This makes me laugh, given the number of awful weddings that I have been a part of this rocks my world!


Best First Dance at a Wedding - Watch more free videos

Rossini-Cenerentola-

Another Cenorentola Clip from a 1981 movie of the opera. Sort of looks familiar if you saw the recent PO performance. Hmmmmmm....

Juan Diego Florez

I have finally come to the conclusion that I am a leggiero tenor. To celebrate, listen to Juan Diego Florez sing my favorite aria "Si, ritrovarla, io giuro" from Rossini's La Cenorentola

A little song, a little dance a little Shelley down your pants...

Music is a good thing. Listen to Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov. I have to say that it is one of my favorite early 20th century orchesteral pieces. There is something os bombastic about Korsakov, I love it!

While you are at it check out Il Tramonto by Ottarion Respighi. It is a setting of Shelley's The Sunset written for string quartet and Mezzo (although I do a stirring rendition of it myself) it is very much like Shoenberg's programatic Verklärte Nacht. Live it, Love it, here is the poem:

The Sunset
Percy Bysshe Shelley

There late was One within whose subtle being,
As light and wind within some delicate cloud
That fades amid the blue noon’s burning sky,
Genius and death contended. None may know
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath 5
Fail, like the trances of the summer air,
When, with the Lady of his love, who then
First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
He walked along the pathway of a field
Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o’er, 10
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers
And the old dandelion’s hoary beard, 15
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods—and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead. 20
‘Is it not strange, Isabel,’ said the youth,‘I never saw the sun? We will walk here
To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me.’

That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep—but when the morning came 25
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived on—in truth I think
Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles, 30
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
Her aged father, were a kind of madness,If madness ’tis to be unlike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts 35
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;—Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan:
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead—so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins 40
And weak articulations might be seen
Day’s ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

‘Inheritor of more than earth can give, 45
Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,
And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were—Peace!’ 50
This was the only moan she ever made.

Kind of fuckers?

I had a very odd job "offer" while in “the place that shall not be named.” I have never been a party to nepotism; I think that I might like it. Here is the deal, my name was offered to the president of a large institution of which I am quite fond. It was suggested by a benefactor to said institution and the wife of institution's board president and the wife of the president of that institution that I should be hired as the director of a large part of that institution. The job is something that I am capable of and have done before, so it is not like I wouldn't be able to do it etc. Any of you that know my struggles low this past year to find gainful employment will understand my reaction to this odd turn of events. There were several self esteem boosts of note to counter-balance the family crap. It is nice to be noticed.

The last several years I have struggled so much to be successful as a singer that some of my previously noted abilities have fallen to the wayside. Here is the question folks, should we beat our heads against the wall trying to determine our calling is while ignoring things that we are obviously good at? I know sounds easy right? But we see this everyday, people trying to do what they love and not focusing on what they are good at. WTF?

I don't know, no answers here, just pointing out the tendency.

In other dysfunctional news: I think that I figured out what I am looking for with my family. You see, I figured out that the reason that I leave these family visits so disillusioned really stems from my desire for resolution. I am always trying for the happy ending, that "movie like" connection where grandparent embraces and tells all that you ever wanted to know. Where aunt and uncle rush to you to apologize for their wanton disregard (I love the word wanton) for your need to be connected to them. A time when your family sits down at the table and talks about widowhood, cancer, divorce, abuse, drugs, and missing sisters. That is the thing that I want. The dead should rise and tell you that they have been here all along in hiding watching you from afar, unable to get close for fear of the mafia, etc. I will probably be accused by some of being on the pity pot but, well fuck you, it’s my blog.

I know it is childish. These are the wants of a kid, I am not talking with the adult side of my brain that part is for real life, not for blog land. All of this is pretty one sided of course, we all have our reasons to be locked away. I know dad's death hurt his whole family and we are just reminders that he is not here. I know that it all is just a reaction to hurt blah, blah, blah. I don't really want to hear it. Why is it that people who I am not even related to care more for me than some of my own family? Honestly, you people are kind of fuckers. (Can you be kind of a fucker?)

Ok, so after all of that here is what I really fear: what if all of my work: opera, design, theater, education, etc. has really been to get these people to notice me? It has been pointed out (and noted) that I am dramatic, what if I am doing all of this to get a response from people who essentially do not give a shit? That would be pretty fucked up wouldn’t it? Maybe I should have just spent all of that money on a drug habit, probably would have been way more fun. Hmmmm?

Fuck you sugar, fuck you Crisco

I know, what does that mean? Well let me tell you a little about my family. They are the worst communicators ever! Here is the T:

I flew with my two daughters from lovely Portland, OR to not-so-lovely Missouri for a week of contract work and family time. Saturday and Sunday are designated family visits, I have one grandma and one good friend that I will visit in St. Joseph, Mo (a little town just left of Satan's asshole.) This trip is never an easy one, this time it is doubly hard in that I am corralling a 3 year old and a 1 year old by myself.

After one heck of a morning of simultaneous mass going/child rodeo, I make haste to visit the fam. We get to grandma's, there is a car in front of her house, suddenly my brain goes into panic mode "holy shit it is one of my father's long lost half siblings! Maybe now I will have that Hallmark moment! Hugs and kisses! Maybe they well tell me that we are all part of the Russian Royal Family and are actually living in exile (I always knew it, score!)" Holy shit! It was aunt Carol (I know not a name for a Tsaritsa but who knows maybe that was part of the cover to foil the communists!) Unfortunately, the slightly delusional scenario that I previously had proposed was not the case, you see she had decided to drive 6 miles to borrow a cup of sugar. She spent all of 15 minutes with us, no real questions, nothing real at all then, she left. The daughters and I spend a good 2 hours with grandma, then, just as we are about to leave, the phone rings! It is my aunt Maryanne, she needs to borrow some Crisco. 10 minutes later she is there, she spends all of 10 minutes not talking to me and leaves with the Crisco, we left soon after utterly baffled unaware that my grandma's house is a veritable bastion of pastry ingredients. Who knew that these rare ingredients are not available at the 6 grocery stores that line the road that leads to our great matriarch (Her Highness Grace Ruth All the Russias.)

As the rest of the day progressed, my crazy mind began to tally up this odd experience. In the 21 years since my dad passed away his siblings have gone out of there way to avoid us, whatever... Here is the thing, he lived for those asses! supporting them in college, defending them against assey husbands, moving them from houses etc. They idolize him, St. Gary... He was a pretty great guy to be honest.

I don't know what this is about, I mean really. They knew that I was coming, why not just hang out? Why not show some interest in your beautiful great-nieces? Come on you foul creatures, 25 minutes in 21 years? That is shit! And even then you lie about it, you couldn't possibly be interested in us? You just needed to bake a cake? Fuck that bitches! St. Gary would be ashamed of you.

Then again, there is that old song "if I knew you were coming I'd a baked a cake" maybe I just left too soon, shit...

Poulenc = Music of the Day

I love the music of Francis Poulenc. There is something so tangible about his music. I just downloaded a recording of the cantata for double choir Figure humaine, composed in 1943. Now anyone who knows me probably remembers my slightly unhealthy obsession with his equally stunning song set Banalités. At any rate, I have moved on... the following is taken from the liner notes http://www.hyperion-records.co.uk/notes/55179.html of a Hyperion recording of Poulenc's choral works.

The dark years of the Second World War and the Nazi Occupation of Paris had, naturally, a profound effect on Poulenc. He remained in Paris but found his own means of resistance through the poems of Paul Éluard whom he had first met in 1917. Throughout the early years of the occupation Poulenc received hand-printed copies of the poems which make up the Figure humaine cr–do. These (in particular the final climactic ‘Liberté’ which had been smuggled into Algeria to be printed, the copies then dropped in their thousands over France by the RAF) became something of an anthem for the Resistance Movement. Poulenc was so fired with enthusiasm by Éluard’s poetry that he stopped work on everything else (including a violin concerto which was never to see the light of day) to compose a setting which could be performed as soon as France was liberated. He wrote Figure humaine in six weeks during the summer of 1943, had it printed in secret, and is said to have taken great pride in displaying a copy of it in his window as the allied troops marched through the streets of Paris. However, its first performance took place in London in January 1945, sung in English by the BBC Chorus conducted by Leslie Woodgate; it had to wait until 1947 for its French première under the conductor and musicologist Paul Collaer.

As for the cantata, listen to the whole thing but after you have finished put movement VII. and VIII. on repeat. Holy shit, I am not sure that there is anything more beautiful than the transition between the two movements.

Here is a translation:

VII.
The threat under the red sky
Came from below — jaws
And scales and links
Of a slippery, heavy chain

Life was spread about generously
So that death took his payment seriously
Without a second thought

Death was the God of love
And the conquerors in a kiss
Swooned upon their victims
While corruption gained courage

And yet, under the red sky
Under bloody appetites
Under dismal starvation
The cavern closed

The kind earth filled
The graves dug in advance
Children were no longer afraid
Of maternal depths I

And stupidity and madness
And vulgarity make way
For humankind and brotherhood
— No longer fighting against life —
For everlasting humankind

VIII.

On my notebooks from school
On my desk and the trees
On the sand on the snow
I write your name

On every page read
On all the white sheets
Stone blood paper or ash
I write your name

On the golden images
On the soldier’s weapons
On the crowns of kings
I write your name

On the jungle the desert
The nests and the bushes
On the echo of childhood
I write your name

On the wonder of nights
On the white bread of days
On the seasons engaged
I write your name

On all my blue rags
On the pond mildewed sun
On the lake living moon
I write your name

On the fields the horizon
The wings of the birds
On the windmill of shadows
I write your name

On the foam of the clouds
On the sweat of the storm
On dark insipid rain
I write your name

On the glittering forms
On the bells of colour
On physical truth
I write your name

On the wakened paths
On the opened ways
On the scattered places
I write your name

On the lamp that gives light
On the lamp that is drowned
On my house reunited
I write your name

On the bisected fruit
Of my mirror and room
On my bed’s empty shell
I write your name

On my dog greedy tender
On his listening ears
On his awkward paws
I write your name

On the sill of my door
On familiar things
On the fire’s sacred stream
I write your name

On all flesh that’s in tune
On the brows of my friends
On each hand that extends
I write your name

On the glass of surprises
On lips that attend
High over the silence
I write your name

On my ravaged refuges
On my fallen lighthouses
On the walls of my boredom
I write your name

On passionless absence
On naked solitude
On the marches of death
I write your name

On health that’s regained
On danger that’s past
On hope without memories
I write your name

By the power of the word
I regain my life
I was born to know you
And to name you

LIBERTY

Ego and Super Ego

It is funny how we can change so much in such a short period of time. Small things can really have a great impact on our own self perception. Over the last few months, I have begun to notice the many disparities between who I am, who other perceive me to be and who I would like to be. A woman I worked with once and who I credit a great deal of my courage to once said "if only you could see yourself as other do." I think this is sage advice, think about what those who love you see in you, pretty astonishing how different our own perception can be.

I would like to have some closure with my sister. It is a numb hole that I need to name. The detective is not hopeful, he has assured us that he will do whatever he can to find out what happened. This of course, brings some comfort in that someone else cares about her. Right now, I am in this place where I need to grieve but can't. I haven't really talked to very many people about this and when I have, it is so surreal, like I am out of body. The thought that I will never be able to tell her that I love her is not real, it doesn't fit. I fear that those who know about this think me callous because I have no real emotion. This being said, there are times when it takes me by surprise, the phrase "The Lord shall preserve me from all evil. Yea, it is even He that shall keep my soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth and forever more" from psalm 121 is the one that did it for me last but even then it was a moment of tearful indiscretion. I fear the wave that I know is coming, the one that will knock me on my ass. What to do then? What if it doesn't happen? I know that this is a bizarre stream of conscience missive but well, that is who I am.

Emillie, you were my first playmate. We endured the grandmother moments, the Herb moments, the crazy "other" moments. Indiana, St. Joe, Leavenworth summers in the museum, OCTA conventions with Mom, fighting, playing dress up and creating plays. Turning an antique lace table cloth and a really ugly old dress into what was really a remarkable Elizabethan costume. You know many of my secrets and have kept them well. The injuries and heartaches, bad music lessons and shitty teachers. The almost irreparable damage of First Baptist Church, sharing cigarettes and being generally awful to each other. Here is what I see in you my dear, a beautiful, self-sacrificing person who was more sensitive than what was acceptable in our realm. I don't blame you for the shit in high school, I know that you did not feel included in the rest of the family (don't worry, that is a genetic trait, I never did/do either), you dealt with a fowl situation in the only way that you knew how. I am sorry that I wasn't more supportive of your positive attributes and am making efforts to rectify that behavior with my own daughters.

Really, the other stuff just starts to fall away. It is really about who you were in essence. There is a line that I am horribly going to mis-quote in the movie American Beauty something to the effect that there are things that are so beautiful in the world that you can hardly comprehend them (so badly mis-quoted that I couldn't even put quotes around it), you were one of those people who seemed to always look for that, I think the issue was with the rest of us, you saw us for who we really were at essence. One thing that I remember from your childhood was your ability to empathize with anyone, that is not a quality that is easily managed in our families world of sarcasm. The rest of the shit is in consequential really, who cares about the bs.

Two times someone pointed out how much you wanted to have a connection to us, once at the mission trip to Anadarko, OK when you broke down and cried and the other was by Father Brendan at my wedding. I get it now, Emillie, I am sorry that I didn't know what to say at the time. I am sorry that our last experiences were so inconsequential. In the movie of my life, this is not how it goes. You know how it ends in my head... You know me too well, the pretty house, the smiling family all together, for me it is the fabled fake picture perfect existence (funny how my professional life has become a way to fashion those moments perfect liturgy, perfect, house, prefect singing, perfectly artificial.) For once I should ask you, how would you have it end?

We're at places people...

The review for a recent performance is in: http://wweek.com/editorial/3351/9881, not so good. Here is the deal, the performance is good very talented people putting themselves out there I am disturbed by this review in that it doesn't properly capture what went on that evening (I know, the bad ones never do!) Here is the deal, the reviewer was 10 minutes late for a 1.5 hour show, the audience loved it, there was some great singing namely by my colleagues Natasha, Michael, Deb and Richard. I was not at my vocal best (something the reviewer could and should have mentioned instead of the vague insinuation that the cast was not up to the music.) He miss-represents the story (Adina doesn't like Belcore that is the crux of the opera), he uses uselessly vulgar language "Adina, who harbors a wet spot for hunky Steve Belcore" and is rather creepily coming on to the guy who plays Belcore. Are you kidding me?

Call a spade a spade, a company whose mission is to produce easily assessable opera using local talent did just that. Yes, there are things that could be improved, why not mention those things? How about mentioning how a few thousand dollars from a donor would help production value e.g. wheezy upright piano? I know, I am too personally involved to be objective but, well, shut the fuck up, it is my blog! If you want objectivity read somewhere else. Is it opera? Not in the strict sense, it does however present the music and themes of one of the most beloved bel canto operas to a new audience.

Here are several things that I hate that somehow found their way into this review:

Ax Grinding, don't be manipulative, its ugly the world doesn't need any more liquored up, self important queens. Try counseling, don't spew your issues all over the cultural scene. If ther is an issue, put it out there!

Dick Jokes, we get it, you are a horny gay man and there was an attractive straight guy on the stage, get over it. BTW, who talks about wet spots in pants? Gross...

Patronizing comments: "has talent" WTF! You must be kidding me? Of course she has talent you idiot! She wrote a great show, produced a great show directed a great show. To boot she has won the Met Auditions, Lieber awards and toured with the Merola Program to mention just a few minor accomplishments. If you don't like the show say why (don't give me some bull shit about depth of character! Have you ever read the libretto of the original? Terrible character development!)

Are you reviewing or commenting?

Be clear! This is utterly confusing. Point out what is really wrong, there is more to writing than sarcasm (reader, shut up, that is why I am not a writer.) A critic/reviewer has several purposes, first endorse what is good using their education and personal experience, second educate giving your readers evidence of why something is good or bad, third entertain by writing in an engaging manner. You have failed at two of the three. Perhaps the show was bad, why? Be specific! What would make it better? What actually happened? Oh, and who actually uses the words "de rigeur"? No more pretension, this is Portland, there is already enough of that shit in the black hair dye wearing, emo listening, TBA watching kids that are allowed to aimlesly roam the streets of the Pearl!

Veljo Tormis

Two years ago I did a recording of the works of Estonian composer Veljo Tormis. It finally is released: http://www.clarionrecords.com/clarion/3_clr_921.html