HAPPY AND SMILING

There were two welcome diversions from routine and lingering lurgy(ie)s last week.

iOTA is back ringmastering, or mistressing, depending, Smoke and Mirrors, for which tickets at the Sydney Festival Speilgeltent were hot cakes over two seasons, I think. It ran in Adelaide and Edinburgh and this is the third, and last, here, so we are told.

With all the hype, some cast changes, and a venue change from tent to Seymour Centre of all places, let alone jaded performers, expectations were guarded. Not a bad way to start because they were seriously exceeded. There's no way the buzz of late steamy January holiday Festival nights can carry. No way. As we lined up for entry (this is general admission, so it's not when you buy your tickets but when you get there that matters), it was about as buzzy as waiting for a bus. But...

Inside the theatre, there was a fair attempt at recreating the circus vibe - lights and things - and it's in the 180, and raked, so all in all quite a good space though I don't doubt much of the magic and some of the thrill was diluted. But there was more than enough to go round and unusually, at least in my experience of jaded Sydney audiences, there was a pretty spontaneous and genuine full house standing ovation at the end. This was first night of this run. And everyone went home happy and smiling. Happy and smiling can be hard to find these days.

If there were messages about who we are, aren't, could be, will be, they were lost on me. Perhaps that needed the intimacy of a smaller venue. But as vaudeville and circus, social commentary aside, backed by the bestest hottest band you're likely to hear, this was a great night. And it is very funny.

iOTA, if you haven't experienced him (in Hedwig and the Angry Inch where his performance was unbelievably moving, and also Dr Frank-n-Furter where he was less successfull I thought, perhaps too young, too campy drag queeny for what should be more sinister), has a huge stage presence, and a great voice, coloured and modulated with a skill that belies his age. I loved the magic, the very funny strongmen, the trapese, and the rather gorgeous voiced bearded chanteuese of Queenie van de Zandit.

Two days later the Sydney Symphony Orchestra was lining up with the Sydney Philharmonia Choir and Sydney Children's Choir, with soloist, with big screen, and as it turned out with a brilliant sound man, for a live backing to the first of the Ring Trilogies - The Fellowship of the Ring. That was buzzy, with a nicely mixed audience, some, it wouldn't be hard to imagine, hearing a big orchestra live for the first time. It's a great Howard Shore (he wrote the opera The Fly, btw) Oscar winning score, here conducted by Ludwig Wicki, no stranger to film music generally or this immense work specifically. Kaitlin Lusk was the soprano with 25 Lord of the Rings Symphonies to her credit. And there was a stunning boy soprano soloist who thankfully was rightly brought onto the stage for bows.

Microphones were everywhere, but actually hard to find at first. They were throughout the orchestra, at front and side of the choirs (each either side of the screen which covered the whole of the choir stalls) and the mixer was rear stalls, where we we sitting. The film is the film - what's too say, except that it looked great of the very big screen, the dialogue was subtitled as well as spoken which irritated some, not me, but was increasingly necessary as the adventures accelerated into the great battle after intermission. I've decided Orlando Bloom is the star - his performance was very stylish, understated but quite masculine and strong without any macho macho, and if he'd never handled a bow and arrow before, you could have fooled me. Charismatic comes to mind.

Anyway, the sound was just fantastic. I've no idea if it's a hard or easy play, but it's certainly long, although there were nice breaks when even the orchestra members were glued to the screen. The sound was BIG, and a very good blend of amplified and direct, the former predominant where we sat, but enough live to give directionality, and the mixing was just first class. The choirs, no surprise here but even then still a surprise, were simply wonderful. That children's choir, I tell you, give thanks.

Everyone loved it, whooped it up at the end, as the exhausted musicians took their bows and their leave. My only regret was the conductor failed to acknowledge, as far as I could see, the mixer as his desk, and the fabulous Rebecca Lagos who had been counting and belting the shit out of some anvil or the like for three and a half hours.

AUTUMN COLLECTION

There'd been quite a few things to get out of the way before the big long weekend away. The shopping was the main job, and I'd even replaced the whatever-they-were in pots in the little courtyard off the bathroom with Raphis Palms which I'd found time to buy during the week (being slow means you can't really buy small and wait and watch them grow, and for the same reason decent-sized means scandalously expensive).

We'd been back to Darlinghurst for the bread (OK, and a dozen hot cross buns; oh alright, and a cake - the 'Classic Financier', a moist sweet French vanilla sponge which you serve with gorgeous things like berries and cream and coulis). After grabbing a quick dinner it seemed probably late enough to try out the traffic except that what with all the busyness and a full stomach, somnolence had crept up.

A little nap before we set off sounded a good idea, the traffic would be clearing, and we'd arrive at midnight. Next thing it was 4.30 am.

All of which is by way of saying that instead of driving through the little villages in the black of night, or moonlight at best, we, unusually, saw things along the road in glare of the early morning.

MEANWHILE

The season moves on. Last night a huge Easter Moon floated over the gully, as it does every year, and every year it takes my breath away. I sat on the verandah steps, stunned by its creamy pockmarked beauty, binoculars on and off, its silver glow dancing off the tree tops far below. A huge chunk of rock spinning around us, spinning around, lit by an invisible sun. It was just so beautiful, and still.

Since the last cool wet change moved through, the days have been quiet. The earth is still warm and the grass keeps just enough growth to dress its tips in fresh green. Wrens and robins jump and run, dart and poke. There's whipbirds and lyrebirds calling, waiting. Black cockatoos make a late low sweep before disappearing into the fade.

Except for the banksias (there's always banksias), flowering has nearly finished. The native honeysuckle (Lambertia formosa) is having its usual late summer flush,

and the flannel flowers (Actinotus helianthi) throw up their last, small but still proud stutters of their early form. They're finished this year and I'll replant, if not in the same big numbers, then at least some.

The remaining paper daisies are small and look tired. Being everlasting isn't easy.

Grasses catch the morning sun.

And of course there's the rosemary, with banksias (Banksia spinulosa) behind.

Speaking of rosemary, I've trimmed up the Westringia (native rosemary), making 'waves'.

ANNE SOFIE IS COMING

Anne Sofie von Otter will be here in November. She sings The Songs of the Auvergne (well, some of them, if 'highlights' means that) with The Sydney Symphony Orchestra in a mixed bag, which sounds fun. Nicolas Carter conducts.

Arguably more interesting, she is in recital in the Utzon Room - Brahms. Schubert, Schumann, Sibelius, Sibelius, Sibelius, and *Dean*. The gods-of-just-in-time guided me and I booked today. The Utzon Room is general admission, and seats 200. I booked seating 153 and 154. I think that means there are 6 seats left. Repeat, six left.

For this

AUTUMN (OF HER YEARS)

It's not so much that there's hasn't been anything happening as there's been a lot happening. Most memorable of the last few weeks were two exceptional concerts with the Australian Chamber Orchestra, compiled in association with and presented by Alex Ross, the music critic for The New Yorker, author, blogger and long distance driver. I hope to make some record of the programme in the next few days.

But there's been enough time in the country for the soft gentle pleasure of the change of the seasons. Days are now longer than nights, the sun's arc is increasingly lower in the sky, night temperatures are dropping, the morning grass is wet with dew and the lyrebirds are courting. I just love it. Summer holds too many perils down here, and the long winter nights, of the mild temperate southern hemisphere kind, suit my pyschological complexion.

I've been meaning to join in recognising the death of Elizabeth Taylor (Dame just doesn't roll off the tongue, or finger tips). We had, truly, just watched Suddenly Last Summer which I'd recently picked up at that Bookshop near the Balkan (Darlinghurst) where we sometimes grab a grill and sit on the footpath watching the parade. Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf (I think this is my favorite film of all, not of hers, of all) and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof are also in the collection, watched at least once a year, every year. And National Velvet is one of my earliest memories. There's nothing to say that hasn't been said, except that her kind don't exist any more, and that's been said anyway. She was a woman who was ultimately, by all appearances, completely comfortable with herself. There was no pretence. She was who she was and she dealt with her stunning gift of astounding beauty with an honesty and balance rarely if ever seen in today's superficial starlets.

Watch this (all of it) and love her that little bit more (by way of The Arts Desk) :

CECILIA FILLS THE HOUSE

You know you want to - it's 10 million CD Cecilia Bartoli.

To be honest, rather than really really wanting to hear her, it was that I didn't want to not hear her. So, before it completely sold out, driven by some inner budget-defying demon, I found myself scrolling around the concert hall seating plan when some automatic typing took over my hand and CLICK - I'd bought two tickets.

I don't like talking money and find it tedious when others do. I'm about to be tedious. The tickets were $195 - that's $400 on tickets, $35 on parking (options are available, but getting away quickly was a necessity), dinner $50 (at the very busy new foodies just past the Opera Bar, day sliding into night behind the silhouette of the bridge and its last climbers), and then $20 for one of those glossy oversized advertorial programmes with the song list buried somewhere in the middle. I resisted the programme till interval - surely a song list on a piece of paper is not too much to ask for $200? Yes, it's too much. And a teeny weeny ice cream. That comes to more than half a thousand dollars.

And meanwhile, Japan is being shifted sideways around the earth, and the horror of what is happening to the helpless is all muddled up with my selfish guilty thoughts of superfunds, a trip we've just booked through Tokyo, K's business dealings in Japan, and here we are swishing around this stunning city on a hot summer's night throwing money up in the air. I know, I know, but I just couldn't stop thinking about it.

The concert platform was nicely dressed, a series of lush red curtains, a black drop, a piano, a full house, and on she comes to rapturous applause, thick dangling curls, winning smile and sparkling eyes (not to mention earrings and bracelet) - Cecilia Bartoli (recently married - make that happily partnered - see comments) and pianist Sergio Ciomei. With the (grammy winning) Sacrificium recital clashing with the ACO with Alex Ross , we were in for a night of 'Romantic Songs'.

She had a lovely persona, radiating a feeling of a generous artist, one certainly about to give a generous programme, with few if any pretensions. The stage mannerisms were controlled and in fact rather subdued mostly, her feet anchored, arms moving with appropriate feeling, and face and eyes living the words. She certainly sang the words. I wish I had been more familiar with her repertoire. This voice is larger than I expected, much larger. She had, at least from where we sat (side box near the stage), no trouble filling what can sometimes be a challenging acoustic space for voice. The middle and chest voice is wonderfully rich and full, warm and embracing. There was no shortage of vocal acrobatics, for which she is justly famous, and while I hesitate to be a nark, the sound can get a bit nasal and as she runs through whatever her glottis is doing with her fast articulations, a hard edge appears, more like running up and down wooden stairs than throwing out a string of vocal pearls, and we know who did that. I actually enjoyed her most when she was off the circus routine and letting flow with long lines, and she certainly has them, well controlled, of gorgeous rich tone.

There was perhaps too much fidgety self awareness between pianist and singer, gushing at each other, and clapping, but it all helped fill in what can be awkward empty spaces between a very long list of songs. And thankfully there was no dress change between halves, rather the earrings and bracelet disappeared in favour of necklace of serious brilliance. More Italian, moving comfortably into French and onto Spanish, she wrapped it up with a showy but slightly underwhelming Rataplan. Then, four encores - "We need to end this concert" - she beamed to a wildly enthusiastic audience and we slipped out thinking we were with the early get-aways. They weren't - they were forming a line for CDs and programmes to be autographed that was already across the foyer and they were still clapping and cheering inside.

Here's one from the second bracket, and what she gave us was even more lovely - languid but never limp - the next phrase only countenanced when the caress of the last was complete.

DRAGONFLY

What a difference some fairy wings makes.