How is it possible that I hadn’t heard of Canadian soprano Kimy McLaren? Might be because she has a French management company and performs mostly in the French opera houses (Rhin, Marseille, Rouen, Bordeaux, and Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris). En tout cas, she was the revelation of the AtG’s remount of their now alt-classic Transac La Bohème, which I managed to catch on the closing night last night. There are voices that manage to impress even in simple dialogue lines, and it was obvious that we were in for a treat during McLaren first exchanges with Owen McCausland’s Rodolfo. It’s like there’s an engine there at the centre of the voice, a perfectly controlled yet obviously powerful instrument that keeps creating beautiful sound. McLaren is an excellent actor too–subtle changes in her facial expression or body language meant a whole lot, and she makes you pay attention. Too, her voice blended sweetly with McCausland’s; a good Rodolfo-Mimi pair isn’t as easy to find, but there it was in the AtG transladaptation at the Transac.
McCausland was reliably good, his Rodolfo an earnest, thoughtful egg. Boys were uniformly excellent: Andrew Love as Marcello, Micah Schroeder as the gay Schaunard, Kenneth Kellogg as a serious, brooding Colline and Gregory Finney, extra spicy and against type, as perfectly sleazy Landlord and Musetta’s sugar daddy Alcindoro.
Speaking of playing against type, Adanya Dunn the Sexed-Up Version (Musetta) was the second revelation of the evening. There was some pretty serious action on the bar counter after the “Quando m’en vo” and that’s after she’s made her seduction tour of the chosen people in the audience and the extras (including kissing one woman, and rubbing against the back of the music director Topher Mokrzewski at the piano).
So it was special–and not only for nostalgic reasons. This production, that is, its bare minimum version, rose the AtG Theatre to prominence six years ago. They have since become a major player on the Toronto operatic scene, their imaginative takes on the classics a highlight of each season. The old La Bohème, turns out, is still good, and still has loads of that signature AtG-ian magic dust.
I left the May 26 performance of Oksana G. stunned. The most ambitious operatic project by our biggest contemporary opera producer in recent years made a lot of us excited and keen to embrace it. The topic hinted at seriousness of purpose, boldness in the face of potential controversy and rootedness in our age. The libretto took the road less travelled by letting the characters speak in their original languages: Ukrainian, Russian and Italian in addition to English. The action, ambitiously, moves across several borders. The casting promised the right mix of the newcomers and the acclaimed.
The result of those ten years of work is, turns out, an atrociously banal libretto with music which serves as faded wallpaper or, in those rare moments of visibility, as an injection of lyricism for purposes of telling us what to feel.
The story of a young Ukrainian woman Oksana who is promised a job in a high income country but then taken into sexual slavery by her smuggler is told in the manner of a TV special for very slow children. We follow her life in chronological sketches and each leaden scene is designed to highlight a problem or explain a point. We are being walked through, with a heavy stomp. In between the acts, there are documentary intertitles that tell the place of action and the exact date. There are moments of extraordinary vacuity. Middle-aged East-European women that Oksana leaves behind keep looking at tarot card to learn about her fate. (That’s how East European women inform themselves about world events, FYI.) Oksana’s guide-turned-pimp in one dramatic moment in the woods removes his glasses and she is horrified that his eyes are of different colour (bad omen, evil is ahead). Later, escaped and among other women in a recovery camp in Italy, Oksana and her girlfriends play folk dances to remind themselves of home. (Slavs = folk dances, FYI.) Speaking of Slavs, every woman in the story is clad in the style that can be best described as a cheap made-in-China quasi-glamour, which I suppose is there to suggest that they all, as a demographic, not only lack means, but also pine for western glam and try to scramble a knockout version of it.
But the most serious issue with the libretto is structural. The story of Oksana’s life is told through her passive relationship to two men who have agency in the story: her captor Konstantin, and then later, her savior, priest Father Alexander. Oh, and: Father Alexander is a blonde and muscular Canadian hunk who happens to live in southern Italy, where he runs the centre for the escaped trafficked women like Oskana G. It’s the myth we like telling each other, the peace-keeper Canadian who saves the day in the less fortunate parts of the world, and astoundingly, here it is served again, unexamined, in a 2017 opera.
The quiet scene between the priest and the recovering Oksana is jaw-dropping: he tells her there is still time for her, maybe she will meet a man one day who will lover her and she will have children, and a happy family life, and not to give up hope. Music heard from the orchestra stage right, amping up the sentiment, comes in unsubtly and signals that yes, this is sincere, this is a moment of rare intimacy between the two, his words are to be taken seriously.
There is the odd collective scene with other women in captivity but while a different librettist and composer pair would have made something out of it–a slave chorus, a gathering of forces, a lament of the kind that Britten created for the women of Peter Grimes–zero luck here. The women remain atomized.
The ending made everything that one final degree worse. There’s a very old operatic trope that goes like this. The impure woman has to die at the end of an opera – either by her own hand, by a man’s hand or due to an illness – as that is the only way we can feel for her. With no dramatic reason except this one, that we can finally be allowed to love and pity her, Oksana, finally free from her enslaver, commits suicide out of shame. What fresh Butterfly BS is this, librettist Colleen Murphy, composer Aaron Gervais, director Tom Diamond, and Tapestry Opera?
Singers are generally fine–Jacqueline Woodley as Oksana’s friend Nataliya, Keith Klassen as Konstantin, and Natalya Gennadi as Oksana in particular leave a mark–but colossally wasted by this production. Krisztina Szabo as Oksana’s mother is not given much to do except fret. (See also under: East European mothers) Adam Fisher as the priest was in fine voice, but his gym bunny physique and his stylish coif stood comically incongruous with his character’s profession.
And what to say of Gervais’ music which overall takes leave to the far background and lets the B-movie libretto take up all the air?
I don’t enjoy writing reviews this disappointed and hope to never have to do it again. So let’s end here.
Another good thing about the 21C Festival is that you always end up going to things that you wouldn’t usually go to any other time. Last night I went to hear a band I didn’t know anything about — except its pianist Vicky Chow. The group consists of percussion, electric guitar, double bass and cello, keyboards, and clarinet/bass clarinet, plus the electronic component handled by an off-stage sound man and in most of the numbers tonight video as well.
Those of you who’ve seen Nicole Lizée’s work, this will bring it to mind, but unlike Lizee who makes her musicvideo forms herself,the BoaC band performs other composers’ works. One of the pieces that stood out for me was Christian Marclay’s Fade to Slide, which was played alongside his own film, an incongruous, compelling montage of short cuts from old movies that was accompanied by the live performance with split-second precision. John Oswald’s Fee Fie Foe Fum gave a pop hit from 1960s his signature plunderphonic treatment (take the existing sound, transform it) and a suitable video component to go with it. René Lussier used a recording of his wife’s snoring to compose within it a new work titled Nocturne. It’s a piece that’s not really played for laughs: while pre-recorded snoring was distinctly heard, the piece mainly fills in with instruments the space between two intakes of breath of a snorer. The inconsistent breaks between noise and silence in the snoring pattern is rendered faithfully. You are kept alert and guessing throughout – as a sleeper forced to stay alert to the erratic production of sound next to him. Will the snorer will go quiet with the next intake of breath, or is it going to be louder; is he changing rhythm or staying consistent. All of this is in the piece.
Caroline Shaw (in Really Craft When You) and Anna Clyne (A Wonderful Day) both used recordings of spoken word as the basis on which to compose. Shaw used archival recordings from the 1970s of quilters from North Carolina and Virginia and Clyne an old man’s singing–it’s hard to describe it, so head here for a shot of joy and wonder.
Gene Takes a Drink, a piece by Michael Gordon to the footage filmed by a cat going about his day, which was made into a film by Bill Morrison, holds your attention. David Lang’s unused swan was an extraordinary experience: an ensemble of instruments overpowered by–of all things–the closely miked chains coming to contact with the metal platform.
21C continues today (Sunday, May 28) with two more concerts: an Unsuk Chin extravaganza, and a Benjamin Bowman and Claudia Chan violin and piano tango.
Alternate title for this concert review: Is Brian Current turning to religious mysticism and why??
Also: WTAF was that, Samy Moussa?
But let’s proceed.
21C, the reliably stimulating and boundary-pushing new music festival, opened last night at RCM’s Koerner Hall with concert that was a bit of a mixed bag, program-wise and in execution. Canadian Opera Company Orchestra and its music director Johannes Debus gave us a world premiere – Brian Current’s Naka / Northern Lights – and a selection of recent works by Unsuk Chin, Samy Moussa, Matthew Aucoin and Current. Mezzo Emily D’Angelo sang with verve the wittiest part of the program, Chin’s snagS&Snarls, the song-studies for what was to be Chin’s Alice in Wonderland opera which was premiered at the Bavarian State Opera in 2007. Two songs were particularly captivating: “The Tale-Tail of the Mouse”, with voice required to writhe and wind itself down as if through a mouse hole, and “Speak roughly to your little boy”, with some well-managed screaming that grows in intensity. There were, however, serious issues with the voice-orchestra balance, and most of the cycle D’Angelo found herself drowned by the orchestra. The intricate textual lace of “Twinkle, twinkle, little star” was completely erased and there was very little voice heard amid the fervent orchestra.
D’Angelo was much better heard in Matthew Aucoin’s dramatic cantata on the theme of Orpheus, The Orphic Moment (2014). Hearing it sung by a mezzo is a treat: the history of the piece shows a countertenor singing the role every time. Aucoin assigned the role of Eurydice to the first violin (here the COC Orchestra’s concertmaster Marie Bérard) and there were some exquisite moments of attempted communication and unbridgeable distance between the voice and the instrument in the Moment. Composer’s notes in the program hint at a flippant, hubristic Orpheus, but it wasn’t possible to observe those nuances without the text which was, you discover after a good chunk of time into the performance looking for it, left out of the booklet.
Brian Current’s Naka, a northern lights-themed work for orchestra, choir and narrator, came out of the composer’s residence in the Northwest Territories and his collaboration with the Tłı̨chǫ First Nation (in anglicized spelling: Tlicho). Richard Van Camp, who also wrote the libretto, narrated the text in Tlicho and English. Rosa Mantla, a Tlicho Elder, translated the text and was the pronunciation coach for the Elmer Iseler Singers choir. It is a serene, playful, occasionally droll, animated through-and-through piece, set up as a conversation between the Tlicho-speaking choir and the bilingual narrator. Van Camp’s twinkle-in-the-eye delivery was a particularly effective foil to the choir’s more ghostly character that spoke as forces of nature.
Current’s second piece in the program I found, at best, puzzling. Is Current taking a mystical turn? He of all composers, who is often heard saying that what contemporary music does best is trying to explore and express how we live our lives today? The composer is, we learn from the program, at work on a multi-movement cycle The River of Light with the texts of several religious traditions (Hindu, Christian, First Nations Canadian – which was Naka – Sufi, etc.) “that describe mystical journeys towards an exalted state.” The Seven Heavenly Halls from the concert program was composed on the texts from a particularly mystical book of the Kabbalah. The passage through the heavenly halls is the passage of a man through the levels of heavenly exaltation. Or something? Reader, I lost interest halfway through the program note, and the music didn’t manage to draw me back in at any turn. The music, alas, sounds almost programmatic: vast, swelling, spirit-rousing sounds, meant to evoke solemnity, meant to be epic; suitable enough for a religious ceremony. Tenor Andrew Haji maintained a modicum of individuality and pushed through amid all the choral and orchestral solemnity, but not even his precise and warm – if occasionally drowned by the orchestra – tenor could breathe life into this religious painting. My first question to composers eager to explore this or that side of religion in their new work is Why? If most of western choral music is religious already, and where are we, the non-religious, to go?
But then there was the Samy Moussa piece in the program, the orchestral non-concerto cheekily titled Kammerkonzert which he wrote ten years ago, just before he left Montreal for Berlin. My Samy Moussa luck has been such that whenever I happen to attend a concert containing a piece by him, that piece will be unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. This happened again last night. Kammerkonzert is a series of sound explosions multiplying into a theatre of war that is somehow contained within a symphonic orchestra of unamplified instruments. This comes nowhere near exhausting its interpretation – and another person would probably tell you they heard something different – but I witnessed something akin to a camera zooming out from sporadic shots to a bird’s eye view of an out-and-out battlefield.
Or were we thrust in a particularly noisy cacophony of a large city, distilled to its harshest sound essence? Or should we abandon the imagery and the narrative altogether, and take Kammerkonzert as a visceral sound onslaught to be experienced and not overanalyzed? I hope I get a chance to hear it again in some form and make up my mind – or abandon any attempt to contain it in words.
Even though only his La Calisto is now performed with regularity, Francesco Cavalli (1602-1676) was a prolific operatic composer. Elena, one of a handful of his other operas making cross-century comeback, was first revived in 2013 and we are lucky that the Toronto Consort nimbly followed suit and programmed it as their opera-in-concert this season. The printed program adapts the opera’s title as Helen of Troy, but it might have been more accurate to call it Helen Before Troy, as the libretto invents the shenanigans around the kidnapping of the mythical Helen before she was married to the Mycenaean king Menelaus (of Iliad and Odyssey fame), from whom she was later to be abducted by Paris of Troy. The original story of Helen’s marriage to Menelaus is a more sedate affair involving the drawing of straws—attention, I am about to compare the “official” Greek mythology line with its Italian baroque riff, I love my job—and therefore not particularly useful to the early opera. Librettists of Elena Nicolò Minato and Giovanni Faustini needed a much wilder story of how Menelaus and Helen ended up together, so they created one.
Men in dresses are not unheard of in Greco-Roman mythology (see Achilles on Skyros) but there are more to be found in Italian baroque opera. Menelaus of Elena spends most of the time cross-dressed as an extraordinarily muscular Amazon who impresses young Helen with her wrestling prowess and becomes her intimate. Both of them, helpless women that they are, get abducted by Theseus (who also has a yen for Helen) and his sidekick Pirithous (who casts his eye on “Elisa” the Amazon) and are brought to the court of King Creon. There, Creon’s son Menestheus—you guessed it—also falls for Helen, and we learn that Theseus is actually already engaged to Hippolyta, who is one of those low-voiced, no-nonsense, sword-wielding women in the style of the female knight Bradamante of the Italian epic poems on the adventures of Orlando. Intrigues ensue. Helen finally decides that of all the suitors she prefers Menelaus—who finally comes out as a man—and Theseus returns to Hippolyta.
Musically too, Elena is an entertaining hodgepodge of comedic and solemn elements. The required instrumentation can be as small as half a dozen people at most points, one or two melody instruments against the basic continuo. (For a more luxurious sound with a bigger period ensemble, see the 2013 DVD of Elena from Aix-en-Provence with Cappella Mediterranea in the pit.) In the Toronto Consort’s version, Lucas Harris (theorbo), Felix Deak (cello) and Paul Jenkins (harpsichord) made up the continuo, which was joined, as required, by violins (Patricia Ahern and Julia Wedman) or recorders (Alison Melville and Colin Savage). Bud Roach, a one-man show as the court fool Iro, both sang and played baroque guitar.
There are five pants roles inherited from the castrati roles in Elena, and for this fan of pants roles that is not a small thing. TC’s music director and conductor David Fallis honoured all but one: Menelaus is sung by a tenor (Kevin Skelton), while Pirithous, Menestheus, Castor and Pollux were all indeed sung by women—Vicki St. Pierre, Katherine Hill, Emma Hannan and Veronika Anissimova respectively. Kevin Skelton, luckily, has a beautiful and agile tenor voice that made this Menelaus rather a good catch. His cross-dressing was achieved by way of a Wonderwoman apron. Cory Knight’s Theseus was paired with the ever reliable and the velvetiest mezzo of the TC ensemble, Laura Pudwell. That this Hippolyta was slightly older than her betrothed added a welcome May to December (or should I say, Emmanuel Macron-ian?) dimension to the story.
Mezzo Vicki St. Pierre’s pinpoint dexterity with melismas was back in town (the singer now lives and teaches in New Brunswick) for a spirited take on Pirithous. The young Emma Hannan and Veronika Anissimova were an intriguingly girly take on brothers Castor and Pollux, who happen to stop by Creon’s Tegea on their way from capturing the Golden Fleece. Their voices were bright and youthful.
Delicate sopranos are a mainstay of Toronto’s early music scene, which favours l’esprit de corps (those sopranos often play one or more period instruments too) to individual vocal vim. Oftentimes a pretty, light, vibrato-less voice is all one needs for particular pieces; but sometimes I wish the music director looked further from his usual pool of voices. Katherine Hill was somewhat underpowered as Menestheus who needed more vocal heft to come alive. Michele deBoer made a fine if at times pale Helen, the arm wrestling scene with Kevin Skelton notwithstanding.
But no matter: all said and done, this Elena was a big treat. David Fallis’ translation of the libretto, projected in the form of supertitles, added entertaining contemporary touches at many a turn. And when the voices were called to come together, as in the choir of the Argonauts, we were given moments of breath-taking beauty. I kept thinking how wonderful it would be to see this staged (by a company other than Opera Atelier). Directors coming out of Toronto’s independent opera scene—Anna Theodosakis, Aria Umezawa, Amanda Smith, the Applin sisters—your turn.
It took about 10 years due to the vagaries of opera funding, but Aaron Gervais’s first full-length opera finally has its world premiere this spring. He met librettist Colleen Murphy in one of Toronto-based Tapestry Opera’s LibLab collaborations and immediately knew they wanted to work together on a story of a woman caught in a web of international sex trafficking. Fast forward through workshopping, fundraising, planning, a change of leadership at Tapestry and a casting change or two, and Oksana G, scored for an orchestra of 18, three principal singers and a dozen secondary roles, will bring Tapestry’s season to a resounding close in May.
From early days Gervais developed an “in-depth dramaturgic back-and-forth” with Murphy that made it easier for him to understand the characters and write them in music. “The relationship with the librettist is extremely important and I think that’s something a lot of composers don’t take seriously enough,” he says. “But I’ve learned so much, and the piece is so much better from Colleen’s contribution.” A lot of the librettist-composer collaboration happens on the deeply technical side of things—what kinds of vowels and consonants can be used on the key words: “If you’re going to land on a specific note, it has to come through, both in terms of text and emotions.”
Additional challenges comes from using four languages. Oksana G is in English, Russian, Ukrainian and Italian—more complicated, but more authentic to the story than an all-English libretto. Each language, Gervais realized, comes with its own musicality. “This changed the kind of lines I wrote for the singers. Even in Russian and Ukrainian, which are similar, the placement of the vowels is somewhat different and a line that worked well in Ukrainian may seem awkward in Russian, so you’d have to change.”
Earlier in his career, as a young composer eager to expand his horizons, Gervais took singing lessons for a year. One session he remembers as paradigm-changing: he came well prepared and sang everything correctly, yet the teacher interrupted him and told him it wasn’t good. “‘But I did everything correctly,’ I protested. ‘None of that stuff matters,’ she said. ‘It’s about the emotion of the character, and the phrasing.’ This opened my eyes to how different singing is, and how dynamic it can be.” Ever since, he’s enjoyed working with singers precisely because they make the music so thoroughly their own and personal. “I think a lot of composers don’t realize that that’s possible, so they write in a way that straitjackets the singers a little bit. I try very hard to write vocal lines that singers are going to enjoy and be able to make their own.”
Gervais has called San Francisco home since 2009, and still occasionally works on Canadian commissions. Asked if it’s harder to make a living as a composer under the American arts-funding regime, he offers a nuanced view. Different models of arts funding result in different default strategies. “In Canada, it usually goes like this: ‘I’m going to apply for this grant, and if we get it, we’ll do the project.’ In the U.S., it’s more like: ‘I’m going to network and find all these philanthropists, and, hopefully, by building this team over the next couple of years, I’ll be able to get enough funding to make this project work.’” Opera, however, significantly more complex and expensive, is funded that way in Canada, too. Besides, no two composers make a living the same way. “Art is a reflection of your lived experiences, so the kind of art that makes sense in the place where you live will be different from the kind of art that makes sense somewhere else.”
His next big U.S. premiere is Prescription Drug Nation, a piece that recently became even more topical due to the opioid crisis in the U.S. His original intent was to probe some of the meaning attached to prescription drugs in American society as the low-class relatives to more glamourous controlled substances. Six of the drugs get a musical portrait each—aided by a choreographer and a guitar trio. Also in San Francisco, Gervais recently premiered Louis C.K. am Spinnrade, a piece in which the standup comic Louis C.K.’s musings on why we text and drive get mashed up with Schubert’s “Gretchen am Spinnrade,” then recomposed for cello and soprano. It’s all about filling in the empty time of waiting and distracting oneself from the existential dread. What did the audience make of it? “It went well. Laughter was heard, as I was hoping it would be.”
One of our most literary composers, James Rolfe is about to complete his biggest literary opera yet. Canadian Stage recently announced the premiere of The Overcoat in March 2018, an opera with libretto by Morris Panych based on one of Gogol’s best-known short stories. Based on more than one, in fact—most of The Overcoat is there, but the ending is from Diary of a Madman.
Akaky Akakievich, the low-ranking government copyist, therefore, does not die from a fever caught walking around St. Petersburg without the overcoat, but is confined in an asylum. New characters are added, too. “There’s a chorus of three women throughout the piece,” Rolfe says. “At the beginning, it’s ambiguous who they are. We accept right away that they are not visible. They are sort of adjunct to the action, but the characters don’t see them. It’s clear by the end”—spoiler alert—“that they’re inmates of the mental asylum where the protagonist ends up.”
Much of what Rolfe has composed for voice so far has strong literary ties. He enjoys working with award-winning author André Alexis (“There’s a great musical sense in is writing”) and is currently working on a piece based on poems by 2016 Governor General Award winner Steven Heighton. One gets the sense he is not only a serious reader, but someone who reads with the composing mind fully on. “I absolutely am. And poetry is already half way music anyway. There’s certain poetry I go back to again and again; Whitman, Rimbaud, and Archibald Lampman, a Canadian poet from the end of the 19th century. If something speaks to you, that’s the most important thing. You have to have strong feelings about a piece of writing to want to put music to it.”
The Overcoat as opera germinated at a LibLab librettist-composer sessions held by Toronto-based Tapestry Opera. (Tapestry is co-producer of the work, which goes on to the Vancouver Opera Festival after its CanStage premiere.) Panych had already adapted Gogol’s The Overcoat with Wendy Gorling into a nonverbal stage play that toured the world, but the Rolfe-Panych Overcoat was to be tailored out of very different cloth. Panych worked on the libretto for a time and submitted it to Rolfe completed. There followed a piano workshop in 2014 and a fuller workshop a year later. Early this March, Rolfe was in the final stages of composing and, in his words “tweaking the orchestration… There will be 11 singers—some will play more than one part—and 12 instrumentalists.” How would he describe the texture of the score? “Pretty clear and simple for the most part. I tried to keep it not overly musically complex or challenging for its own sake. I try to keep the musical imagery quite clear. I think it’s in the spirit of the libretto that Morris created.”
Composing something that is of our time is, in his view, probably the biggest challenge opera composers face today. “By that I mean something that’s relevant, dramatically and musically, because we live in an era with an embarrassment of riches, with so many possibilities and choices at every turn. Bringing out the tone and the style in opera for the people of today is the goal.” He has several projects on the go. Aeneas and Dido (with André Alexis) will be remounted by Toronto Masque Theatre in the company’s final season. Crush, his modern take on Don Giovanni (with Anna Chatterton), commissioned in 2007 by Richard Bradshaw, lived to see a workshop production at Banff last July with six emerging singers and a piano trio. “We’re still looking for a production partner and are talking to theatres in Toronto about it. Hopefully, we’ll get it off the ground.” In their version, the title character is a woman and Elvira and Zerlina are merged into one person, though the statue’s revenge and the fires of hell they decided to keep.
Rolfe lives in Toronto’s Junction neighbourhood with his partner, composer Juliet Palmer, and their daughter. He runs every morning and bakes almost as frequently. “Food and running kind of go together—and balance each other out.” He teaches part-time, tries to get out to as many concerts as possible and is one of those composers who, no matter their own workload, remain interested in other people’s work. “I like to stay in touch. Best thing about teaching is that I get to listen to new things by younger people, and I listen to what they’re listening to as well.”
Tafelmusik in Haydn & Mozart, May 4-7, 2017, Koerner Hall
This Haydn’s Symphony 98 was the first time I’ve seen and heard Tafalmusik’s new Music Director Elisa Citterio in action with the orchestra, and it’s intriguing to observe how the orchestra “gels” with its the new and very energetic concertmaster. Her playing is very involved and physical and she keeps a close eye on the ensemble throughout.
The symphony itself is your regular Classical beauty and precision fare–enjoyable and worth re-listening to at home, but nothing you’d go mad for. Ever since I’ve heard Insula Orchestra play Haydn’s Le Soir symphony and how they made it sound like an intimate chamber music piece, I’m a converted proponent of Haydn’s symphonies being played on period instruments. There are intricate details in the 98th too that come into sharper focus when period instruments are involved. There are a lot of the playful touches here and there that will keep you amused. The second movement is an instrumental citation of the Agnus Dei in Mozart’s Coronation Mass with violin standing in for the soprano–it was one of Haydn’s homages to the great colleague. The final movement ends with a fortepiano solo; the sudden change of the soundscape heavy on strings into the honeyed fortepiano sound was a delightful and witty twist on how to conclude a symphony.
(The fortepiano sound is catnip for me. I need the supply to increase, Toronto. Luckily Tafelmusik is bringing Kristian Bezuidenhout back next season.)
Second half of the evening was the masterpiece that is Mozart’s Mass in C Minor, unmissable whenever it’s performed. Ivars Taurins led a large and for the most part well-coordinated crew of the increased ensemble of Tafelmusicians, the Tafelmusik Chamber Choir and four soloists (two of whom, tenor Asitha Tennekoon and bass-baritone Joel Allison, stepped out of the choir). The well-rehearsed choir is essential in this mass, as the complicated part singing gets tangled and mushed otherwise, and the Choir, as usual, did not disappoint. The sopranos were just the right kind light and bright; altos, tenors and basses were excellent foil, the layering that they provided tangible and colour-confident. Soprano I soloist Julia Doyle unfortunately wasn’t in good voice last night. The top was pushed and the line insecure, control over breath and volume intermittent. Writ large in Et Incarnatus est, that Bermuda Triangle for sopranos, where any even smallest issue with the voice gets exposed and magnified. Soprano II soloist Joanne Lunn was altogether better news. Never mind the unexpected facial expressions: look elsewhere and appreciate the voice. She had the agility required for all the jumpy intervals and the required control. Her big demanding solo was Laudamus Te, and the ball wasn’t dropped at any point.
Ivars Taurins’s tempi for each of the movements were well chosen. The Mass kept going at a clip, slower moments not dragging, livelier parts lively indeed, just the sensible side of fast. Credo was a dance, as it should be; the many interweaving lines of Quoniam and Benedictus never spun out of control. Ending with the joyous frenzy of Osanna in excelsis was the right decision.
Cologne-based Francontarien Thierry Tidrow’s new chamber opera is about to have a world premiere at the Deutsche Oper in Berlin at the Tischlerei stage, the smaller theatre within the DO dedicated to commissions and experiment. (More on the Tischlerei season here.) A couple of years ago the German opera house in collaboration with the Hanns Eisler School of Music Berlin held a competition for new composers and librettists and out of about 40 submissions, the jury, which included among others Aribert Reimann, chose three, Thierry Tidrow among them. His librettist was to be Uta Bierbaum. All three operas will premiere as one triptych this Friday in Berlin within the program titled Scenes III at the Tischlerei. (Full cast and creative here.)
Here’s what Thierry told me about his one-acter, My Corporate Identity:
It’s about people pretending to be who they are not, pretending to be happy in order to fit in, in this case in the corporate world, which affects not only their personalities, but the music and the way they speak. In Germany the corporate language is half English, full of vapid buzz words. There is this character in the opera named Boss, and these are his first lines:
Content Content Content Content! Das Wechselspiel von Tradition und Innovation ist die Quelle, die uns immer wieder neu inspiriert. Es geht um bestechende Kreativität! Immer auch um höchste Authentizität! Sich immer neue Ziele setzen, ständig in Bewegung bleiben! Content Content! Das ist digital, das ist Strategie, das hier sind die Key-Notes, das ist kreativ, das ist Social Media, das Wording ist top, die Performance ist GEIL! Noch eine Runde Q&A? Wir sind im Work-Flow, das bringt uns Insight, wir sind hier alle on the same Page, back to WORK NOW. WIR! Danke Danke Danke, TEAM, ihr macht uns zu dem, was wir sind! Rosmarin, Porsche, Lifestyle. Yeah!
The main character, Woman with the green silk blouse, is constantly telling us how happy she is with her life, as if trying to convince us. The whole opera is actually quite violent since the characters are all too worried about the void (which manifests itself as a crack in the coffee room, at first too small for anyone to care, but slowly becoming bigger), that they just continuously talk about how great and perfect everything is. This goes on until the main protagonist exhausts herself to the point where her body decomposes, which is almost sort of freeing for her.
There is also an alter-ego, the other woman also wearing a green silk blouse, who is like the inner child of the protagonist and who has the only lyrical and heartfelt lines of the piece. She is in constant observation of the world around her (seasons changing even though every day of work feels the same) and of her body (of its nature and later of its decay).Her text is very poetic, whereas all the others (our heroine, Boss, and Female Colleague) mostly get run-on sentences and matter-of-fact/common sense/truism speak.
The music plays with these different levels of mask-wearing, and mirrors the characters. For example, the colleague who is cartoonishly happy and constantly laughing to a nauseating degree, has energetic and constantly changing material, ranging from cheesy pop song when she sings about how amazing the weekend is to almost Gilbert-and-Sullivan/Commedia dell’arte melodrama when she talks about the crack she’s seen.
But generally the corporate characters only sing when they are putting a mask on. Otherwise they are in a speaking or half-speaking, half-singing mode, in a syllabic way which exaggerates the prosody of the German language (i.e. which notes are emphasized/high, which are low)
Here are some examples of vocal treatment:
Let’s hope a video clip surfaces for those of us who can’t be in Berlin this month. Meanwhile, here’s a fun chamber music piece by Thierry, STYROPORÖS:
As the saying (approximately) goes, one person’s religious fanatic is another person’s hero, and Harry Somers and Mavor Moore’s multilayered opera Louis Riel certainly does not offer itself, in its ur-text, as a piece of simple pro-Riel propaganda. Had Riel fended off the forces of the Canadian federation, his Métis governance state would have probably been a theocracy with a charismatic governor, and not even notionally liberal—though the libretto in his last speech has him saying a verse on “man having rights” (perhaps the meaning here is treaty rights?). His first long aria at the end of Act 1 reveals that he hears God’s voice and feels directly and intimately called—“I am David” is its final verse—and upon his return to Canada from the exile he is given a scene in a Catholic church in Saskatchewan where he is a self-assured prophet with a large following. Riel was a figure akin to Ignazio di Loyola and Joan of Arc: not exactly a democrat. God spoke to him, and even skipped the Pope to go straight for this Prairie prophet.
He was of the future, however, in one way, and it’s an extremely important way: he was a bi-racial North American, and proud of it, while the Anglos in the opera throw around “half-breed” as an insult. He is also today read by some theorists of Canadian citizenship as a harbinger of the post-Trudeau I multiculturalism and bilingualism, the type of post-ethnic nationhood that we’ve been trying to work out in this country over the last 40 years. Not so, says a Métis scholar who contributed an opinion piece in the COC program for this new production of the opera. Dr. Adam Gaudry of University of Alberta argues that for Riel, land treaties were about staying separate but equal, not merging and integrating cultures and ethnicities into something new. And there are a number of Native rights groups today in Canada who argue against the Native integration in the general hodgepodge of Canadian citizenship; we’ve melted far enough in that particular pot, we’re now concerned with protecting the customs, reviving the languages and preserving the bloodlines. (Don’t act shocked. Huge majority of people on this planet still don’t want to marry outside their own ethnic or religious group. Most of your extended family to start with, whatever your ethnic background is.)
So Riel is a contradictory figure. (The periodic think pieces that appear in Canadian media in favour of exonerating and rehabilitating Riel are puzzling to me. Let the contradictory figure of the past be a contradictory figure of the past, why scrub him clean.) But Somers and Moore don’t exactly excoriate him in the opera either and in fact grant him a great, tragic dimension. He *is* a hero, in the sense of hero being a brave man who is blind to his constitutive flaws and who will be done in by those very flaws. Yes, and also by the encroaching armed forces of a nation in the making. Marxist historians would say “world-historical” forces—but that’s retrospective determinism, certainly in the case of Canada, which still feels like an unfinished business and up for grabs as a nation state in so many ways.
Riel is also given the most extraordinary music of this largely atonal score, solo arias of immense expressivity, variety, and power sung a cappella or to sparse instrumentation. In this new COC revival directed by Peter Hinton, Russell Braun sings Riel and as perfectly as anybody can come close to. He is certainly a little less butch, a little more pensive and Hamlet-like than the original Riel, Bernard Turgeon, but this singer-added Riel vulnerability works miracles for the character.
The major new thing that Hinton brought in is the invitation to the First Nations onto the stage and the turning of the spotlight onto the Métis and the Cree even more obviously as the centre of the story. You’d think that it would have occurred somebody in the original production to include a contingent of Native artists in the creative team or among the cast, but looks like it hadn’t. At the time of its first performances in the late 60s and early 70s, Riel was analyzed mainly as an opera on the FrancoCanadian-AngloCanadian conflict that makes up so much of Canadian history, even though more than half of the characters are Métis. Somers actively sought and employed musical material transcribed from the Native sources, for example for the Kuyas aria sung by Riel’s wife Marguerite (in this production sung by the soprano Simone Osborne, who handled this insanely demanding aria flawlessly; too bad the role is so short).
Hinton introduced a silent chorus that the original production did not have, what he describes in Director’s Notes as the Land Assembly which silently observes the action in every scene, sometimes apart, sometimes among other characters. He also replaced a scene of drunken revelry of the rebels with a scene of a group dance with the First Nations dancer Justin Many Fingers as the soloist. The quiet presence of Jani Lauzon, a grey-haired Métis singer and performer elegant in her red pant suit improved just about every scene because it somewhat attenuated the significant problem of the invisibility of women in Riel: without Lauzon, there are only three singing roles for women among 25 male singers, and they’re (hold on to your hats) sister, mother and wife to the Main Man.
What didn’t work for me was that the production is pretty minimalist. I think going minimalist in large multilayered operas is a cop-out, but in general too I don’t have a predilection for minimalism on operatic stage. (See Tim Albery’s Götterdämmerung, Carsen’s Iphigenie, Ivo van Hove’s anything…) There are long scenes of almost legalese debates in Riel during which there’s nowhere to look but at the blond wood panel in the back of the stage and the odd chair and table. About that blond wood panel: it reminds very much of the inside of the Four Seasons Centre, was that a hint? Yes, every opera is about that opera audience sitting right there, Hinton is right, but the set as the sets go was kind of dull.
The “Ottawa” set was better solved, but of course we are never shown the pseudo-Gothic interiors of the Parliament (it’s an iconic and much beloved building that would be perceived more positively than the director would necessarily want). Instead, the architectural plan of the Centre Block drops down as the background to the scenes among Sir John A., Cartier, Bishop Taché and “the representative of the commerce”, Hudson Bay’s Donald Smith. Baritone James Westman as Canada’s first Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald was another case of vocally and dramatically hand-meets-glove casting. Most of Sir John A.’s material is in the form of Sprechgesang—he doesn’t get any arias, but the only moments in the score that are comedic are to do with him: the trio of powerful men that announces that everything will be well when the opposite is about to happen; the drunk music in a scene of his hangover before dealing with the matters of the state (as Opera Rambling’s partner Katja put it last night, “most people in this opera are drunk most of the time”; fair).
Somers’ score operates in onslaughts and silences (moderation is for later in history) and I had forgotten how eventful and full of contrasts it is. The COC’s brass and percussions in particular get to do a lot of work. The only simpleminded tune in the entire opera is the mobbing chant of the Ontario protestants as they work up the anger against Riel, “We’ll Hang Him Up the River with the yah-yah-yah”. It’s also insidiously earworm-y, which was probably the composer’s naughty joke. Riel’s forces of course are defeated and he is hanged for treason. The silent chorus turns around one by one and looks straight to the audience after Riel goes down. Lights off, curtain calls, out we all go, and then there it is, the mobbing tune reappears, as a strange aftertaste—and a reminder how easy it is to hear, how ever susceptible we are to the call of the mob, then and now.
Continues at the COC April 23, 26, 29, May 2, 5, and 13.