public concert in Weimar is fairly typical of what he was generally playing for audiences at the time… He gave them what they wanted: familiar tunes and spectacle. He did not take the opportunity to showcase some of his more experimental music… Liszt would have his work cut out to convince the court to allow him to retreat from the piano and to persuade them to take him seriously as a composer. [Cormac 3]

And so while Weimar was to be Liszt’s home and base of operations, he had his sights set higher, namely Vienna, as he hoped

…that Vienna might supply a prestigious venue for the premiere of his first mature opera, Sardanapale, which he was working on at the time. Liszt’s letters show that in 1846 he was hopeful of taking up Gaetano Donizetti’s post, for the great opera composer was gravely ill. Nonetheless, Donizetti retained the post until his death in 1848. Timing was not on Liszt’s side, though it is doubtful whether he would have been offered such a prestigious post even if it had become available given his inexperience as a conductor. Equally, the absence of a successful opera in his compositional portfolio did not make him an obvious successor Donizetti. [5]

Based on conventional wisdom about Liszt, his strategy would be something akin to arrogance: unless one could hear reason to believe that he could write an opera (as this recording might help us to better assess & understand). However it came about that Liszt had his reality check, in rethinking his Viennese ambitions and turning instead towards a more realistic goal –namely the Weimar position—Sardanapale is again a likely subtext.

Cormac explains:

It was not until February 1848 that he decided to take up the post full time. At this point Liszt still retained hopes of completing Sardanapale and launching his career as a composer, and Weimar had a theatre, albeit small one. It also offered a place where he might experiment and refine his craft. He could safely premiere his new works on a small stage in relative obscurity before taking them to Vienna and other more prestigious venues. [6]

What happened? Weimar and the requirements of the job, first of all, and a change of heart. The book tells us about the symphonic poems while

From 1851 progress on Sardanapale slowed. The project had previously featured heavily in Liszt’s correspondence, but now disappeared completely. Instead Liszt’s thoughts turned increasingly to his orchestral series.[8]

And yes, that’s precisely what the book is really about, a profound shift in attitude & focus. I know only one of the baker’s dozen of symphonic poems, namely Les Preludes, troubled by the piece’s associations with the Third Reich.

I remember reading somewhere that it was one of Hitler’s favourites. But aside from that warhorse, I don’t know the others at all.

What I’m finding especially fascinating in this book is that it’s not just musicology. We’re instead dealing with a multi-disciplinary study, embracing all the different aspects of Liszt’s life, all the different hats he was required to wear in Weimar. And so while we see Liszt turn away from his own Sardanapale score he is still involved with operas composed by others.  Cormac gives a modern flavor to some of the descriptions, in her analysis of the kinds of pressure in adaptations of Gluck for 19th century audiences.

The symphonic poems are settings of a variety of literary subjects & themes.  I realize now that I must study further. And so I’m persuaded, as Cormac has not only given me a rationale for taking Liszt more seriously as a composer, but makes me want to circle back to read her analyses when I have had a chance to explore the other symphonic poems.

Yes indeed, I’m hooked.

Tonight was the opening night concert of the 2018 Ashkenaz Festival at Koerner Hall, an unforgettable evening of Yiddish culture titled “Yiddish Glory: The Lost Songs of World War II”.

For awhile Soviet scholars worked to assemble an archive of the songs of the Yiddish resistance to the Nazis, comprised of men, women & children. While Stalin is spoken of heroically in many of the songs, Stalin is himself lurking villainously as subtext for the story, as the political winds shifted, the scholars were all arrested, and their work presumed lost: until miraculously it turned up in the 21st century.

I’m proud of this on so many levels:
• As a Torontonian
• As a guy with some allegiance to Jewish culture, still trying to figure it all out. While I was brought up Christian I look Jewish enough that people jump to conclusions based on the size of my nose.
• As a fan of thorough multi-disciplinary scholarship, and as an alumnus of the University of Toronto, whose presence in this concert was front & centre.

Professor Anna Shternshis

Yiddish Glory was a musical & dramatic event but I feel first & foremost that it’s a careful work of history. Violinist Psoy Korolenko and Professor Anna Shternshis, ( Professor of Yiddish Studies at the U of T’s Centre for Jewish Studies) are called the “creators of the project” in the program, work that is at once curatorial & dramaturgical.

There is an album of these songs available.

What we got tonight was so much more than that, and ideal as Shternshis presented contextual introductions to many of the performances, like a dramaturg explaining the framework for what had been assembled for us. I don’t know the extent of Korolenko’s role in preparation, except that he’s mentioned as “matching music to archival texts”, which in some cases meant re-purposing music for the project.

Some songs are satirical, as Hitler turns up a few times. Some are bleak, despondent, sad. But the overall contour is hopeful, as the Soviets and Stalin are beating Hitler & the Nazis. Tonight we were hearing songs that have not been heard before, brought to light by scholarship & good fortune. I can’t help wondering if at least part of the reason that these songs survived—in spite of Stalin’s purge of the historians preserving them in the USSR—is because Stalin is so often spoken of as a hero, as the beloved leader. I’m reminded of the scene in The Death of Stalin, that I saw so recently, when the peasants arrived for his funeral, heart-broken at the death of this murderous S.O.B. (I apologize to any canines who might be offended at the usage). Throughout the concert we’re hearing great things about Stalin & the Red Army, and ridicule of Hitler & the Nazis.

Excuse me that it’s almost an afterthought to mention the brilliance of the singers & instrumentalists, whose music was given such depth by the background we were given by Shternshis. Korolenko was inevitably star of his own show, aided by a fabulous band, including Sergiu Popa on accordion, Mikhail Savichez, guitar, Beth Silver cello, trumpeter David Buchbinder and Sir Julian Milkis, clarinet. There were some last minute substitutions so I may not have all the names correct.  It was a colossal labour of love, a collaboration among lots of eager and thoughtful individuals. Sasha Lurie was fortunately available as a substitute for Sophie Milman, who you can see on the video but who was unwell tonight and unavailable.  Sergei Erdenko did the arrangements, for example.  While the opening included a long list of thank you’s for funding, this was somehow different, as the expressions of gratitude, the explanations of the origins were important, vital acknowledgements.

My thoughts drift to another project, the Jeremy Dutcher album I wrote about recently, also seeking to preserve a language & culture.  There seems to be a natural alliance there, so many parallels.

The songs are in my head already, but I need to get that CD . The 2018 Ashkenaz Festival continues until Sept 3rd.

Tonight’s event at Lula Lounge from Tongue in Cheek Productions was not your typical song cycle.

Yes we did get the 24 songs in Schubert’s romantic Winterreise, or “winter journey”.  But instead of a single singer going along that cold lonely pathway of angst & self-exploration, we heard 24 different men.

The press release prepared us this way:

“Founded by Toronto-based baritones Aaron Durand and Michael Nyby, Tongue In Cheek Productions aims to add a twist to the traditional idiom of classical performance by bringing an element of humour, irreverence, and whimsy to the concert stage. For Winterreise, instead of one singer presenting the entire cycle in a solemn recital hall, twenty-four singers will perform one song each in the festive atmosphere of Lula Lounge. “We wanted to do something memorable for our launch,” explained Nyby. “What better way than to get as many artists involved as possible.”

I had so many responses to the concert, I was tempted to come up with 24 different observations, which is one of the meanings of the headline (as I remembered one of my favourite send-ups of deconstructive exercises). More literally, though, we had 24 different singers, each singing one of the songs in the cycle.

It may be early in the fall season but I was surprised at the turnout.  Joseph So of Opera Canada and Greg Finney of Schmopera, Guillermo Silva-Marin, Henry Ingram, and lots of singers, Wendy Nielsen of the Canadian Opera Company & University of Toronto, Julie Nesrallah of the CBC.  Yet I wonder:  hmm were any Toronto baritones in attendance (perhaps we’d count Greg) who weren’t actually singing?  If you’re a Toronto baritone and weren’t in this show, you would feel as left out as if you were a three-year old colt on the sidelines, watching rather than running in the Kentucky Derby.  You may think it’s a silly analogy, but we were in the presence of a great deal of testosterone, manly energy.

Any opera or song cycle combines a story / text and the performers who would bring it to life.  When it’s a single singer undertaking the 24 songs, we experience something like a marathon, an endurance test of singing.  Changing that to 24 singers each singing one? The feat becomes more akin to a relay race, each of the runners taking the baton and going full out for their little portion of the race, with nothing held back.

But of course that would only apply if this were a series of songs sung full out. In fact many of Schubert’s songs call for subtleties, nuanced expression.

Just as there are 50 ways to leave your lover, there are at least 24 ways to sing about it (note, in Schubert’s cycle the leaving has already been done by the beloved).

I recall a conversation on the opera listserv back in the 1990s, when I suggested that in a real sense the role of Violetta changes, becoming so different, one act to the next, that it calls for a different sort of singer in each act, and might be better in some ways if we had –for example—Callas for Act III, Cotrubas for Act II, or Sutherland for Act I.  Feel free to quibble with the choices, naturally, to each their own.  My point was that in any big work, there are not only multiple solutions to the problems posed by a text, but different ideals we might point to. For the pure bel canto, we’d favour one singer, whereas in the scenes calling for drama, a different singer, etc.

And I’m sure you’ve heard that while one woman is expected to sing Brunnhilde in her three operas of the Ring, one man sing Wotan in his three operas, or one man for the two Siegfrieds: they’re quite different, one from the other, and might benefit from different casting, recognizing –for example – the killer tessitura of the Siegfried Brunnhilde, so different from her other appearances.

And in this case? 24 songs, perhaps benefiting from the multiple voices & styles.  Nyby & Durand turn up, likely singing their favourite song.  Many other songs were well served by the variety, the change of tone, let alone the change of body language, intensity, style. Some were perfectly in tune, perfectly attuned to Schubert & to the pianism of Trevor Chartrand.  

I remember discussing as aspect of taste with my brother, baritone Peter Barcza, just a few days ago. He was talking about preferences, how some people might say Leonard Warren is the greatest baritone ever, while others –him for instance—would say it’s Robert Merrill.  There are differences of opinion as to what the ideal baritone sounds like, whether it should be dark or light, big & loud or smooth & lyrical.  I remember too he was chuckling as to what to do if as a teacher, you encounter someone with a different notion of what is ideal.  Arguably that’s a really important conversation. But here we were, listening to so many different ideas of what a baritone can and should sound like.  It was a bit like being in a fabric store looking at swatches, timbres laid next to one another arbitrarily different because a new singer must sing. And how perfect, in a way, that this deconstructs the cycle, injecting another sort of variety. And I couldn’t help wondering: whose Winterreise were we hearing? 24 different songs, but filtered by Chartrand, whose sure hand guided us wonderfully, without a slip or mistake as far as I could tell.

I felt we were in a kind of laboratory, studying this cycle, studying all cycles.

I sat at the same table with Joseph So, exchanging quips sometimes between songs.  I couldn’t help feeling that in some respects our conversation was a lot like the one underlying the presentation itself. There we were in Lula Lounge, a venue that might seem singularly inappropriate for classical music, at least if one is accustomed to silence & respect every moment, not clinking glasses and the bustling of waiters bringing patrons their food & drink.  If this radical rethink of the work was aiming for a conversation with convention, then it was a success, judging by what we discussed.

For example, at the end of the first song: the audience burst into applause.  Naturally, this is not what we usually get in a concert: where applause is held to the end. And the cycle was divided in two, allowing for an intermission in the middle.  When I started clapping Joseph glared at me disapproving, saying something like “there shouldn’t be applause between the songs”.  I grinned, surrounded by other shit-disturbers.  I think we all knew it’s not how Schubert is usually done: which made it that much more enjoyable, being naughty.

But it became more intense, when some performances drew bravi from the crowd.

I wonder, what was it like at a Schubertiad?  Audiences were much noisier in bygone centuries, but for most of the past centuries theatres were lit rather than darkened as now (and only since Wagner’s time).  In Schubert’s day encores were called for and given.  We live in a very different sort of time, audiences conditioned to behave themselves, stifling spontaneity.  I can’t help thinking that in some ways this venue with the exuberance, the noise & distractions might in some respects capture some aspects of authentic concert life, as it might have been lived in the first decades of the 19^th century.

There were some other variations, too.  Doug McNaughton gave us a song on guitar, without piano, without shoes, and yet: captivating.  The next song to open the second half was somewhat ironic, Keith Lam giving us the emotional contours of “Die Post”, the piano imitating not just the posthorn but also the singer’s heart-beat rhythm.  24 singers meant some emphasizing voice, some emphasizing expression & body-language, to dramatize as much as making music.  The balance was different in every song, and none is wrong of course. They’re all different. The variety was captured brilliantly by the changing personnel.  Some stood. Some glared. Some under-played.

In case you can’t tell, I loved it.  Tongue in Cheek Productions promise something on the other side of the gender divide next time, although they didn’t tell us much more.  If you’d like to read about them & their Winterreise, including the names and bios of the singers who participated, check this out.

After experiencing the 24 man deconstructed Winterreise from Tongue in Cheek Productions, I’ve had all that Schubert rattling around in my head the past couple of days. Given that I had to return a couple of books anyway, to the Edward Johnson Building’s library at University of Toronto’s Faculty of Music (an amazing collection) –because they were due and I had used up all my renewals—I thought to find Franz Liszt’s version, a mere dozen songs transcribed for piano rather than the full 2 dozen.

This one is a Dover edition from the 1990s, with big easy-to-read notes, in a clear impression.

They included original title pages for each song to add to the sense of authenticity.

I played through the cycle, gently, as it was the evening. I kept it absolutely as quiet as possible even on the pages with fff dynamics. I can come back to them later, play them full volume next time. I was trying to honour what I had in my head from the cycle a couple of nights ago.

As I played I tried to imagine what it must have been like when it appeared. In 1828 Franz Schubert died at the age of 31. His cycle Winterreise was published the same year.
And so as I mull it over, please excuse me if this seems somewhat literal-minded, plodding through the score and the history. While they lived a long time ago, for Liszt who was born in 1811, Schubert was a near contemporary. Think of someone who is 14 years older than you. Is that a huge gap? But given Liszt’s longevity (so different to Schubert) we think of him as an early modernist composer (in his maturity) and a romantic virtuoso spoken of in the same breath with Chopin, Mendelssohn & Schumann, as if they were of totally different periods. In 1828 when Schubert died, Liszt was 17 years old. From 1839-40 Liszt transcribed the cycle for the piano, in other words, when he was close to the same age as Schubert at the time the originals were composed. Schubert composed in 1827-28, when he was 30-31. Liszt would turn 30 in 1841.

Now to picture the experience, we need to forget everything we’ve discovered from recordings. In the 1840s there was no such thing, no CDs no youtube no victrolas no wax cylinders. Liszt would help popularize music with his transcriptions. And of course it worked for him too, not just because it gave him something to play but because he could wrap himself up in the prestige of the composers he transcribed.

Beethoven: nine symphonies that are ubiquitous now, but at that time? Mostly unknown, although aha that’s where Liszt came in.

Berlioz: his Symphonie Fantastique that will be presented next week by the Toronto Symphony? Likely would have lain unknown at least for awhile without Liszt’s help.

Schubert: many songs were turned into piano compositions, popularizing the melodies.

I couldn’t help wondering about Liszt’s taste, his choices in the transcriptions of the Winterreise songs. In places the reproduction is accurate & under-stated. But in other places there are lots of extra notes, as though Liszt were in a czukrazda (a Magyar sweet shoppe), insisting it be served mit Schlag, in effect burying the song as though it were a cake under a small mountain of extra whipped cream. Did he feel that the bare melody couldn’t work without the extra embellishments? But he likely had never seen the cycle enacted, had no experience such as we have of a Prey or a Schreier or a Fischer-Dieskau.

If you don’t trust the simple goodness you overdo it with the extra decoration.

This might explain why some people roll their eyes at me when I speak adoringly of Liszt. But the man was bringing something unknown to the world, a popularizer who thought he knew best.

Hindsight is 20-20 of course.

There’s so much to know about some repertoire, a little flash of insight about this song or that role can get lost in the massive store-house of knowledge.

It used to be said among my circle of friends at university that Wagner was the third biggest subject in libraries after Jesus & Napoleon. I wonder now, was that English only? Were China & India included? And have more recent famous figures –such as the Beatles or Donald Trump –possibly pushed Wagner out of that position (if he ever had it)?

I enjoy working with singers, if you can call making music “work”.

I had two very distinct revelations today, one concerning a Sibelius song, the other concerning a Wagner solo (some might call it an aria). Both insights come to me courtesy of Margarete von Vaight. You may recall an interview I did with her awhile ago. She has recently returned to Toronto after a trip to Europe.

The photo might hint at the whimsy that’s possible in a tiny room with a piano & some scores, especially when the voice is larger than life.

Margarete captioned her photo “the singer as critic”

I have loved Jussi Bjorling’s version of Sibelius’s song “Svarta Rosor” since childhood, a song I didn’t understand: even when I read a translation.

And I enjoyed the way Margarete sang it in our session this week. I don’t speak Swedish, so I’ve been experiencing this song since childhood, without really knowing what it’s about. It’s a puzzling text. Here it is, courtesy of http://www.lieder.net (who you should support if you can).

Josephson’s original poem:

Säg hvarför är du så ledsen i dag,
Du, som alltid är så lustig och glad?
Och inte är jag mera ledsen i dag
Än när jag tyckes dig lustig och glad;
Ty sorgen har nattsvarta rosor.

I mitt hjerta der växer ett rosendeträd
Som aldrig nånsin vill lemna mig fred.
Och på stjelkarne sitter [tagg]1 vid tagg,
Och det vållar mig ständigt sveda och agg;
Ty sorgen har nattsvarta rosor.

Men af rosor blir det en hel klenod,
Än hvita som döden, än röda som blod.
Det växer och växer. Jag tror jag förgår,
I hjertträdets rötter det rycker och slår;
Ty sorgen har nattsvarta rosor.

In English, the refrain (“Ty sorgen har nattsvarta rosor”) roughly translates as “for grief has roses black as night”.  Svarta rosor, which is of course also the title, means “black roses”.

I never understood what this might signify, other than emotions of sadness, grief. It simmers with passion that explodes in the last phrase, whether it’s a soprano or a tenor singing that line.

Margarete offered some additional insight. I wonder indeed what Bjorling might say (were he alive) if he knew that for the Finnish Sibelius, writing this song in Swedish, there were other possible ways to read the symbolism? The mysterious & inexplicable grief she suggested that underlies the song, is politics, history. We know of Sibelius’ nationalist voice. She saw the song as an expression of the grief of oppression, a tightly controlled well-articulated anger within that context.

It certainly changes my understanding of the song to consider this added dimension, to say nothing of my respect for Sibelius…(!)

I had always wondered about what it really means., mysterious and incomprehensible, the explosion of pain & rage at the end of the song.  It makes no sense to me, without something like Margarete’s additional subtext.

Her reading of it that she sang was tightly controlled, punctuated by a powerful last phrase. It was especially overwhelming in the tiny studio.

Dare I say it: I think I get the song now.

We also went through parts of Wagner’s opera Lohengrin. I sang a bit of it –when she asked me—but that was after she was done in the whimsical selfie posted above, after a ferocious bit of singing. People don’t always recognize the physical effort involved in singing but it’s perfectly clear when the sound is overwhelming. In passing, I think I understand Ortrud better than ever before.

I have been blessed with opportunities to hear Margarete’s voice at close range, including some of the most difficult soprano passages you can imagine:
• “Dich teure halle” from Tannhaüser
• The hojotoho cries at the beginning of Act II of Die Walküre
• “In questa reggia” from Turandot (bet you thought she only sings Wagner)
• Both of the big arias from Ariadne auf Naxos
• Isolde’s Liebestod as well as much of the Siegfried Brunnhilde

A soprano wouldn’t usually sing more than one of these at a time, but her voice is not the usual kind of voice.

I think what I heard this time fits her better than anything else she’s sung. I say that thinking of both the text and the singing: namely the big pieces from Ortrud:
• “Entweihte Götter” from Act II
• “Fahr’ heim” near the end of Act III (which she sang only partially…I recall some giggling and laughter too)

When we’re not making music, I might be hearing about engineering or some other aspect of her life. She is charming but speaks very directly, the quintessential example of a no BS person who tells it like it is. That quality is what came through in her Ortrud, a character who sometimes turns Lohengrin into something melodramatic, unsubtle. If her singing isn’t really excellent the opera becomes two dimensional. She is in some respects like the character Iago who must seem trustworthy to be trusted by Otello, even though we heard of evil plans. Unless those extremes can be reconciled, you make everyone else on stage look naïve. The other Ortruds I’ve heard scream their way through the part.

Margarete showed me another way to sing it, very much like the directness of her Sibelius.  The first time I started playing she giggled something about my forte.  I played louder: because I needed to be louder, much louder. Wow. Yes the singing was powerful but without the wobbling or struggling one gets from some singers. I have never heard such powerful singing sound so easy.

I’ve never heard such a big voice up close. My ears were ringing for awhile afterwards.  It was pretty amazing.

I’m responding as much to the serendipity of timing as anything else.

• Recreational marijuana becomes legal in Ontario next month.
• The Toronto Symphony are about to begin their 2018-19 season with Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique.

Is there a connection? I think so.

Let me start by sharing the first link I got when I googled “Symphonie Fantastique drugs”, namely a fascinating essay (originally broadcast on the BBC in 2002) titled “OPIUM AND THE SYMPHONIE FANTASTIQUE”.

Please note, I am not making the same connection that Mike Jay would make.

So before I speak of Berlioz & his music, let’s talk about the word “recreation”, which underlies its usage when we speak phrases such as “the legalization of recreational drugs.”

The dictionary definition is misleading. Don’t get me wrong, I like fun as much as the next guy. The first one that came up when I asked google for “definition of recreation” was “activity done for enjoyment when one is not working.”

When we ask google for the etymology rather than definition, we get closer to my understanding of the word. The word literally means to create again, to renew.

Let me give you my personal history, and you may notice a connection to Hector Berlioz.

As a child the gym was a place I did not frequent, as I was a chubby kid, awkward. I had some fun in the gym but I understood recreational exercise as something other people did: especially the thin attractive ones.

Then a funny thing happened. I got sick. The first time the doctors had no clue. I spent my 20s and early 30s believing that I was either nuts or the doctors would never figure out what was wrong. I was finally diagnosed in 1990, after my 35th birthday, by Doctor Charles Bull. It was very cool to be able to say he was Hulk Hogan’s doctor, Wayne Gretzky’s doctor: and also my doctor.

He spotted the ankylosing spondylitis first time he saw me, from my funny posture.  Dr Bull prescribed NSAIDs, which I no longer take as of 2016, but which made my life at least possible after 1990. And he also prescribed exercise, with the goal of protecting me.
My relationship with the gym changed. Suddenly I needed to exercise, and recreation was literally going on every time I went to the gym: as it does to this day. This was not just fun and games, it was recreation in the truest sense of the word. As Dr Bull explained it, I was to build a layer of protective muscle.

In 2016 I switched from strong drugs that –after so many years –were threatening to roast some of my internal organs. There had been times when my complexion was yellow verging on green, my hands a funny colour too, likely as a symptom of a liver being over-worked filtering the NSAIDs. I had begun taking CBD oil, with occasional doses of oils containing THC when I needed something stronger. I was taking them under the direction of my doctor, who directed me to a clinic that was prescribing as well as gathering research data on people like me: because this is all relatively new.

Do you see why I might quibble with the word “recreational”? My CBD oil, like my exercise, were for the re-creation of my health, re-creating me. And so yes they are recreational, even if the law’s understanding of recreation is “fun” rather than “therapy”, a crucial difference.

But here’s the thing. When Hector Berlioz was suffering from stress or anxiety in his youth, and took laudanum to make himself feel better, was he taking it medicinally or recreationally? At the time no one had made this artificial split between the medicinal and the “recreational” (meaning that modern usage of “activity done for enjoyment when one is not working.”)

What I believe will be noticed in Ontario over the next few months,  is that the casual user seeking enjoyment will also get the health benefits. Relaxation is a good thing, right? Lots of my friends have back pain and knee pain, indeed it’s a normal part of aging, right? I sometimes joke that the good thing about my arthritis was the way it gave me a soft-landing on aging.  I think cannabis will be helpful, therapeutic, even when people are simply after the fun of a “high”.

Nowadays people are so hypersensitive to dependency that we throw the word “addiction” around casually, perhaps not respecting the seriousness of the word. We speak of someone addicted to CNN or chocolate or blondes, when of course we mean a preference or enjoyment. Perhaps Berlioz became addicted to laudanum, over-using it and becoming dependent. But there’s’ no precise record and the language for such things didn’t exist yet.

When Berlioz took laudanum I believe he was performing recreation in the sense I have described for my own therapeutic purposes, trying to make himself feel better. Symphonie Fantastique is a work of art and shouldn’t be mistaken for a diary entry or a documentary film. But it’s worth contextualizing it. Berlioz’s SF is an example of the early romantic sensibility, that I’d put alongside Coleridge’s poem “Kubla Khan”, another work where drugs create a dream that is then remembered. As in Jane Austen’s youthful novel Northanger Abbey fancy is itself framed within a larger saner world that does not accept those fantasies. What we hear of was in the head of an imaginative fanciful person, explicable by an over-active imagination OR the drugs that induce a nightmare / hallucination. That contrasts to the pure fantasy of the high romantics: that would come later.

This is highly personal for me, given that I see exercise as recreational, in the sense that it’s both fun AND re-creates me, as a kind of therapy. And ditto for cannabis. CBD is safer than THC as far as levels of intoxication / impairment, so I stick mostly to the CBD oils, with the THC ones for weekends when pain becomes un-endurable, when I don’t have to drive, when I am trying to loosen things up. When the laws change next month, it needs to be recognized that however much doctors are involved, the “recreational” use of cannabis as most people understand it will always be helping people as well as leading them to fun. I But I don’t approve of anyone seeing any drug as a roller coaster ride. You must recognize that YOU are the roller coaster. YOU will be changed by the experience and can’t get off the ride, because you ARE the ride. This might be why some people experience paranoia, fear, anxiety, when they are stoned. One must surrender to it, trust it. And even if you have dreams like the ones in Berlioz’s SF there is a morning after.

Berlioz remains my favorite composer. Long ago I made my first acquaintance with the SF, on record and later in Liszt’s transcription for piano. The great thing about the Liszt is how it sometimes lays bare the ways that Berlioz takes us inside the druggy experiences of the SF.

Let’s set aside the last two movements, where we are obviously inside the nightmare, the druggy fantasy. I find the first movement remarkable for its intimations of what’s to come.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the song “Die Post” and its heart-beat rhythms. There are other songs with a pulse, for instance the coda to Beethoven’s 3rd piano concerto just after the cadenza. All well and good, but when did a composer ever insert a fevered pulse, a pulse that sounds obsessive or crazed? I think we have that in “Reveries – Passions”, the first movement to SF. Let me show you a bit of Liszt’s transcription, as this is the easiest way to zero in on what Berlioz was doing.

The first time we hear the main theme, that Berlioz called an idée fixe, it may be literally just that. In Liszt’s transcription we can see something resembling a duet:

• A high theme in the strings (“espressivo con passione”), a melody that is an idea, and arguably in the head
• Below (“agitato sotto voce”) vibrations, shivers, palpitations? Arguably the body in which those ideas are happening

If you listen to this passage, you may notice that, as the tempo increases naturally so does the tempo of the beats, which we might think of as the heart-rate of the artist whose story is being told.

At times Berlioz is simulating the passions of his protagonist, for instance in this pair of examples below, where
1) we see the repeated chords (ff) that build suspense & excitement (top line),
or
2) in the frenetic racing from top to bottom of the staff and back (look at those notes looking like a literal chase across the page further below), punctuated by sudden spearing notes, agonized.

That frenzied duet I illustrated with the first picture recurs in an ever more frenetic form this time with the pulsing coming from above and below, the theme sandwiched in between. I have been listening to this since my teens and never fail to be astounded at what Berlioz achieved here.

Please listen to it if you can and tell me you can’t sense a heart beating, and ever faster as the tempo picks up.  This passage is right at the beginning of this youtube sample from Seiji Ozawa’s Toronto Symphony recording of the SF that I had as a teen.

The Toronto Symphony has been in the news this week with the announcement of a new music director. Great. But I’m more interested, or perhaps you would say obsessed, by the upcoming concert, the return of Andrew Davis to the podium. There are other pieces on the program Sept 20, 21 and 22, but as you can probably tell I’m especially interested in hearing the Symphonie Fantastique at Roy Thomson Hall.

Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra are at Koerner Hall this week. I can’t be the only one noticing the parallel between the title of tonight’s concert (“Mozart 40”) & a historical note in the program (“Tafelmusik at 40”) Perhaps its an accidental echo in programming Mozart’s 40th Symphony in the orchestra’s 40th year.

There is surely cause for celebration, listening to this self-assured ensemble, a prudent organization who have not over-extended themselves. So many performing arts ensembles have precarious existences & big debt. Tafelmusik appear to be safe. They sell lots of tickets and have a huge following. Their collection of media, both audio and video recordings is increasing.

And their choice of repertoire is slowly growing, edging ever closer to the more recent centuries.

Tonight’s all-Mozart concert was rapturously received.  We heard two concerti, a symphony plus a brief curtain raiser, all in Tafelmusik’s trademark style. Theirs is a gentle sound, softer than many you’ll hear playing baroque or classical on authentic instruments in a historically informed style. They underplay in their intimate venues, encouraging us to listen closely to their sweet sound.

Music director Elisa Citterio was soloist in the K 218 Violin concerto in D major. Pieces like this are important for the growing relationship between her and her ensemble, both for the ways in which she signals & they follow, whether facing the audience or the ensemble, making eye contact or being followed by their close observation of her. It’s still the honeymoon I’d say, the facial expressions from various players at different times a big part of the experience. In the slow movement there are moments of great beauty. Citterio’s cadenzas are witty commentaries upon the work, rhetorical and bold.

After the interval we heard guest bassoon soloist Dominic Teresi in the concerto K 191 in B-flat major. Teresi’s sound is unlike any I’ve ever heard. While he has the agility you’d expect from a modern instrument, which is to say fast & accurate when necessary, the tone on his instrument is much softer than what you get on a modern bassoon. He has a legato that shapes the slower phrases as though it were a singing voice, but of a dark burnished colour. In places the a piacere approach he took with the ensemble was very theatrical, keeping us at times on the edge of our seats.

Dominic Teresi performs Mozart Bassoon concerto K 191 with_Tafelmusik. Notice the eye contact. (Photo: Jeff Higgins)

To close we heard the well-known Symphony #40 in G minor. Citterio’s reading is not like their recording led by Bruno Weil, as she employs some of the same theatricality I observed in the concerti.

At times –for example when we went from the first to the second subject in the finale—the orchestra was following Citterio closely –with exquisite eye contact—as there were rhetorical pauses. While the tempi were quick, it was though we were taking a breath, pausing for a moment’s reflection before plunging back in.

When I think back on the recording I grew up hearing, namely Karl Bohm leading the Berlin Philharmonic, it was all perfect & clean: but just a bit too serious, a bit too determined. From the first note, we were hearing thematic material, notes that are part of the construction of the piece. Okay, don’t get me wrong. It’s the same piece played by Tafemusik under Citterio. But it’s a living thing, as though being thought of in the moment, the way a good actor delivers it. Those opening notes were soft & understated, so that when we get the big climactic answers from the full orchestra there’s truly a sense of question and answer: uncertainty in the air. That sense of risk & adventure suits me just fine and seems truer to the spirit of the piece.  When we were in the gorgeous slow movement, I noticed how adventurous the chromaticism of this piece seems, at least for its time. I like it when music from the 18th century seems new, adventurous.
And Citterio and Tafelmusik are on an adventure together.

The Mozart program is repeated this weekend, and then Tafelmusik will be back mid—October for “Vivaldi con amore” at Trinity-St Paul’s Centre & George Weston Recital Hall.

A very long time ago I was a Toronto Symphony subscriber watching Andrew Davis conduct the TSO. We’re both much older now. Tonight’s concert at Roy Thomson Hall was the launch of a new season with a new leader stepping back into his former role.

Here’s how his bio begins on the TSO website:

“Sir Andrew Davis is the Conductor Laureate of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra where he was previously the Orchestra’s Music Director from 1975 to 1988.”

The orchestra might be 100% different than it was back then. I’d have to check if anyone in the current ensemble was around at the time, but some of the players (such as concertmaster Jonathan Crow, associate principal trombone Vanessa Fralick or principal double bass Jeffrey Beecher) look so young that they probably weren’t even born yet, as of the mid-70s, 43 years ago.

In this the first week of the post-Peter Oundjian era, we will remember some of his achievements, whether it’s the gifted group that Oundjian assembled & mentored, or initiatives such as the New Creations Festival, that featured premieres such as Jacques Hétu’s Variations concertantes, commissioned a dozen years ago by the TSO and dedicated to Oundjian.

And yet they’ve moved on. There was no sadness but a tone of joyful celebration. This TSO already knows Davis and have even recorded Handel’s Messiah with their Conductor Laureate in his bold brassy edition . This week at least we heard much more of the same, between the Hétu & a pair of powerful works by Hector Berlioz, as the orchestra seemed to be having a great time.

Sir Andrew Davis conducts Berlioz (photo: Jag Gundu)

We began with the Fantasy on Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a part of Berlioz’s sequel to Symphonie Fantastique. The sequence tonight is perhaps a big clue as to why Lelio is rarely programmed, and certainly never done as Berlioz imagined, after Symphonie Fantastique. While the Fantasy features lovely inventive timbres, especially the delightful combination of chorus & four-handed piano to open the piece, it wouldn’t work: because nothing can really follow that magnificent work on the same evening without seeming to be an anti-climax. I think it’s a big deal to hear this music (meaning the Fantasy) at all: but of course it was programmed to begin the concert rather than to follow the Symphonie Fantastique. Yes the ‘return to life’ might be an interesting concept after the nightmarish final two movements, but it’s nowhere near as theatrical or exciting in comparison.

The Hétu Variations concertantes are not out of place in this program, alongside what might be the single most original piece of orchestration in history. Yet Hétu’s recent piece stands up very well in comparison, possibly because Davis boldly exploited the score’s contrasts for dramatic effect. The work features sections where much of the orchestra would be like a pianist, accompanying with big extended chords that are almost jazzy, while solo instruments such as flute or piccolo or bassoon veer in and out of harmony. I was mindful of so many prototypes, from Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra in the back and forth between big groups and small, but also Shostakovich or Mahler for the soulful melodies. This was much more than Canadian content, and served to honour both the composer & the dedicatee, namely  Oundjian.

After the interval came the roller-coaster ride we’d been waiting for aka the piece I wrote about earlier this week. Davis brings a subtlety to the podium that is much needed. In any of the large build-ups that Berlioz wrote, where you see a minute or two of gradual crescendo & gradual acceleration—as we see a couple of times in the first and last movements—the experienced hand of Davis is vitally important. He began these passages with extreme softness & delicacy, a tantalizing resistance to the temptation to rush while gradually getting us where we needed to get to,  by the time of the key climactic phrases. In other words the interpretation was quite wonderful and executed with conviction & evident joy by the ensemble.

The audience went wild of course, but that’s what one wants after a concert like this one.  Davis and the TSO delivered.

If nothing else it’s going to be a fun couple of years.

The Toronto Symphony played a mid-week concert tonight to a rapturous reception. The TSO are in a transition, awaiting their new music director while playing either with their interim Artistic director Andrew Davis, or with a series of guests.  There was a great deal of electricity tonight, perhaps a combination of the new face on the podium, the repertoire, and possibly the ensemble’s readiness to embrace someone new.

Han-Na Chang led two contrasting works tonight. Hers is a very physical style, a very clear beat. I was intrigued to hear her talk about her philosophy on youtube. And no wonder the TSO seemed to respond to her.

The two works are a study in contrast even though they’re not so many years apart, seeming to epitomize radically different eras. While the big work on the program after the interval was Mahler’s 5th Symphony, one of the last genuinely heroic compositions, Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G is from a post-heroic age.

Piano soloist Javier Perianes sparkled, teaming up nicely with Chang. Ravel’s piano is more a purveyor of comic rejoinders & witty ripostes, an engine of colour. The three movements each have their own mood, the first one sounding like the jazz age with bluesy phrases that wouldn’t be out of place in a Gershwin rhapsody, the second opening with a mellow nocturne worthy of Chopin, and the last genuinely modernist, with repeating figures and splashes of colour.  Perianes played with transparency & fluidity, a complete delight.  Afterwards he rewarded us with a stunning encore, one of Grieg’s Lyric Pieces, exquisitely offered.

The Mahler 5 is a great test for any orchestra. Not only does it include challenging passages for every section as well as solos for trumpet, horn, timpani, (just to name a few), but to make it work the ensemble must respond to the leader. While the shortest movement is the most famous, there’s wonderful music in all five movements.

We began very deliberately in a first movement that felt epic and fearless, the drama unfolding gradually and on a massive scale. Although the tempo suggested an earlier generation of conductors, the pace was wonderfully flexible, amenable to instant organic changes. I read in her bio that Chang has led her own orchestra in Mahler symphonies, suggesting that she loves this music, and I’d present the performance as exhibit “A”, considering the intensity throughout. When we come to the third movement it’s as though we’ve suddenly burst through the clouds into bright sunlight, in pastoral evocations from the winds. But everything is bigger, a little more complex. The inner voices going back and forth were genuinely dialoguing, not so boisterous that anyone was drowned out or ignored.

We came to the famous Adagietto, the movement that sometimes gets turned into overwrought melodrama, sometimes played much too loudly: but not this time. It’s a kind of oasis, the eye in the storm if you will, surrounded by massive complexity & big powerful statements. In this soft movement, you gain nothing by bluster, other than to turn the piece into self-parody. Chang gave us a very understated reading, perhaps mindful of the movement’s purpose within the symphony, as opposed to its frequent function, as a favourite melody that provokes nods of recognition.

And then a finale to match the rest, the electricity still crackling almost an hour into the piece. Here is where you sink or swim, saved or damned by your leader. Chang clearly has a very strong picture of the movement, bringing out the important thematic statements, while getting the massive contrapuntal passages in the strings uttered with wonderful clarity. The tension built gradually to a climax matching the dignity & gravitas of the opening, every bit as noble.

The concert repeats Thursday October 4th at Roy Thomson Hall. Go hear it if at all possible, you won’t regret it.

I have these three great pictures from Nick Wons to add to yesterday’s review of the Toronto Symphony conducted by Han-Na Chang, I figured I’d simply post them this way, which gives them–and him– a bit more oomph, some extra profile via Social Media.  One can be so absorbed in the music that one misses the visual beauty in the performances.

These photos are art.

Han-Na Chang conducts Mahler’s 5th (photo: Nick Wons)

Both photos suggest joy verging on ecstasy in Chang’s conducting.  But a still photo can’t show her remarkably active style, part dancer, part inspirational leader.

Pianist Javier Perianes bowing (photo: Nick Wons)

Again, this is a great close-up look at our piano soloist, who played with a posture that might remind you of Glenn Gould, his energy directed into the piano: so that once he started playing, his face and body turned away from us a bit like Van Morrison.

But the music came out!

I think the humility you see in his face as he bows is totally genuine.

Han-Ha Chang directing the TSO last night (photo: Nick Wons)

The concert repeats Thursday night at Roy Thomson Hall. I’d go again if I could.

Tenor Colin Ainsworth is one of the most versatile performers I know. While he regularly stars in period performance he has done lots of new works, including Victor Davies’ The Transit of Venus and Rufus Wainwright’s Prima Donna.  He has had a whole other career singing modern song repertoire, especially by Canadian composers. I have never heard this man sing out of tune, and considering how many roles he’s undertaken that’s quite a lot. He has a sympathetic youthful presence which is especially important when you take the stage among the physically beautiful bodies of Opera Atelier, for whom I supposed he’s done over a decade of leading roles.  And then Colin told me it’s the twentieth anniversary since he first appeared with Opera Atelier (wow!), a remarkable feat considering that he sounds and looks as youthful as ever; but when I think of how many operas he’s done that I’ve admired, it’s not  surprising at all.  If you were to read his detailed bio, you would see a list of roles: but a list doesn’t nearly tell the story.  I think the voice is bigger, subtler, his acting range growing.

Tenor Colin Ainsworth (Photo: Kevin Clark)

And now as Colin undertakes two mythological title roles for Opera Atelier I wanted to ask him a few questions.

Are you more like your father or your mother?

To be honest, I’m not really sure. There are circumstances where I will react a certain way and it will make me think of either one of my parents. I definitely get my industrious nature from my Mom and my quiet, reserved side from my Dad but I certainly didn’t get any musical influence from them since they are deaf. A lot of my musical influences have come from outside of my family – teachers, colleagues, and just soaking up as much music as I could.

What is the best or worst thing about being a singer?

Being a singer certainly has its advantages and disadvantages but I get to do what I love so I’m truly grateful and the worst parts don’t seem so bad, relatively speaking. The thing that I enjoy the most is the travel and living in other cities. It affords you the opportunity to experience other cultures and see parts of the world that you might not otherwise. The work environment is constantly changing and for the most part, no two jobs are ever the same i.e. new colleagues, new venues, and new operas. Also, it is an opportunity to craft something that is uniquely yours. No one performs a role the same way you perform it.

The flip side of that coin is being away from home for extended periods of time, having to live out of a suitcase, lugging your life – or whatever you can fit in your bags – all over the place, dealing with delayed or cancelled flights and being in a foreign or unknown location. It can also be a precarious business in which you may not be sure when your next contract will be.

Who do you like to listen to or watch?

I don’t really watch a lot of TV but when I do I tend to watch shows like “How it’s Made” or a sports event. Considering how much flying I do, I have an odd fascination with the TV show ‘Mayday’ in which airline disasters are investigated. I guess I like knowing they have solved the issues that could have caused my plane to go down. For comic relief or after a long day of rehearsing, I watch The Office (the American version), especially while on the road.

Musically, I really like listening to a lot of different kinds of music not just classical. I have quite eclectic tastes from Justin Timberlake, Michael Kiwanuka, Eminem, Ella Fitzgerald, to a lot of Indie bands and artists.

What ability or skill do you wish you had, that you don’t have?

There are so many! I wish I could play the guitar, play piano better than I do or wish I could cook better than I do. I do like cooking but I need a recipe to make something good. I just can’t look into the fridge, see what ingredients we have and toss something together. I’m learning slowly though…

When you’re just relaxing and not working, what is your favourite thing to do?

I love to go for a run, ride on my bike or putter around the house. I love a good house project and tend to be always thinking of the next thing to do. But, hanging out with my son tops them all.

Colin Ainsworth (Photo: Kevin Clark)

*******

More questions about playing two title roles: Charpentier’s Actéon and Rameau’s Pygmalion

Please talk about the experience of preparing & singing historically informed performance (HIP) repertoire. Do you sing differently with a company known for doing HIP, and is it harder or easier than other types of singing?

I approach any repertoire with the same vocal technique but stylistically of course, there are huge differences. You can’t sing Wagner the way you would sing Charpentier. This repertoire that I’m doing for Atelier, especially the French baroque music, has its own unique challenges. Written for a high tenor the French called the ‘haute-contre’, the vocal line is written much higher for longer periods of time than other repertoire which can be taxing. The goal for me is to make it sound like it’s easy when it is most certainly not!

You’re playing mythological figures in Actéon or Pygmalion yet their passions are very erotic & real. You’ve performed in many different styles & from different eras, what are the advantages & disadvantages of this stylized approach to eros?

For me, the stylized approach doesn’t make it any less realistic than a realist style. For that era, it would have been an accepted and normal way for the singers to affect an emotional response from the audience. It is just one type of ‘language’ that I use to tell the story. The gesture feels like an outward expression of what is going on, on the inside – a superficial way to show the audience the inner workings of the character. The underlying emotional journey of the character stays exactly the same regardless of whether I am using the gesture to demonstrate those emotions or not.

You’re singing the titles roles from a pair of operas different periods (1683 for Actéon, 1748 for Pygmalion), from two different composers (Charpentier and Rameau). Is there much of a difference in what the respective composers expect of you and your voice?

On first look, it may seem that theses composers are the same. One may lump them both into the ‘baroque’ category and assume that the approach to both is similar. But, as you delve into them, they each have their own unique signatures. Charpentier, musical gestures are broad and sweeping whereas with Rameau defines every dramatic moment and his writing feels very compact. One sentence can be chock-full of musical gestures and the next could turn on a dime and you are expressing something completely different.

What were your most memorable experiences with Opera Atelier, and their creative team?

This is my 20th year since first singing with Opera Atelier so I have so many great memories! But, what stands out for me was the tour to Versailles to perform Armide after the attack in Paris. It has to be the most emotional trip I’ve ever been on. To be performing that particular piece at that time in that place and, in a way, stand in support of the French people was life transforming. The appreciation that we received back from the people there was overwhelming!

But really, it’s the people that have worked with Opera Atelier that have made the experiences great as there are a number of people who frequently return to work here be it dancers, singers, creative team or staff. That continuity gives you the opportunity to get to know people and build long-lasting relationships and friendships.

You’re known for singing operas from centuries ago with Opera Atelier, yet also have made a spectacular career singing new vocal music. Please talk for a moment about the advantages of singing so many different styles of music.
I love the opportunity to sing so many different styles of music, especially new music, where you are able to interact with a composer and have feedback from the source. Like I mentioned before, for me the vocal technique is the same regardless of the music that I’m singing. But, because the haute-contre repertoire is so challenging and high, it’s good to take breaks from it and rest the voice.

Frankly, it just makes life interesting to be able to explore not only the baroque repertoire but also modern repertoire and everything in between. I’ve always been careful with my voice to choose repertoire that’s appropriate and as the voice grows, I’ll look to see what it can handle. There’s just so much great music out there that I’m interested in doing, so I never want to limit myself unless it is something that isn’t vocally appropriate.

Please talk about the experience of rehearsing movement onstage with Opera Atelier, (where you’ve done so many roles already): a company known for their signature movement style.

The first week of rehearsals is like Atelier Boot Camp! Your body and certain muscles are not used to being bent, held, and moved like that so one ends up feeling stiff and sore. It’s definitely very physical and demanding! But, it is a style I’ve done for a few years now so I’m quite used to it. I really enjoy the process of working the gesture and the technique into one seamless performance.

What is your favourite role that you’ve sung?

Tom Rakewell in A Rake’s Progress! It is one of my favourite operas.

As Tom Rakewell in Stravinsky’s The Rake’s Progress Pacific Opera Victoria January 2010

Is there a teacher or an influence you’d care to name that you especially admire?

Diana Soviero

I’ve been working with Diana Soviero in New York City and she has made such a difference in my life as a singer. She has changed the way I think about singing and technique and made such huge impact on my voice. She worked with all the great tenors and has such a vast knowledge of how each of them approached the singing voice. I’m so grateful!

*****

I thought I’d finish with a trip down memory lane, with some older images, hopefully self-explanatory.

Colin Ainsworth (Jason) and Peggy Kriha Dye (Medea), photo by Bruce Zinger from April 2017.

Colin Ainsworth (Renaud) and Peggy Kriha Dye (Armide), photo: Bruce Zinger from October 2015.

The caption on Opera Atelier’s page says “Colin Ainsworth as Tamino in The Magic Flute (2006). Photo by Bruce Zinger.”

And a little glimpse of a very intelligent singer taking great care of his instrument, posted to youtube in 2013.

Colin Ainsworth stars in Opera Atelier’s productions of Charpentier’s Actéon and Rameau’s Pygmalion, opening October 25th at the Elgin Theatre.

Tonight was the second of two consecutive concerts of the Toronto Symphony conducted by Danish maestro Thomas Søndergård, a spectacular program devoured by an eager audience showing off the strengths of the orchestra:

• Thomas Adès: Dances from Powder Her face
• Benjamin Britten Violin Concerto Op 15
• Francis Poulenc Les animaux modèles
• Claude Debussy: La mer

The oldest piece dates from 1903 (Debussy), with pieces from the 1930s (Britten), 1940s (Poulenc) and from a dozen years ago (Adès). As I looked around at a relatively young audience, eagerly attentive to a program that might have been considered challenging at one time, I couldn’t help thinking that the TSO and their audience have come a long way.

Thomas Søndergård leads the Toronto Symphony (photo: Jag Gundu)

Violinist Baiba Skride exhibited her stunning lyrical tone in the Britten, a work that can be very unforgiving with its totally exposed high notes. Skride demonstrated flawless intonation, yet much more than mere technical prowess. In the last movement Passacaglia, as the fireworks subside she brought forth genuine soulfulness, reaching for profundity.

But every part of the concert presented opportunities for each section to shine, and they didn’t disappoint.

To open we heard Adès’s wonderful Dances from Powder Her Face. These pieces digest and respond to popular culture in a series of gestures verging on ejaculations, twisting recognizable tropes that we might call cliché into vivid contortions, parodic commentary. In places the colours are explosive.  In the middle it subsides into a dizzy waltz that sounds a bit like drunken Mahler, and at the end things run out of steam, a tragic denouement.

After the interval we heard the Poulenc, a ballet of great wit that in some ways is a perfect accompaniment to the Adès. Again we were listening to music as commentary and gloss upon popular music, very self-aware & sophisticated, especially the way Søndergård treated the sections of the TSO. The Maestro had wonderful rapport with the players, injecting a kind of quiet seriousness to balance the quirkiness of this trifle, everything perfectly in control.

And then we come to the piece that likely drew most people to the concert, namely La mer. Every section gets their moment to shine. Søndergård resisted the urge some have to impose an interpretation, to bring out voices and make some sort of statement. Instead everything was there unhindered by the conductor, everyone there in the dense texture: the two harps, the virtuoso percussion playing, Jonathan Crow’s lovely solo work, the stunning section play from the cellos, and many spectacular solos from wind players.

The TSO sounds very good right now, playing fluff-free but with great commitment, their hearts on their sleeves.  Next week it’s time for more romantic music with a concert featuring Mendelssohn and Tchaikovsky.

Ten days ago I posted something about erotic opera, especially as it pertains to Actéon, an opera that is to be presented again by Opera Atelier beginning Thursday October 25th at the Elgin Theatre.

Near the end of that post from Oct 12th I said:

I feel a special connection to Actéon. I used some of Charpentier’s 17th century opera in my operatic adaptation of Venus in Furs written & presented in 1999. It seemed too good to be true to be able to adapt something erotic into another erotic opera, to present a specimen of voyeurism, when the main character is a bit of a voyeur himself.
Prepare to have your buttons pushed.

Artist of Atelier Ballet Edward Tracz poses as the stag in Actéon (Photo: Bruce Zinger)

My adaptation of Venus earned me a keynote address at a conference at Western University. That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it! But were they inviting me to talk about my libretto? Or the score? Or operatic dramaturgy?

No, no and no.

I was instead invited to talk about erotica and pornography. I think it’s still a very fertile subject for investigation, whether we focus on opera or on any other artistic realm.  It’s lurking in Hadrian for example, although it is a very thoughtful and measured erotica from Wainwright.

But sometimes one doesn’t want to be acknowledged as an expert.  I was pretty cagey, and maybe a bit too coy in how I approached the project.  I am not a pornographer, and Venus in Furs is not designed merely to titillate: well that’s not all it’s doing. It’s a work of art, an adaptation of a novel, admittedly a novel that gave the name to one of the two best-known sexual perversions. There’s that Marquis de Sade fellow and his sadism, and then there’s Leopold Sacher-Masoch, and masochism.

The words are regularly employed in the metaphorical sense. We hear of people who are sadists because they inflict pain upon someone. And we also hear of people who must be masochists because of the pain they endure.

But they also have literal use to describe obsessive behaviour, and of course in the realm of BDSM.  (and need I remind you what those initials actually signify?)

Why would one set such a text as an opera?

Frankly I’m astounded that it hasn’t been done more frequently. I looked at Strauss’s Salome and thought that the use of a forbidden text helped propel the composer to a kind of notoriety, the complex psychology of the story infusing the music with something feral and insane.  Or more properly, I suppose we’d call it expressionistic. I mostly prefer his tone-poems to his operas in point of fact, heretical though that may be to proclaim. But I’m simply explaining a rationale, a modus operandi. The Sacher-Masoch novel is very simple. And I was intrigued by it because for once it’s a story where the passionate subject is male rather than female.  I had zeroed in on two stories for awhile, and one had Venus in the title while the other was Aphrodite, namely Pierre Louys’s novel, which I had adapted in the 1990s (but that’s a whole other story…).  I had thought they would make an interesting pair both for their titles (imagining them sharing an evening, as “Venus & Aphrodite”), but also as a pair of stories where there is a male-female power struggle between the protagonists.

My keynote referenced Salome and also DH Lawrence’s The Virgin & the Gypsy. The novella furnished a handy metaphor that I used in my talk, to discuss the process of attribution whereby a society decides something is forbidden or permitted. Lawrence brings us a repressed family in a town with a river and a dam. When the dam breaks there is a kind of return to nature, as true feeling briefly triumphs over the artificiality of society. I believe that meanings such as “good” or “humorous” or “beautiful” are naturally in the eye of the beholder, who makes an attribution, a kind of interpretation of data. Some of these are conditioned by societal norms, whereby we decide what is forbidden or acceptable to see and hear.

When I encountered the 17th century opera Actéon by Charpentier in an earlier version from Opera Atelier, it was an adaptation of Ovid, a cautionary tale. The more I thought about it, though, the more I wondered about its reception, especially in the century of its premiere. I pictured an audience giggling with delight at what happens to poor Actéon:

• Peering out of the bushes at the goddess Diana
• Transformed into a stag when she objects
• Pursued and killed by his own hounds

The man becomes an animal. We see something similar in The Odyssey when the sailors encounter Circe, who turns them into swine. Odysseus resists her magic with the help of the gods and some herbs, but he would surely be as susceptible as any of his men that became pigs. Did Charpentier expect that the audience watching Actéon –the voyeur, the man who becomes an animal and dies pursued by his own hounds—would giggle nervously, perhaps getting excited at this sexual opera?  I have to think so.  The action is very blatant.

I had at least a couple of reasons to use this opera in my adaptation. For one thing, I was busy almost exactly twenty years ago at what was then known as the Drama Centre at the University of Toronto:

• In the fall of 1998 I entered the PhD program, while holding down a full time job. The Director of the Centre ruled that I met residency requirements by using an “inclusive” rather than “exclusive” definition. So long as I made it to conferences etc? I was satisfying their requirements, and never mind that I was also working at a full-time job at the university.
• In the summer I made an adaptation & translation of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera based on Pushkin’s play Mozart & Salieri, expanded somewhat with additional music by Mozart, including Alex Dobson & Wayne Line each getting a performance as Salieri, and Jay Lambie in both performances as Mozart.
• Immediately after (September-October) I wrote and performed original music for Orpheus by Cocteau, directed by Aleksandar Lukac, a show that was done with a different cast the following summer in the Fringe Festival.

  Aleksandar Sasha Lukac, director of A Flea in Her Ear in 2017

• In the spring of 1999, when I heard that the Festival of Original Theatre (aka “FOOT”) was to have the theme “Obsessions & Possessions”, I hastily proposed Venus in Furs even though the piece was not even begun, let alone written. I sketched out a libretto sometime around Easter, finishing the composition of the last of the music partway through the rehearsal period. Can you say “in a hurry”? and so the opportunity to incorporate an existing chunk of music was irresistible, inevitable: because of the time factor. Later in the opera, the chorus’s “allons allons marchons courons” became a leit-motiv for Severin’s adventures. The cast included Michael Sawarna and Sarah Gartshore and was directed by Sasha Lukac.

  “Allons allons…”! And we did.

• I would go on to write another opera the following year (but that’s a whole other story…).

I cannot deny that when I was doing my MA and later my PhD, I was less interested in academic objectives than the practical program, which gave me a theatre to play in. During my MA I did a few shows a year. In the PhD for awhile I became very serious about the thesis, especially when my supervisor asked me to stop composing, and at least a couple of professors mocked me for having way too much fun, while suggesting that I needed to stop & get serious. I wish I had been more lucid and shown more backbone in response: because I’d always known at the beginning that I was more interested in using the theatre as a laboratory to explore operatic dramaturgy (my thesis topic after all) than in becoming a genuine professor.  I was very conflicted.

The blog itself has been a funny way of reconciling these things. I started it back when I was thinking I would finish the thesis. In 2011 and 2012 I still thought I might finish. And more recently I was approached by a very kind soul to apply for a job: for which I didn’t nearly have the qualifications. The essence of the blog is to help me find my true voice. In the process I have been reconciling my conflicted feelings, a way to be academic and studious while making my own rules.

It’s amazing to watch the video of something written & performed decades ago, the recording like time-travel.  I am working on a revision, planning to revive Venus in Furs in the next year, with Sasha Lukac again directing.  I’ll let you know when it happens.

In the meantime?  Opera Atelier present their double-bill of Charpentier’s Actéon and Rameau’s Pygmalion, opening October 25th at the Elgin Theatre.

I’ve been tossing and turning, struggling with several questions in my head. I regularly wake up in the night to fine-tune something that I’ve blogged, fixing a wrong spelling, adding wrinkles & nuances.

It’s been a turbulent two weeks, as I’ve been thinking about workshops.

• Hadrian, a new opera by Rufus Wainwright & Daniel MacIvor, had its opening night at the Canadian Opera Company Saturday October 13th . This afternoon it gets its closing performance, a two week run for this new work. Previously it had been workshopped, and indeed may see future revision. I wrote something about it that night.
• Sunday October 14th was the workshop for a new opera being developed by Tapestry Opera and Opera on the Avalon in partnership with Native Earth Performing Arts, namely Shanawdithit by Dean Burry & Yvette Nolan, directed by Nolan & Michael Mori.
• I wrote a whole lot about Opera Atelier’s new double bill (that I will see tomorrow)
• I watched A Nightmare Before Christmas last week, in anticipation of Soup Can Theatre’s karaoke fund-raiser.
• I am going to see Hadrian again today in its closing performance.

I have been privileged to get a glimpse behind the scenes, and it’s not always conducive to peaceful sleep. A workshop can be a loving thing, like the upbringing of a child, the thoughtful care of a nursery. Relationships can be respectful, as gentle as the voices not wishing to wake a sleeping baby. And at times it reminds me of something rougher, when the text seems to get dissected and re-assembled like a Frankenstein’s monster: hopefully brought to life rather than gasping and expiring on the gurney.

The kindness I saw in the Tapestry workshop on Sunday afternoon suggested that I need to be kind to Rufus and Daniel and Cori and all the rest trying to bring Hadrian to life.
No question about it, small is beautiful. Not better necessarily. But when you play the piano alone you are less likely to be struggling to control team-members, plot elements, musical ideas, all with disparate objectives.

Opera can be like juggling. The more balls? harder to keep them in the air. More elements? complexity, more elements to balance, that might interfere with one another.

It might be a good time to remember what opera has been, meaning what it was for literally centuries. When that other RW came along in the 19th century, proposing Gesamtkunstwerk, it was a new idea that all the parts should really be unified. The legendary stories we have of performers upstaging one another are the tiniest hint of life before theatre began to work towards a single unified concept. At one time it was normal to have stage machinery and voices and orchestral instruments all working away at their own objectives & goals. Opera is the biggest and most complex medium so no wonder it led the way into the 20th century, recognizing this challenge.

Smaller pieces can cohere more readily, so it was no surprise that the beautiful but smaller enterprise at Tapestry was showing signs of magic & beauty. Where Hadrian was a big production in the big opera house with big orchestral sounds, full chorus, soloists and enough CGI for a Star Wars movie, Shanawdithit was as intimate as therapy. The Sunday workshop reminded me not just that Hadrian too had a workshop, but was a demonstration of how this should work.

Such courtesy,…

Such kindness,

Such love.

At one point we watched Clarence Frazer as the historian William Cormack, interviewing Shanawdithit as played by Marion Newman, the last of the Beothuk people, who died in the middle of the 19th century. While the real Cormack may have been a typical colonist (after all he wrote his name on top of her drawings Shanawdithit created) , what we saw enacted was as delicate and perfect as the chance to start again, an encounter between peoples that was dignified and beautiful.

I wondered: is it better that Frazer plays Cormack so sweet and kind, rather than like the barbarian he may have been? Don’t get me wrong, what I saw in the workshop was ideal & beautiful, but I wonder if that’s real or not. And I think that every workshop should be this respectful, this kind. We have such choices in our interpretations, to be more real or perhaps more ideal, to show something that is true to a belief and a possibility: which is another kind of truth.

I couldn’t help thinking that Newman, who cried at one point in the talkback session, must be like a person perpetually in therapy. She has to re-live so much Indigenous agony & injustice. There she was in Lauzon’s I call myself Princess,  and the story always turns out the same. This time there was a beautiful variant, something nicer and kinder, between her and Frazer.

I rebelled against what I saw Saturday, the version of Hadrian that Rufus Wainwright and Daniel MacIvor gave us: and of course, that’s ridiculous. It was opera not history. Even so, I was frustrated, watching something so uneven, that worked in some scenes while other scenes seemed miscalculated. But this kind of judgment –on my part I mean—is something I normally dislike when I see it in others.

And then, a strange & unexpected flash of recognition. Worn out by the never-ending horror that is the news, and in anticipation of that aforementioned karaoke I watched Tim Burton’s film for the first time in a long while. Where CNN has been horror, there was no Nightmare in listening to Danny Elfman’s music.

Do you know the film? Here’s the premise. Each holiday season has its own domain, that can be reached in a magical forest, by going inside of a particular tree. Christmas is inside one such tree, Halloween inside another. It’s a metaphor of course.  Jack Skellington, the Pumpkin King who rules the realm of Halloween, has become bored with the same thing year after year. In a sad funk, he accidentally stumbles into Christmas’s realm, and is rejuvenated by what he thinks he sees.

And so he sets out to give Sandy Claws a holiday: that name being one of several misunderstandings he makes in the process of wrecking Christmas. Yes there are gifts inside boxes, but they are mostly horrifying, not delightful. He comes at Yuletide without any idea of what it’s really about except at the most superficial level. In the end Santa Claus comes through and fixes everything.

I couldn’t help thinking that the well-intentioned Jack Skellington, putting on a beard and red hat, riding in a sled pulled by skeletal reindeer, terrifying children everywhere: reminded me very much of Rufus Wainwright. Oh yes RW wanted to make an opera and his heart is in the right place. The COC are ready to team up with him because he has a kind of brand-recognition that should help fill seats. But while some numbers and scenes work well, some are woefully troubling. I was thinking that a gay-themed opera should be a great thing for the COC. Indeed maybe Hadrian isn’t gay enough. It feels as though Peter Hinton tried to remove the campy overdone gay aspect that people mock in opera, to legitimize the project.

But when the music of Hadrian reminds you of Andrea Bocelli or Sarah Brightman? I am reminded of one of my favourite descriptions of Donald Trump:

Trump is a dumb person’s idea of a smart person, a poor person’s idea of a rich person, and a coward’s idea of a brave person

And Bocelli or Brightman represent an ignoramus’s idea of opera.

Wainwright and Jack Skellington are spiritual cousins. In fairness, though, Wagner & Verdi thrashed around for awhile before really hitting their stride, writing several operas that emulated earlier models, before finding their own voice, their own authentic style. This is only Wainwright’s second opera. I love that he wants to write more of them and if he really sticks to it he will get better. The best parts of Hadrian are far away from the main action, such as that drinking scene or the music for the abandoned wife. If only…(!). And Wainwright will have broken through when the music he composes for the central scene of the opera is the best music he’s written.

At the time I first heard of the commission for Hadrian I recall a bit of dissent from the realm of composers, perhaps a bit upset at Wainwright’s credentials, that he was somehow inappropriate to be writing an opera. This was troubling, given that if anything he is more not less qualified: because this isn’t his first. What really bugs me is this assumption that a composer who has written a symphony or a song cycle or a concerto can then write an opera, as though hey, you’re a painter and it’s just another canvas. The arrogance of that assumption –that a composer can turn to opera as though it’s just another kind of music—reminds me of something that may or may not have really happened. Let’s pretend that it’s a real story.

Surgeon: “when I retire I will write a novel.”
Novelist: “when I retire I will take up brain surgery”.

Because of course, it’s not just another score. Opera is a hybrid of words & music, usually presented in the theatre (but not exclusively), so much more than just music.

And then there’s the question of Canadian culture. I don’t think it matters whether Hadrian concerns a Canadian subject.

The most Canadian theme going is the one I saw in Shanawbithit, namely the exploration of indigenous cultures & peoples, in their encounters with colonists & settlers. That is the quintessential Canadian subject. Opera is a European art form that seems a bit odd in a Canadian venue, until we look at something like Burry’s work, which is all about the encounter between Europeans & Indigenous people. For a moment opera makes sense as an artform, a place to listen to one another.

A workshop process is both teleological & ontological (like so many things in life), aiming for a goal / product AND yet also, being about the journey rather than the destination, a process too. Hadrian’s opening night is just one part of the journey & not necessarily the destination. Shanawdithit’s afternoon workshop was a small part of a journey that culminates in a full production at Tapestry in 2019, enacting a respectful series of relationships that suggest the ideal of reconciliation.

Money is obviously a big part of this. In Rufus Wainwright, the COC have a name, a marketable commodity in RW. Tapestry also have a name in Burry, not so much something marketable (although there’s some of that) but someone reliable, someone who will certainly give them their opera.

This weekend: one more performance of Hadrian, Opera Atelier’s Acteon and Pygmalion (running until November 3rd) .  And in May, Tapestry, Opera on the Avalon and Native Earth Performing Arts will present Shanawdithit.

Today was the closing performance of Hadrian, the new opera by Rufus Wainwright and Daniel MacIvor, presented by the Canadian Opera Company at the Four Seasons Centre.
After tonight’s display of healthy nearly-naked male bodies in a homosexual love story, tomorrow I’m off to see Opera Atelier’s display of nearly-naked bodies of both genders in their pair of love stories.

Isaiah Bell (centre) Thomas Hampson (foreground) and dancers (photo: Gaetz Photography) from the Canadian Opera Company production of Hadrian

Tonight was my second trip through Wainwright’s score, a closer look because I was sitting in the second row. This vantage point is a mixed blessing. One can’t easily see the surtitles (not necessary in Hadrian which is mostly in English), at times the orchestra can be so over-powering as to drown out soloists, and if you want to be taken in by the illusion, you can often see how the magic is accomplished from these seats.

But at this distance one is more susceptible to a good performance, unable to resist the magic. I was again captivated by Ambur Braid’s acting, subtle nuances I couldn’t see from afar. Thomas Hampson was even more persuasive. Karita Mattila enacted a version of a singer’s nightmare; imagine you’re in a foreign country, your words sung in the language of the audience complete with surtitles of what you’re supposed to be singing (oh terror!).

I was very impressed with a lot of the singing, even if I’m not 100% confident that I’m identifying the parts correctly. Anna-Sophie Neher as Lavia (if I’ve identified the right role & person) was wonderful in her singing, and often the most interesting person to watch onstage, in a somewhat thankless role, always making something happen. Ditto for Ben Heppner as Dinarchus, who is such an honest singer, never taking a short-cut but giving his all. David Leigh as the aptly named Turbo was even better up close, the voice strong, the intonation perfect, and his macho presence always a force to be reckoned with.  Alas with a new opera, one may not be as clear as to what is being accomplished by the singers who I want to appreciate for their strong work throughout, even if I’m not mentioning them all by name.

I can’t tell if Isaiah Bell was over-parted in the role of Antinous or it was simply the location of my seat, within a few feet of the conductor. Was the role cast based on visuals and the chemistry between the principals? Bell looks the part, but perhaps Wainwright didn’t expect that he’d written for a heavier voice, perhaps requiring a heavier body as well to cope with the heavy orchestration.

Speaking of Antinous, it’s something I noticed on opening night and ignored, but mention now on closing night. There were at least three people in the cast who pronounced “Antinous” as a four-syllable name, while the chorus and most everyone else made it a three-syllable name. There is presumably a right way to pronounce it, and whatever that is should be decided upon by someone in the production, and then it must be adhered to as a guiding principle by all.

Up close I liked most of the opera much better. But the last five minutes still had me squirming, astonished that they would let it reach the stage. I am frankly astonished that so much of the opera is good, and then it ends on such a weak over-blown sequence. I wondered if it was maybe politics, especially on a day like today, when the frequent references to “The Jews” gave me the shivers, in consideration of the unfolding news story from Pittsburgh. Was the ending left in this bizarre shape due to politics, some kind of pressure or interference? I can’t help thinking maybe that’s what happened, although it’s funny that the whole gay eroticism of the piece –which is so much stronger up close—still hit me as wonderful, beautiful, perhaps the best thing about the production. Choreographer Denise Clarke created something quite wonderful for her dancers.  I’m very happy to live in a city so relaxed about eroticism in opera that this is almost an after-thought.

After a second hearing, part of me wonders if the key was simply knowing how to listen. I think it’s mostly operatic especially now that the cast seems so much more confident in the material, so much more familiar with the music & the text. No question, they were better today than they were two weeks ago. The highlights this time were very much the same as last time, namely

• Two arias from Braid as Sabina
• The two dance numbers in each of Act I and II
• The sextet drinking scene in Act III

I am curious to see what they make of this opera. I hope the weakness at the end is truly the result of politics and not the actual intention of Wainwright and/or MacIvor. (I could be wrong of course!)

At the same time, I am very conflicted about the music. While sometimes RW showed a melodic gift, we often encountered scenes where one or more personages onstage sang the same note over and over, so much so that the repeated note could almost be a leit-motiv. But what might it signify? For someone reputed to have a melodic gift it was odd that so often the melody was in the orchestra while the singer was pinned to the same note over and over.

I will be interested to see what he writes for his next opera. In the meantime, Opera Atelier continue Actéon and Pygmalion until next weekend, and the COC continues Eugene Onegin, also running until next weekend.

I saw two baroque operas on the same bill, plus something brand new added. Opera Atelier are presenting Charpentier’s Actéon and Rameau’s Pygmalion at the Elgin Theatre in a program exploring Ovidian tales of transformation, tenor Colin Ainsworth starring in both.

Actéon is the darker piece before intermission, a cautionary tale with erotic overtones: the hunter who catches a glimpse of the Goddess Diana.  When he is caught in the act, he is turned into a stag who is devoured by his own hounds. While it sounds deadly serious, there are moments when one glimpses a hint of mischief from the voyeuristic hunter peeking out of the bushes at the beautiful nymphs & the goddess.

The Actéon Company (photo: Bruce Zinger)

After intermission the something new was Inception, featuring an original solo violin score composed by Edwin Huizinga, danced by Tyler Gledhill. Inception functions as a kind of prologue to Pygmalion, introducing us to the god Eros.

Tyler Gledhill (dancing) with Edwin Huizinga (violin) in Inception (photo: Bruce Zinger)

Pygmalion is in a different style from Actéon, but again starring Colin Ainsworth, who seems to sing more notes than everyone else put together(!), a remarkable amount of flawless coloratura. Where he roamed into haute-contre territory for the role of Actéon the Rameau score seems to require more voice, a great deal of impressive singing.

The dramatic highlight occurs when Meghan Lindsay as the statue comes to life. No CGI required, just good acting. Her first halting steps are charmingly awkward, as she gradually comes to life.

Tyler Gledhill (winged), Meghan Lindsay and Colin Ainsworth in Pygmalion (photo: Bruce Zinger)

The magic of dance rules the entire program. When Actéon changes, dance is the indispensable effect to persuade us of the metamorphosis while supplying a wonderful release of tension in the physical movement & the music. For the second part of the program, Opera Atelier are really in the promised land, giving us more dancing than anything else, a light-hearted celebration of love.  The creative team of choreographer Jeannette Lajeunesse Zingg & director Marshall Pynkoski blend thoughtful movement throughout the program.

The Opera Atelier double bill including Huizinga’s original music continues until November 3rd at the Elgin Theatre

Do you have any DVDs or books or CDs that you use to cheer yourself up or chase away the blues? I’ve had several I relied upon over the years. And I’ve discovered a special new one.

I’m very lucky, getting invitations & exhortations constantly, especially when I stumble upon something by pure dumb luck. Two months ago I had the good fortune to go to a concert that moved me much more than expected.  More than expected? I was very hesitant.

The concert “Yiddish Glory” was a series of musical hors d’oeuvres enclosed in scholarly pastry. It was disorienting, as though I’d stumbled into a historical colloquium and a concert broke out in the middle. That’s the funny thing. The reason I was hesitant about this concert was very simple. With a series of songs in Yiddish, would I understand the words let alone the context?

Ah but they understood this all too well, that anyone might be hesitant and couldn’t be expected to understand the context and the humour of such songs without supplying a framework. As I explained in my review of the evening, it was a crash course, like a TED talk about the resistance songs of WW II but better. I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t listen to the negative murmurs inside my head and checked out the concert anyway.

And then I repeated the doubts afterwards when I obtained the CD of the concert. Where we’d been immersed for the concert in the culture complete with short lecture-explanations and titles translating the songs, I wondered how that would work playing the CD in my car.  To look at a translation while driving? impossible.

Yet I’ve been playing the songs in my car, and it’s a very different experience than live. As I listen to them over and over, they’ve acquired symbolic meaning. The disc is now my talisman of resilience, a reminder of people struggling against all odds in the face of tyranny and war. A story of a fierce struggle is sometimes the best reminder that one must resist, and that there is always hope.

This weekend, I pulled the CD out again after a week of madness & horror in America. After listening to the songs several times over the past few weeks I’m starting to know the texts, same as with operas I’ve heard over and over. Some Yiddish words sound a lot like German of course.

Sophie Milman does some of the songs. Now I understand the regret that was expressed, when she had to miss the August concert due to illness. What a voice!

Perhaps this is how Wonder Woman sounds (the role was played by an Israeli woman in the film after all) when she’s unwinding in a bar after a hard day fighting the fascists. It’s a powerful instrument, a rich but sensitive sound, and one of the reasons to listen to the CD over and over.

And I do.

I am very grateful to the collaborative wisdom of violinist & arranger Psoy Korolenko and Professor Anna Shternshis, who, through their mixture of vision & sheer nerve bring a fading language and a moment in history vividly back to life in these reconstructed songs.

We go back and forth between satirical edgy songs, more romantic tunes and a few wonderful instrumentals. When I put it on in the car it plays over and over, a brief escape from the modern world.

Here is where you can get the recording for yourself.

There are several ways to watch the annual Centre Stage competition, when young singers vie for a series of awards while seeking places in the Canadian Opera Company’s Ensemble Studio.

You can watch & listen to the competitors, eight young singers from across Canada.

You can watch & listen to the audience, sometimes including friends & supporters. What kind of applause are they offering? Who excited them the most? If you’re paying attention you can usually tell who will be the audience’s favorite, winning the Audience Choice award.

You can watch the judges. It’s easier if you’re fortunate to be invited to the opening segment, when one has a clear view. You might notice how unexpectedly vulnerable Alexander Neef is, moving his arms to conduct. He reminded me of myself when I was a child conducting Beethoven on the record player.

Alexander Neef (Photo: Gaetz Photography)

You see a softer conducting motion from Liz Upchurch but not for every singer. She sometimes leans forward, sometimes back, listening. Wendy Nielsen is back in her chair, attentive. But of course they’re all listening, sometimes making notes, sometimes peering at one another.

There are several different dramas being enacted, in a competition that can be understood in more than one way:

• Who is the best singer?
• Who is the best singing-actor? (who may or may not be the best singer)
• Who is singing the hardest repertoire?
• Who sounds best? (and is that accomplished by choosing something easy or difficult?)
• Will my choice match that of the panel of judges?
• Is my choice the same as that of the audience?
• And of course, there’s the pleasure of listening to all those arias, all those talented young singers putting it all on the line.

To begin, Alexander Neef said hello, then handed things to the witty Ben Heppner for most of the evening.  We had a recent winner in Emily D’Angelo as the guest, performing while the votes were tallied & the judges discussed their choices backstage.   Then Neef came back near the end to announce winners.

Every singer had something to offer, something of value to contribute to the evening, although in a competition there can only be a few winners. I’m grateful that in addition to the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place prizes, plus the audience choice prize, CBC added a prize of a recorded concert to be broadcast on the network, which is surely a wonderful showcase for any singer lucky enough to get such an opportunity.  That prize turned into two prizes, meaning that there were six awards up for grabs.

One wonders, when the COC make their selections: are they primarily seeking the best singer, the best actor, or perhaps seeking the person who best fills their expectations for future casting needs? Because when the dust settles and we get into future seasons, the Ensemble Studio members play key roles.  For example, in a little video with which we began the evening, we met soprano Anna-Sophie Neher: who made a big impression on me in Hadrian. It’s possible that the winners are at least partly meant to fill spots in the company, irrespective of who might be the “best” in the competition.

For the COC’s competition first prize went to tenor Matthew Cairns, second to bass-baritone Vartan Gabrielian, and third to mezzo-soprano Jamie Groote.

The two CBC prizes went to soprano Andrea Lett and tenor Matthew Cairns.

The audience favorite –that we voted on from devices attached to our seats—was Andrea Lett.

The COC Orchestra led by Johannes Debus sounded quite wonderful in their support of nine soloists (counting the guest) in a pair of arias, also including a performance of Bernstein’s Candide Overture to start us off.

The COC’s fall season concludes Saturday with Eugene Onegin, starring Gordon Bintner: a recent Ensemble Studio graduate and winner of the competition in November 2012.

Gordon Bintner as Eugene Onegin and Joyce El-Khoury as Tatyana in the Canadian Opera Company’s new production of Eugene Onegin, 2018, (photo: Michael Cooper)