To Bökendorf, with love ...

Bökendorf?, they said, when I wrote where I was going this weekend. Where’s that? What’s that? Why? Well, Bökendorf is a small village, half way to Holland, in Westphalia. It has a population of 800 people, and an open-air theatre which seats 1200. One and a half seats each? The theatre is operated by the local amateur theatre group, which has been staging summer theatre there – rain or shine – for over 60 years, with considerable success. And that’s what I was going to. But why travel 400km into the Westphalian countryside? There are 80 of these amateur open-air venues in Germany. It’s something of a tradition. And, anyway, why am I going to see amateur theatre, hot on the heels of my nights with the Berlin opera stars and the radiant Radialsystem concert? Easy. Bökendorf had chosen, for its bi-annual musical of 2012, to present Bonnie and Clyde, the musical with which my favourite musical-theatre maestro and bosom buddy, Paul Graham Brown, made his European debut a decade ago. And which I had never seen.

 

So, Saturday morning we set off: Uwe at the wheel, Paul, Kurt and Stanley from Vancouver, the picnic bag in the boot ... straight into a murderous traffic jam for an hour. Don’t get me going on German roadworks. Or the scarcity of picnic spots. But we found a nature reserve for a late lunch (at 4pm) and, soon after, we found the town of Brakel, and the picturesquely situated Hotel Waldschänke, where were going to spend the night. And on the last 7km to the theatre – well, what a theatre! It is set on the edge of a lovely, dense wood, the stage is the side of a hill … but don’t let that fool you! Admittedly there are no flies (yet they have done Peter Pan!), but otherwise, everything is there. Lighting, sound, a revolve .. Hidden away in a bunker, or tunnelled under the earth! The audience is safe from the weather – for the ‘we play, no matter what the meteo’, rule is never broken – in a splendid covered grandstand. Only the actors get drenched on rainy days. But it stayed fine for us.

 

Bonnie and Clyde, the musical, is chock full of good things. Interesting things. Tuneful things. It was particularly interesting for me, who know, pretty intimately, Mr B’s later works, to hear this early piece. Afterwards, he said to me (before I could say it to him) ‘it could do with a little slimming!’ But what to slim? Not that music! The show was a particularly good choice for this company: for although it was originally played with a cast of nine, it expands very effectively for a cast of ninety: the choruses ring out splendidly as sung by whole townful of folk -- fat, thin, short, tall, old, young, real-looking -- instead of just a few, and all the different victims of the gangsters can be played by different actors, instead of having one performer killed several times! There are plenty of supporting roles, too: yes, there is no doubt, this Bonnie and Clyde works splendidly as a ‘big’ musical. And, staged last night on an atmospherically bleak set, it did not deny itself big scenic effects, either. A local gent had loaned a real vintage car for the production, and the final scene of carnage, with the deaths of Bonnie and Clyde was magnificently and effectively staged. Amateur productions and performances always differ essentially from professional ones, and have to be judged on their own terms. The people up on the stage are there to give pleasure to themselves, not just to you, the audience. And last night they clearly did. Things started a little tentatively and nervously, the pace was way too slow and there were awkward gaps. And there was no conductor to ginger things up, for the backing was necessarily pre-recorded (imagine rain in a flute?): well recorded, but playback, alas, doesn’t allow the music to breathe. Nevertheless, the singers responded to it well, and before long things started to roll along nicely.

 

The two teenaged artists who played the large and long title roles did very well. They both acted in a natural, easy-spoken manner, with no attitudes or artificiality or ‘acting’, and they sang effectively. A girl of 18 will always have a more developed voice than a boy, but I was glad to hear that both – chorus members heretofore – have found their way to a singing teacher. They have much promise. The company is particularly rich in good character men, a type of amateur player which used to be so hard to find. Some of them are more actors than singers – after all, this is primarily an acting company -- but no-one let the team down. A little bit of ‘actory acting’ sometimes, which fitted ill with the natural style of, in particular, the ‘hero’, but it was fun. For them … and for me. Well done, chaps! The principal supporting ladies have a much heavier vocal burden than the men, and here there were absolutely no worries. Both ladies had good, strong, accurate voices. The folk with a few lines to say or sing were all capable – gone are the days when ‘amateur’ was equated with ‘inefficient’. The Bökendorfers can all ‘do it’. The audience, who had arrived equipped with cushions, picnics, bottles of wine etc, adored the piece. They applauded repeatedly (and in some right curious places) and bounded to their feet at the curtain calls to give the show an ovation. There were speeches (oh! that dreadful German habit!) and Paul was shyly (?) dragged -- well, he fell actually --on to the stage to take his share of the applause … the end of a splendidly fun evening. The End? Watch this space …

 

I hope that the players and their director will not stop working on the piece now they’ve opened. It’s good: but it can be very good. Get the running time of Act I down by 10-15 minutes by closing the gaps, and pacing the dialogue and cues. Make the chorus do a warm up, so they come on ready to do a big sing in the opening ... take away Mrs Parker’s wig and handbag, get that wretched park bench off stage quickly or do without it, tie a few peoples arms and hands down .. and … but enough. I’m a perfectionist. While Paul received his accolades we sat quietly in the bleachers. And then a lady (dressed as a man, they were short of male dancers) came and invited us to a tour ‘backstage’ and … The tour was fascinating, but the ‘and’!. The company has put up a building in the woods. Wardrobe, dressing rooms and … hospitality. And there we were led, and there we met the company members and officials … and, well, Paul and I were still there at 4am! What a simply delightful ‘family’ of people. The success of the theatre has led to rising standards and interest, and the Bökendorf company has extended its catchment area for players to the towns 20km around. And got 90 for this show, and 90 for their children’s show. Thespis lives in Westphalia! But the Freilichtbühne (Open-Air Theatre) has become more than a theatre company. It is a major factor in the village, and a veritable ‘family’ for its members. Look down the lists of participants and you will see 4, 5, 6 people of the same surname there. And when the youngsters were up dancing, somewhere round 2 am last night, parents and even grandparents joined in! I would have loved to … but some of the teenagers came and chatted (in perfect English!) to me, in my chair … A German politician, the other day, called out for cross-generational activities in order to bla-bla-bla. He should visit the Freilichtbühne Bökendorf. There he will meet real people, wonderful people, of all generations …

 

Oh! I hope they do another PGB musical, and I get to visit them again before I die! I can tell you, I’ll never forget the night … and the lady who kept ladling out the local vodka-ginger-something green … A special thanks to Michael (actor and scenic designer) who drove a slightly tipsy but very happy author/composer and historian/critic back to Brakel in the small hours …

  Gosh, musical theatre can be fun! In Bökendorf anyway!

Bravo, Giovanni!

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Last night I went to the Staatsoper, for the first time. For all my operatic activity and writing in Berlin, up till now, has been centred on the Deutsche Oper. The occasion was the season's premiere of Don Giovanni which I was covering for the Dutch Opera Magazine and its website Place de l'opéra. It wasn't a home-grown production. The Staatsoper one wouldn't fit into the splendid but smaller temporary home of the company at the Schiller-Theater, so they imported one from Salzburg. Good fishing!
Great show! I arrived home at 11pm, in warm drizzle, and flung myself straight in front of my computer, bubbling with the need to recount my splendid evening, and post off the text to Amsterdam. Where, of course, it will appear in Dutch. So I'll put the English version here, for we who aren't skilled in Dutch

A DON FOR TODAY

'I never want to see Don Giovanni again. Never. Ever. Because I just want to remember the production I saw tonight, at the Staatsoper in the Schiller Theater, Berlin. I can’t imagine it being better done in the future.

I know Don Giovanni has been cited as the perfect opera, but for 21st century audiences there are a lot of theatrical conventions in its make-up which make it interesting as a period piece, but hardly viable as a modern ‘comic drama’. Well, I reckon tonight’s production came very near to achieving that unlikely transformation, from classic to tragi-comedy for our times, without in any way damaging the fabric of the opera, dramatic or musical. Casting director, director and designer have worked together wonderfully to give us a Don Giovanni for today, which is still the Don Giovanni of always.

I am the first to complain when operas are staged out of period, out of style, and not in accordance with the librettist’s instructions. But tonight I’m going to contradict myself largely. The whole action of the night takes place on one revolving forest set – and these characters are, as we know, thoroughly ‘into the woods’. All the wretched shuffling from one box set to another is done away with, and the Dons and Donnas romp in the grass and bushes in a most believable way, making absolute sense of their episodic story and their multiple exits and entrances and ensembles. Very little is forced to make it fit, and the ultimate climax with the ghostly, stalking Commendatore was stunning.
One more ‘thank you’ to director, Claus Guth. Unlike opera directors in far-too-general, everything he made his characters do had a reason, a sense to it. The piece had been thought through. O! how rare.

But I mentioned the casting director first, and rightly so. I was one of those once, and I know how difficult it is to perfectly or even adequately cast every role in a show. This one was much nearer to perfect than adequate. Everybody could act effortlessly, everybody looked right, moved right and of course sang stunningly.



Christopher Maltman seems made to play and sing the Don. Suave, sexy, the very essence of a serial man-who-can’t help-himself when a woman is of layable age. His charisma flowed over the footlights, along with his beautiful big baritone, and he looked quite delicious in pain: for this Don is slowly dying from Act I, winged by the wounded Commendatore. I know! It’s not da Ponte, but it works marvellously.

If the Don is the hub of the show, he shares – or should -- that place with Leporello. It would take this Don to share anything with the Leporello of Erwin Schrott. This was an anthology performance. His acting is so natural you almost don’t expect him to sing. But boy! can he sing. Rich, fluid, crisp tones … no silly old-fashioned buffo he, but a real singing comic actor. And the relationship built up between Leporello and the Don becomes here totally explicable, natural and even touching. Alain Delon being mothered by Robert Lindsay. Dazzling.



It often depends on which of the three ladies is the strongest performer as to which of them seems central to the opera’s action. In the old days, stars liked to play Zerlina and Elvira was given to a comprimaria. Not tonight. Tonight it was a joyous triple dead-heat. How to choose between the Sloane Ranger Anna (Maria Bengtsson) with her delicate ‘Non mi dir’ and her cigarette, the naughty country Zerlina (Anna Prohaska), hot out of puberty, who made old ‘La ci darem’ into a piece of sweetly sung sexual temptation, and poor, funny but longing Elvira (Dorothea Röschmann) whose ‘Mi tradi’ roused the audience to as much applause as her foolishnesses did laughter. And, oh joy!; all three ladies slim and sexy – ripe meat for Giovanni – and without any shadow of ‘I am a prima donna’ about their performances. Elvira (I always have a soft spot for Elvira) actually SKIPPED on for her curtain call with Leporello.



Even the less grateful roles were given fine performances. Stefan Kocan made Masetto into a believable ‘bloke’ with a rich, unforced basso; Alexander Tsymbaluk lent his powerful voice and presence to the final chilling, deathly scene, and … well, I don’t suppose anyone will ever make Don Ottavio much more than a singing cipher, but Giuseppe Filianote had a good go, making him a geeky fellow who has got himself a blonde soprano for a fiancée, and can’t really cope. He came a little to grief in ‘Dalla sua pace’, which showed up once more (to me) tonight as a non-essential. I would rather have that cut than the final ensemble (which we didn’t get). Actually, I could do without Ottavio altogether, but then we couldn’t have ‘Non mi dir’.

Daniel Barenboim’s orchestra were wonderfully unobtrusive (that is a compliment) and supportive, the chorus did their little bit in similar manner, and a good time was had by all. Especially by me.

Well, I suppose I owe it to factual reporting to state that a clique greeted the director and designer with boos at their curtain call (this is, after all, Berlin), but I reckon we who were cheering defeated them. If anyone can boo the Staatsoper’s Don Giovanni of 2012, they should give up going to the opera house, and just stay home and listen to records.

It was my favourite night at the opera in a long time.'

And so it was.

Navigating in the wrong direction ... or an evening with Little Red Riding Hood

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Tonight, we went back to Radialsystem V. I know, never try to repeat a good trick. But it’s a great fun venue, and I reasoned that even if this week’s concert was only half as good as the Mahler Chamber Orchestra/Sacha Waltz evening, it would still be a splendid night out.
And that’s what it was. Exactly half as good. I will explain.

The evening was advertised as Rossini’s Petite Messe Solennelle. Lovely! I know the piece well from having sung the solo bass part at Strawberry Hill in 1968 or 9, and I hadn’t heard it since. Performed by Nico and the Navigators. Curious name, what could it mean? They were going to sing the music properly, weren’t they?

I needn’t have worried on that score. The evening was a musical joy. That was the half that was good. A little group of fresh young voices, and four splendid soloists .. how enjoyable to hear Rossini’s beautiful music sung this way, instead of by a ponderous and glutinous choir and pretentious vocalists. The mezzo-soprano (Ulrike Mayer) with her ‘Agnus Dei’ and of course ‘my’ basso ‘Quoniam’ (Pauls Putnins), plus all the ensemble bits, plus … well, I just enjoyed all of the music. And the way in which it was played and sung.



What I did not enjoy was the physical production. The staging, for want of a better word. The cast, dressed like leftovers from a 1970s production of Godspell, were directed in the same old-fashioned way as that piece. Lots of non-stop fidgeting and twitching, meaningless posing and tricks, chunks of foolish indistinct mono- and dialogue (much in English) with no relation that I could fathom to either the music or the liturgical text, and several ‘characters’ that by halftime (except there was no interval .. 2 hours!) I could cheerfully have strangled. An incidental little red-riding-hood lady who did 1970s choreography relentlessly against the music would be my first to the gallows, followed closely by the lady in the picture hat (why?) and the man in green who took his shirt off (why?). But I suppose they were only doing what they had been directed to. ‘Nico’ has to take the blame for the ‘konzept und regie’. The half that was not good.



I could go on at length, but it would just be to say more of the same. Grand music, beautifully sung, in a meaningless, gimmicky, fussy staging. Why?
Well, Paul came up with the only possible answer. How otherwise to get 21st century folk to come and hear a Rossini Mass? I am obviously in a minority, but hey! I found a way round it. When it got too much … I just shut my eyes and listened. Great!

They’re doing Bach next week. I’d pencilled it in. But much as I’d like to hear these talented young singers again, I couldn’t stand another dose of Red-Riding-Hood and Benedict, so I’ll be skipping it. And now, I have to put my Mozart hat on. Don Giovanni tonight … lets hope there’s no Godspell there!

Flying so high with some guy in the sky ...

Coffee, strawberries and grapes in the sunshine on a terrace at the Alexanderplatz with Olli and our friend Jens. On the ground? Oh no. At Jens’s apartment. On the umpteenth and top floor of a mammoth ex-East German posh-folks block of flats …

You step on to the lofty balcony – ignoring the waves of vertigo, and the impulsion to jump -- and look out over the rooftops of the crazy mixture that was East Berlin … the beautiful brick Rathaus and church, and the flat and uninspired 20th century buildings. Oh well, the way they’re built, they’ll probably fall down soon.




And right in front of us, so close you feel your could spit on it, East Berlin’s folly. Try standing on a top floor terrace, 50 centimetres from the edge, and looking uuuuup to the top of this monster! I had to sit on the floor to take this picture.



It is certainly a sensational view. But only for people who are up to strong sensations! Hehe. OK, Jens …

Whirlin' in Berlin ...!

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It’s Monday again … and I haven’t blogged for over a week. Not because there’s been nothing to tell, but because I’ve been too busy doing (and recovering) to write about it! I just slam a nice picture and two lines on facebook …

But now it’s Monday, and a day of ‘rest’. So I’ve prepared my article about Welsh singer Eos Morlais (1841-1892), I’ve answered all my testamentary letters, I’ve made myself cream-scrambled eggs (why not!) with German bacon, I’ve been shopping at Kaiser’s … and I haven’t had a single visitor or rendez-vous! Why? Because Kevin is in LA, the Pauls are in (1) Ireland and (2) Bad something-or-other, the Thomases are (1) on his Hochzeitreise and (2) in New York. Der Olli had an-all night work session last night, Hannes only left here at nightfall …

So, before the action starts again tomorrow, it time to chronicle … in pictures, I think, rather than too many words, what I’ve been up to!



We left me, last Sunday, writing up that radiant night at Radialsystem V, and going to an early bed. For, Monday, I had two dates. My friend Frank, who is stage manager at the Deutsche Oper, came by for a Nollendorfstrasse picnic, and in the evening Paul GB and I went to the Opera House to hear the brass and wind players of the orchestra playing a ‘Big Band’ concert. Well, I guess my Big Bands have always been American or British. This one was different. Relentlessly loud. No style. The guys and their comical conductor were obviously having a good time, but I wasn’t. Then the singer came on. Paul Kuhn is very elderly, and is apparently ‘a legend’ in Germany. Sorry, I’ve no time for that sort of thing. If an artist can’t do it anymore why should I pay good money to be disgusted by him. The most obvious American songs sung with iffy pitch and no quality …
It is many, many years since I left a concert at half time. This was the night. Instead, into the Deutsche Oper restaurant for far too much of their good red wine and a delightful light supper of (oh gosh, what was it) …



The next day I was mildly dull, to say the least, but my friend Anna was coming for lunch so I hauled myself from my bed and … she couldn’t find the flat! And I don’t have a phone .. So (hallelujh!) our date was rescheduled for the next day and I went back to bed. And the next day we had a nice little lunch and a big chat at the Café Berio ..

Rendez-vous the next day with Olli and Hannes, and Friday … back to the Deutsche Oper. But not for a show. Frank was going to give me a tour of the backstage. Now, I’ve seen loads of backstages in my life and career, I practically lived in them for a decade, but this one was a Big Boy. Rehearsal rooms, dressing rooms, scenery stores, rooms for costumes, wigs, hats …even shoes … Up into the flies … down to the machinery under the stage, on to the stage where Tosca was shoved to one side to make space for the night’s Roméo et Juliette ballet ... so many stairs for wobbly me, but I was really interested, so I did it.





Home for a quick snooze, because at 6.30 I had another date. My best cavalier, Olli, picked me up and we headed right back to Deutsche Oper! Well, its only 4 stops on the U-Bahn. And again, not for a show. Paul GB and Uwe live just a hundred metres from the theatre, and they were making us dinner. The price for dinner was my now well-known photographic skills. Chuckle. They needed a duo portrait for a magazine. So my friendly Fuji was riding shot gun.





Delicious couscous dinner, gallons of wine, endless (very) good cheer and comradeship, and my photos weren’t at all wobbly! But I was glad to have my cavalier at 1.30am!

And again the next day! For Saturday was the ‘key’ to the season and the first fixed point I made when planning the points in my summer. April 16th was the wedding day of my dear ‘joli Tom’, composer Thomas Zaufke, and his longtime partner, Pablo. 110 people for a sit-down dinner, endless jollity and .. yes, endless wine! .. The whole evening was beautifully laid out … three cheers for Wedding-Planner, Helga! ... and the La Luz restaurant a wonderful venue for a party. And we were all sorts of a mixture! Family (I fell in love with Pablo’s beautiful mother!), neighbours, work colleagues, friends … and everyone had to be photographed with the happy couple ..
Fuji did his thing and … well, never has a photo of mine received so many facebook ‘Likes’!







After 4 hours and something, I left Olli and Hannes to it, and the happy couple to what was obviously going to be a very late night, and taxi-ed home to my cosy flat. Well, one has to behave like a 66-year-old occasionally!



And it wasn’t over yet. The next day was the occasion of the famous Motzstrasse Street Party. The Motzstrasse, I must add is adjacent to the Nollendorfstrasse. What is this Street Party? It is a very large, very well-known Gay Event. Last time I was here, I shut myself in the flat for the day and night, at the thought of several thousand gays en masse, but this time .. the sun was out, Hannes – a perfect cicerone for such an occasion as he seems to know the whole of gay Berlin! – was coming by, so out I went. With my walking stick. Because the crowds were enormous. You could do little more than shuffle amid the mass of humanity between the rows of booths and stalls. We had a beer and a good pizza and watched the world go by, and I was struck by several facts (1) where were the teenagers? the endless couples and groups of mostly men were largely 30 plus, and (2) where was the outrageous and merry fetish stuff the area is/was known for? and (3) where were the smiles! This was supposed to be fun! It reminded me of Sitges, full of holidaying American gays having a horrible time.
Well, I found my hero. A little bit of leather, a terrific smile and busily cheffing on the Fetish (not very!) stall. My friend, you were the star of the Party!



A couple of hours and I was able to wander the few hundred metres home … and by the time Hannes and his pal came by to say goodnight I was already in my djellaba .. the most madly social week of my recent years was ended ..

And I have had a day of rest! I’ll need it, because the out-of-towners start coming back Wednesday, and tomorrow I have a date … yes, there are still some pals I haven’t caught up with! And, heavens its 9.30 pm, boiling hot, daytime light … yes, the 21 June is near! Time for a glass of Sprudelwasser Gerolstein … and then, maybe, a curl up under (or on top of) my red and white check duvet …

A light and bright lunch in the Nürnbergstrasse

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I ate so much while I was in Jersey. And so well. Barely a glitch. And I was intending to pull my belt in during my months ‘at home’ in Berlin. More home-compiled meals, less restaurants. Well, why not? My flat has a nice wee kitchen, Kaiser’s first-class supermarket is 100 metres away, on the Nollendorfplatz, the Saturday and Wednesday market at the Winterfeldplatz, full of enticing cheese, charcuterie and other goodies is 100 metres in the other direction. My ‘picnics’ at no 32 (with or without alcohol, depending on the hour!) are thus quite famous.

And then, of course, there was the fact that, last time round, I didn’t find an equivalent of Jersey’s Dockyard here. In fact, I only found one local restaurant that I liked, for a light lunch or an early supper. That, of course, was Sissi’s on the Motzstrasse, and Kevin and I repaired there on Day One of this season. I had a tasty broth with Leberknodel, followed – silly me! – by Sud-Tirolischer knödeln with spinach and cheese. They were delicious, but oh! in spite of not having eaten for 36 hours, by the time I’d finished I was noodled out and could only go home to snooze! NOT the menu for a Gänzl light lunch! So I resigned myself, not unwillingly, to picnicking chez-moi for the future.

Perhaps, I thought, the cuisine here isn’t my scene. And anyway, amazingly, Sissi – like many restaurants here – doesn’t take credit cards! And if I take cash from an ATM, I get charged some horrendous percentage… so, home cooking!



And then my friend Horst called, and said ‘let’s do lunch’. So we did. I met him outside the attractive state-of-the-art-deco Ellington Hotel and we adjourned to the open courtyard behind the very striking main dining room … the city towering up above us, the sun pouring down … nice! And very umm expensive looking.

Surprise! They have a set menu luncheon at 15 euros. Choice of soup or veggie salad antipasto, followed by schnapper or tafelspitz or pasta, plus a bottle of sparkling water and a coffee … 15 euros! And, surprise again, it was jolly good and it was liiiiiiiight.
I had a lovely rigatoni – not drowned in any sauce ... infiltrated by slices of fresh asparagus (it’s the Spargel season!) .. and Horst went for a good, straightforward tafelspitz … They were all that you would wish for. And the little veggie antipasto, in spite of being well-rocketed was a well-judged starter.





So we sunned, and we chatted, and it was all most agreeable. I’d recommend the Ellington’s set lunch to anyone. Especially if they have the good company of a Horst!

Radialsystem Go! A night of magical musical-chairs with the Mahler Chamber Orchestra

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An absolute priority when I arrive in Berlin each year is a date with my musical mentor, Paul (otherwise the one and only ‘Montmorensy’). Out come the concert schedules, and we get down to planning my education and entertainment for the season. The Konzerthaus, the Philharmonie …
This year, to my distress, we couldn’t find a starter. I’m funny: as with operas, or musicals, or plays, I don’t really care to go to a piece I’ve seen before (no matter who the artists), I want to hear something that’s new to me. And the main houses seemed to be hosting an awful lot of ‘Bach, Beethoven and Brahms’. Or Berio. I prefer Boieldieu.
So we decided to look outside the square, and we found an orchestra – the Mahler Chamber Orchestra – playing what looked like a fun programme at Radialsystem V, a converted warehouse space. On-line booking … done! And, while the rest of the country was occupying itself watching Germany vs Portugal (football, you know) we set off for Friedrichshain.
I little suspected what was in store for me.
What was? Why, probably the most gloriously entertaining – no, just say plain ‘best’ – night I have ever spent at an instrumental (no singing!) concert in my life.

Firstly, the concept. Someone had had the marvellous idea of utilising the whole spaces of the building for the entertainment. The main hall (600 seats), two smaller upstairs venues, and the terrace overlooking the River Spree. We started, after a Dukas fanfare on the riverside, with the whole orchestra playing Schostakovich in the Hall, whilst upstairs hosted a Malcolm Arnold brass quintet. Then the band split up, and while some of the strings played quartets elsewhere, we had a bevy of fascinating pieces in the main auditorium…






But let’s be chronological. With the me-detail that all the pieces except a dash of Mozart were – as hoped -- new to me.
We opened with Schostakovich’s cello concerto No.1, with the young American Alisa Wellerstein as soloist. What a stunner! I whispered to Paul: they OPEN with this? I won’t be able to listen to the classic concerti for ages. This vibrant, exciting piece of music swept me off my feet, from its aggressively hacking, chopping early phrases to the wonderful extended solo cadenza that opens the 3rd movement. And it was played stunningly. I thought I had seen the ultimate in physical cello playing when I saw Guy Johnson’s Gorecki in Jersey last month. But this was something else. Miss Wellerstein must have her bow re-haired every time she plays it. The overflowing audience went wild, and eventually she had to pacify us with a bit o’ Bach before we would let her go.




Next up was the Mozart. He seemed a bit out of his fach among all the S composers. Why? I thought. I was to find out. The trio divertissement introduced the Sasha Waltz dance troupe doing a pretty routine to the pretty music. You always end up with your eye on one performer: I liked the tall elegant lady in the hideous black Mother Hubbard. And caught myself thinking ‘modern dance has whole lot of classic poses in it. Where would they be without the arabesque?’
The troupe followed up with a ‘structured improvisation’ to music by Schnittke. My brother insisted just last month that I get to know Schnittke. The piece was entitled ‘Moz-art à la Haydn’. And now we saw why it had been preceded by the ‘normal’ Mozart. This was a (seemingly) anarchic ‘joke’, full of musical jokes and choreographic jokes, and wonderfully funny and entertaining it was too, in all its parts.
Ignoring the rule about ‘children and animals’ the troupe of 7 strongly featured a talented little boy who quickly became the audience pet, but for me the star of this essentially ensemble piece was the conductor, Pablo Heras-Casado. He started the piece front-centre … well, the orchestra was in the aisles! ... and the action swirled around him, until, in the twist that absolutely made the item, he became involved in the dance ... followed by his whole agile band. What movements the choreographer had given the thankfully young players to do, while playing the closing part of their music! It was superb. It was a whole performance entity, full of joyous fun and surprises. And I loved, loved, loved it. ‘But Kurt’ I can hear a little voice from my past saying, ‘you don’t like modern dance’. Yeah? Well, I do now! A heap!



The packed house dispersed to the friendly bar, the riverside terrace, and the other rooms (Miss Wellerstein was playing again on the 3rd floor), but we decided to stay in the Hall a bit longer in spite of a 15 minute interval. Interval? Oh no. You see, this being football night, some imaginative person had got up a game. We each had a ‘football card’ with stickers of the orchestral players to collect. Well! To see teenage girls and elderly gentlemen eagerly swapping a timpanist for a flute … we, of course, joined in enthusiastically and I am happy to say we got our missing British trombonist before the end of the evening, and received our prize: a CD of the orchestra playing … Brahms!

Things got under way with three little pieces for solo clarinet, before we hit the next feature of the evening: a brass and wind octet by Stravinsky. More fun! Especially the first half. The music gets a bit wandery and unfocused later on, but watching and listening to the players (favourite: Chiara Tonelli on flute) tossing off their bits of fioratura, was a delightful contrast to the two big hits of the earlier programme.

We retired for a welcome drink on the terrace and looked at our upcoming options. John Adams upstairs and … oh! goodness a whole Schostakovich symphony down. And we’d been here three hours already. Well, Mr Adams was full, so we decided to call it a day. ‘Oh but its not finished’ said the orchestra’s official as we left. I told her we were going straight home to book for the next Radialsystem show. But, alas, it wont be the MCO. They’re off to delight other corners of the world …

After having wonderfully delighted me (the Victorian scholar!) and Paul (the professional musician) and I’ll bet every one of those 600 plus punters who crammed the house.

PS Next visit to Friedrichshain 23rd June to hear the Rossini ‘Petite Messe Solennelle’ in which I made the greatest success of my singing career … in 1968. From the pictures, it will be rather different! Hurrah!

PPS I’ve got a duplicate oboeist if anyone wants to swap. I’d like a spare of that conductor, please.

PPPS I wonder what that little boy will grow up as.

PPPPS Happiness ☺

Photos by Holger Talinski.

A Night at the Semi-Opera

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Tonight I went to the Deutsche Oper to see Il Trovatore. But not Il Trovatore on stage, Il Trovatore in concert.

Strange, I thought. In my mind concert performances are reserved for recondite or unstageable pieces. La Contessa d’Amalfi, Il Barone di Dolsheim or Zaira.
But I shouldn’t have worried. The theatre was packed to the rafters, and people were begging for tickets outside.
But I still have my reservations. With a concert performance, the music may get its due – and this work is one of the ‘pop’ operas of all time, one hit tune after another -- but the drama inevitably suffers. And operas don’t come more dramatic than Il Trovatore.

I suppose it shouldn’t matter in a concert if you have a grossly stout Manrico, or if you have a Luna who resembles Anna Magnani with a beard. But it does. You shouldn’t be distracted by the conductor’s shirt tails bouncing up and down, but you are. And worst of all is the hilarious business of the scores and music stands. Ruiz and Inez come on to sing their few lines with a score, and two minutes later go out with it. Luna turns pages in the middle of ‘Il Balen’. Please! How can you take the action seriously. It’s worse than an oratorio. At least there they only sit and stand. They don’t waddle or stroll on and off with a big black book.

OK. So it’s a concert. No scenery, no costumes, no action. But no drama? Just ‘songs’. Well, tonight, for the first half of the performance, that’s what we had. Just songs. We had a soprano (Anja Harteros) who was making lovely smooth milky noises, a tenor (Stuart Neill) who was singing the notes, and a baritone (Dalibor Jenis) who was non-existent vocally and dramatically, to the extent of being swallowed up by the orchestra. Only the mezzo-contralto (Dolora Zajick) seemed aware that this was supposed to be rousing melodrama, and she showed up with an alarming hole in the middle of her voice.



I returned glumly for the second half. But something had happened in the interval. Everyone seemed to have woken up. Miss Harteros had found some spirit and drama. All right, Leonora is a boring ingenue, a full-time victim with beautiful music to sing, but if she’s not more than just that? Just beautiful and boring? Thankfully, not Miss Harteros. After a super-smooth ‘D’amor sull’ ali rosee’ and a throbbing ‘Miserere’,’ this Leonora really took off, and gave us all we could have asked for until the final curtain.

Miss Zajick had found the missing three notes during half-time and she launched into the final scenes with her tail on fire, with searing top notes and plumbing bottom tones, in an audience pleasing performance of uninhibited melodrama which won over even an oldtimer brought up on the Azucena of Fedora Barbieri. The house left no doubt in the curtain calls as to who was for them the evening’s star. And rightly so. I have always thought the opera should have been called La madre del trovatore.

The Manrico made an effort to go with the flow. He really did. But ‘Di quella pira’ didn’t ring out. It might have rung somewhere near the back of his soft palate, but it didn’t ring to me in Row 17.
And Luna was still non-existent.

The orchestra and chorus under Andrea Battistoni and William Spaulding respectively did their jobs impeccably—I don’t understand why a little clique booed them at the end, for the male chorus was one of the successes of the evening – and the supporting players (especially Jana Kurucova as Inez) were fine when they weren’t coping with scores and stands and exits and entrances.



So, all in all, an evening of mixed pleasures.

I am not sure that the concert format is right for a work so well known as Il Trovatore. I am quite sure that all the exiting and entrancing and pretending to read from the score is absolutely destructive to the drama and continuity of the opera. And I am pretty sure that casting for such an evening needs to be done with the same dramatic criteria in mind, in this day and age, as it would be for a stage performance.

After all, this is an opera. And one of the most popular operas of all time.

My Charioteer of Fire

I’m here. Berlin. I’m back in my beloved flat at 32 Nollendorfstrasse, and about to launch – albeit a slightly wobbly rocket – into the joys of being in this friendful city.

Mind you, getting here was a bit of a cavalcade.

Air Berlin runs one flight a week to and from Jersey. Unfortunately on a Saturday. And more unfortunately, in spite of the name of the airline, not a direct flight. These days, you have to change planes at Düsseldorf. Anna, my travel agent in Rangiora booked my flight, and ‘assistance’ for the transfer .. ie wheels of some sort .. months ago. And since then, the airline had changed the destination, and then changed it back! But I duly flew out of Jersey, only about 25 minutes late, on the day nominated…

We arrived at Düsseldorf, and I and the other wheelchair passenger duly waited till last to descend. ‘It’s only 6.05’, I thought,’ and my plane doesn’t leave till 7.35 … and, er, is this wheelchair for me?’ Well, it wasn’t. I wasn’t listed! But my fellow passenger was severely handicapped, and they’d sent two men to help her. So we took a pusher apiece. Off we sedately set, and I surrendered my boarding card to the nice attendant. He gulped.

I had forgotten about the time zone change between Jersey and Germany. ‘It’s 7.10’, he exclaimed, ‘and the flight will be closed!’ Out came his walkie-talkie, and up went our speed! We zoomed through kilometres of empty passages, up elevators, backwards through a one-way gate. I was frisked in the chair, my cane and bag and the camera taken from my belt were whisked through the Xray, as on we rushed, until at 7.25pm we landed at the airplane door. Still open. I shoved the contents of my wallet – Jersey pounds! – into my saviour’s hand, was hoisted from my chair … and my pants fell down! When they took the camera, they hadn’t rebuckled me aright …

But I had made it. As on the first leg, the airline had kindly given me a seat with no-one beside me, so the rest of the trip was accomplished without incident, until I was delivered safely to dear about-to-be-departed Tegel, and the arms of my friend, Kevin.

I’m told Stravinsky used to take a wheelchair at airports. Well, he had the right idea. I would not only not have made it in time, I would never have been able to walk it! In fact, even in possession of my full locomtor-y powers it would have been tough.

I wish I had asked my trundler friend’s name. All I can say is, three cheers for the assistance at Düsseldorf airport … and a touch less for Air Berlin’s arrangements. When I return to Jersey, I will have a stopover in Düsseldorf!

Eating lotuses ...

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I really meant to come to Jersey for a laze. I did. Well, the Festival, of course, but then a laze. But what with one thing and another, and what with the decided reluctance of the northern summer to leave the starting gates, I seem to have been able to fill a blog every couple of days, and eat and drink and eat again, without really eating any lotuses. But since my damp Sunday at Les Landes, the sun has come out properly and I’ve been able to linger in lotus-land at my leisure.

The change was marked by the fact that, with the sun, Bayview powered up its spa bath. Just the thing for the dicky shoulder and frustratingly semi-useful arm and hand. I have profited from it (since its 20 metres from my room) daily! 20 minutes spa, dry off in sun, repeat dose … shower, snooze …



I’ve pampered myself a little too.
You know, when I travelled across the world on my beloved cargo ships, or visited Hoar Cross Hall, I enjoyed immensely having my quiet and comfy little serviced cabin or room, meals on tap, and things like massage to hand. Well, I’ve just realised: I don’t need ship nor spa any more. I have manufactured my own little place right here.
My room is bigger and better equipped than any cabin or ‘hotel’ room, with of course 24 hour-wifi! Monica and Fatima look after my needs wonderfully, I have the Dockyard and Bohemia at hobbling distance, and it’s but a short walk to all sorts of in-betweeny delicacies at Relish and also to the pampering.
I started my pampering at Rio. Officially a ladies’ hairdresser. But I had one of the most agreeable (and reasonable) haircuts of my life. From Gaby (below). One doesn’t really like to ask a lady to snip the intimate hairs which a stroke means a man can no longer reach, but Gaby tidied my ears, nose and eyebrows, and that wretched little bit below the back collar, without flinching.



As a result, I decided to pursue the adventure and get Rio to look after the other bit of me I can’t reach. My feet and toenails. My feet are really good for my age, except for the broken toe that Chris Molloy stomped on in South Pacific and which has, ever since, pointed the wrong way. But they wont stay that way if I don’t look after them. Well, Kerry of Rio lavished such care on my tootsicums for ¾ of an hour that … I shall go barefoot for a week. And she recommended a good masseur…

Pamper for me definitely includes the inner man, and I haven’t reduced my restaurant going. Quite the opposite.

Firstly and foremostly, I returned (with Chris of the Dockyard) to Bohemia. I know I threatened to leap into detailed panegyric about the occasion but I won’t. I looked at the menu, sighed, and ordered exactly what I’d had the previous week. But this time, before I destroyed it, I photographed it. The delicious beetroot dish, the wonderful sea bass with its parsley sauce risotto, the super-delicious assiette of desserts …









OK, we pushed the boat out – why go to the best and not? – and my bill came to nigh on 300 quid (with two good bottles of wine). But it’s something you only do once a .. oh, or twice .. or maybe thrice a month. And each time it has ranked in my top ten of all time food experiences.

I lunched with my pal Barbara at the new Quayside Restaurant: a lovely spot overlooking the marina, where I indulged in an bullish dish of tasty Thai soup (served with a ‘Thai’ spoon which is the devil to handle) and a plate of nice scallops and prawns on lots of greenery. But, oh! when they served Barbara’s coffee it came with paper packets of sugar! So my very pleasant idea of the place dropped just a cran. A shame. Why do something so ‘caff’ in an otherwise nice place. Yes, it matters.

I returned, of course, to the Dockyard, where I fell heavily for Chris’s Surf and Turf (beef carpaccio with scallops .. his best yet!) and last night I returned to my li’l old love, the Roseville bistro. I sampled an interesting spinach risotto with blue cheese, and a light and bright sizzling scallop dish with a bacon sauce and came out quite satisfied with a bill of 21 pounds (including 2 pints).

Restaurants are fun and fine, but there’s nothing like home cooking, when all’s said and done. On Sunday, Jennie picked me up and drove me to Gorey. Ah, Gorey! It was the spot I fell for originally in Jersey, and I see why all over again. It is a charming village, and I can’t believe that some iconoclast is trying to build 50 modern monsters on the site of the old pottery. Jersey has sufficiently ruined itself as a tourist attraction (and a pretty place to live) by defacing St Helier with the infamous four grey towers, the incinerator, and the pre-fab hotel: do they want to destroy Gorey now?



Anyway, I aperitifed with Jennie at her house overlooking the cute village green, and then we proceeded to Charlotte’s house for a family BBQ … I am an honorary member of the family pro tem! Thank you, everyone, especially Kate for driving me home, and pouring me into the Bayview after a homely evening to warm the heart. And the rest of the body.





It is just as well I have decided to come back here for the month of August. Now I’ve got my own personal Spa ticking over so nicely, it will be difficult to leave. But Berlin is calling – loudly, and with multiple voices – so, en avant and à bientôt!

Isn’t it amazing how much one can write about doing … nothing! Much.

Sing neigh, the wind and the rain ...

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Summer has not quite happened yet.

Take Sunday. Sunday was Jersey Race Day. I had had a lovely day out, last time, at cliff-top Les Landes race-course, so my pal Charlotte (who is club secretary) organised a repeat. Her mum, Jennie, and Jennie’s lady friends – Prim and Rosemary --, a table in the big white marquee with a very good caterer’s luncheon, half a dozen races (and a couple of pony ones) … The only thing we hadn’t counted on was the weather.



It rained. No, it poured. And the Manchian winds bit holes out of everyone’s umbrellas before unnaturally inverting them. Snuggled under Geoff’s windcheater (did I say, I left mine on the plane!) and Johnny’s teapot-cosy Turkish hat, I and my stick made it from the carpark, across the lush and soggy track to the tent …
Poor Charlotte, striding around in this blizzard in her long coat and woolly beanie, her hair looking as if she was out to understudy Anna Magnani as Medusa, organised drenchedly on. Abandon? not likely!
So we dined, and we warmed, and then Prim and I had the bright idea of popping out to see the hurdle race. 4 maiden hurdlers going round a big wandering mile track. Well, they all got round. I think the odds on favourite won by about 50 lengths in the end. And my snazzy cotton Rangiora pants didn’t dry out till morning. But, between brollies, I got my photo. Of the start..



Racing here is delightfully ‘as it used to be’. There are a limited number of horses on the island, so they all race against each other regularly and you’ld expect there to be a hierarchy established. But no. One odds-on fave, which I saw win two years ago, got thrashed, two non-faves won by large margins … and a good time was had by all. All in the tent, that is. Outside, the public had melted away.

Memory of the day. As I was paying my bill, a damp lady came up to the till. She needed some money, she announced. Her horse had just won and she didn’t have cash to pay the jockey. I told her that in New Zealand, the powers that pay take it out of our winnings. She gave me a Margaret Rutherford look and exclaimed: ‘What a good idea!’

Well, I'll be back for the Derby, and for Ladies' Day ... and we'll hope the wind and rain stay away next time!

Longueville Manor or, out of the water closet

Today was a digestive day. In response to the ludicrous suggestion that there might be, on the island of 

Jersey, a restaurant which could equal or outdo Bohemia in excellence, Alex, Katy and I proceeded, at lunchtime, to Longueville Manor, which had been suggested as a postulant. The Manor really is a Manor House, or was, dating apparently from the 14th century. However, it has been vastly remade, into a grandiose hotel-plus-restaurant. Outside it looks quite normal: inside it has been decorated by a designer who, I felt, had muddled up Louis the somethingth with New Orleans bordello. And a lot of money. We arrived by cab, and were greeted on the drive (!), ushered to the bar and told where we were to sit (!) on a low comfy couch. I suppressed a giggle. In front of us was a glittering bar, run by a small, black barman. Had I slipped into a 1940s movie? Set in Louisiana? 2G&Ts and my pastis were half drunk when we were called to our table. But we were stopped at the bar door. We were not allowed to carry our glasses through. They had to go on a salver and be carried through by the barman. I almost snorted. Someone had peculiar ideas about what was ‘classy’ and they were being carried out ridiculously literally. And this carried on! However, I determined to concentrate on my meal and not be distracted by the circus. Meal first, then I’ll talk about the circus. We were seated at a delightful corner table by a very lovely garden in a room which ought to have been comfortably cosy, but for an enormous mirror, tromping l’oeil, which made it seem double the size. But, food! Seeking something to escape from the eternal round of everybody’s-doing-it starters (do chefs read each others menus on the web, or what?), I settled on an alluring seafood ragoût. It arrived looking very cheerful. The scallops (they are described as ‘hand-dived’!) were perfect, soft and succulent, the coral butter sauce was OK, but I didn’t really know what it was ... and the little red-pink prawnish beasts on top were ... well, maybe they had been hand-dived too, and didn’t like it. I didn’t like them. An equivocal start.

  On to our plats principales. Katy and I went for the Welsh lamb, and Alex for the pork belly. Pork belly seems to have become the new sine qua non. Like chicken wings (ugh!) once did. Upwardly striving food. But Alex had made the winning choice. He declared his pork top class, so I tried a bit and it certainly was very tasty. My lamb? Well, the waiter had made a great point of asking how we wanted it done. Katy said pink. I said ‘red’. Well, as you can see, I got pink. Katy got pale pink. The accompanying beans etcetera would win me any day, and the massive helping of garlic left me pleasantly gasping. Oh, the meat was fine, but given the circus, I would have expected ‘excellent’. Maybe Welsh lamb isn’t as good as New Zealand's? Yes, it is. I’ve had it at .. whisper it .. Bohemia.

Longueville then stepped into top gear. A veritable Simpsons-in-the-Strand cheese trolley. And, yes, with époisses! (I find the place is actually related to Sumas). Katy and Alex had about ten weeny pieces of different delicious cheeses, while I sat wondering ‘what do they do with all that must be left over?’ and waited for dessert. Because I had spied a Bailey’s soufflé on the menu which promised much. And it delivered. Oh, did it. It was a lovely soufflé: better even than the Colombe d’or’s famous grand marnier one. Brilliant.

 

We finished our meal with a Jersey apple brandy, which I suppose came on a salver but I wasn’t noticing. I’d become immune to the circus. Circus. I won’t go on about it, just give you one example. Our red wine, a plainish red, at 29 pounds, on a wine list which charges 57 pounds for an NZ wine that I find in supermarkets là-bas for less than NZ$20, was delivered with the most extraordinary pantomime. Decanted into a vast decanter which looked as if it should have a genie in it, sipped by the wine waiter, passed in the decanting over a lit candle… a candle, I kid you not! Folk who are impressed with that sort of nonsense, well, nuff said. I sense a heavy directorial hand behind the scenes teaching these comically excessive and would-be-‘classy’ tricks to the nice young men. They do their best with them, but ‘class’, my dear sir or madam, is not pasted on, it is not ‘learned’, it just is. And apeing it is truly ridiculous. So the good bits of our afternoon’s experience (that soufflé!) were somewhat under-shadowed by the funny stage-management. But at 188 pounds for three, I could wear it. Fair value.

 

There is, however, a postscript. Katy (who is actually a lawyer) made our booking, as I don’t use a phone. Alex has just messaged me to say someone from Longueville Manor had rung her to say we had ‘underpaid’. Oh, no, we didn’t. You presented me with a bill, at my table, which I paid with my credit card, even leaving the circus performers an additional 10% over the top of the ‘service included’. If you made a mistake, it’s your fault, not mine. And, oh boy, don’t the pretences of ‘class’ go right out the window when it comes to cold cash! A class joint would just have covered their employee’s mistake (if there was one), and never admitted it. I’ve never encountered a like faux pas in my half-century restaurantish life. I’ll be dining out on this story for years! But not at Longueville Manor. I came home via a nice bottle of chilled rosé chez my young friends, and had just about reached my early door when … well, I had to duck into the Marina Metro. And since I was there … well, maybe a nightcap … and the chef’s seafood platter passed me by … glistening with pale prawns and swimming oysters ..

 

And then the boyos came in. The Welsh rugby team which is staying in the hotel came in victorious from their match and sat down at my table. I will not publish the photos I took upstairs later, as the laws of decency forbid, and I leave you with a discreet curtain drawn over the rest of the night, which I somehow ended with a pint of ale in my hand, destroying the goat’s-cheese balls from the menu… And day after tomorrow, its … back to Bohemia! 

 PS Credit where it’s due. Longueville’s gents’ loo is a super loo (yes, this matters!) decorated with some really cute cartoons. I wondered why Alex spent so long away and came back smiling. Then I discovered … Maybe a bit of that relaxed spirit and friendliness should come out of the water closet…