MORE JOY

Still struggling with time pressures, I offer you this little piece of delight as I do my German homework with term one racing to its end. It is of course the Great One (on tour in Japan 1978, Nagoya, Ricky on the ivories) whose joy of singing is what she was made of.

I love how as she wraps it all up she nearly segues into her Olympia doll routine, followed by her trademark (only one not the usual three) run down and up the scales, before the perfectly placed final cuck-00.

STAYING AFLOAT

(Queen Mary 2 in Sydney, from the smh)

It's been raining and raining. But since I've started this post (several times), we seem to have slipped into some lovely early autumn weather. It changed the day the photograph of the Queen Mary 2 in the heavy morning rain was taken. By that evening (when we heard Isabelle Faust play a brilliant Prokofiev Violin Concerto with the most interesting Matthias Pintscher conducting) as if by the wave of a giant hand, the skies cleared. We hurried around to Mrs Macquarie Chair after the concert, the Queen's three horn blasts echoing around the city, and stood in the cool night air, clouds scattered. Now back in perspective, no longer dwarfing anything and everything, there she went, a black on black shadow except for the lights to hint at the whole, slowly swallowed up by the blackness of Sydney harbour outlined in silver moonlight.

A few Fridays ago Vladimir A conducted the most wonderful concert with Beethoven's 4th piano concerto in the hands of Stephen Kovacevich followed by a particularly thrilling An Alpine Symphony. As already noted, we sat in the stalls with a good eye on the keyboard, and pretty much en face with the strings. Mr Ashkenazy was in fine form and there seemed some special conductor/pianist to pianist/conductor, magic (the magic of understanding) at work between the two.

As tone poems and musical stories go, they don't come much more overt, and as much fun, than Strauss and his mountain. Was this the first time I'd heard Mr A and Strauss? The sheer luxuriousness of the sound, not by force of numbers and organ gel but by terrific ensemble playing, wonderful dynamic control, restraint that was more a tease than a rein, and then that fabulous arrival at the peak in Diana Doherty's worthy control. Here's some shots from a trip up Mt Rigi last year, and the giddy heights of the music I think well had its measure, and certainly trumped the summit, all mist and blue train was all we could see.

A week later there was considerable anticipation for a similar styled programme, this time the Brahm's Violin Concerto and the Strauss Thus Spake Zarathustra. The former is I think my earliest musical memory, from the first age I have clear memories, and what I remember is that it was a time when things just were. It must have been before significant opinions were held, before judgements, before what I think used to be called the age of reason. Amongst all the other things that just were, this was what music was. Needless to say, I hold it dearly for what it is and for where it takes me.

Perhaps not able to escape tiredness and then the shock of disturbing foyer news of another's illness, I found the whole evening less then compelling. And expectation is not a good thing. The Strauss, admittedly far from by favorite work, whose structure I find piecemeal, and now suffering form overexposure and hype, sounded pretty ordinary from where I sat, ordinary of the under-rehearsed kind. Never mind, I was there for the Brahms and Lisa Batiashvili played most elegantly on her Strad. while I sat there wondering if L should be on the plane to Mt Sinai right now instead of sitting just over there. But then what healing music?

Back in those innocent days, Sunday afternoons in a large sunroom on the harbour slopes, a flowering red coral tree against the blue shimmering water and a hazy Manly beyond, this was probably what I was hearing.

UPDATE

Not ill, not washed away, not drowned, and not making light of the latter. Just busy. Several posts have been started and left - there's been a couple of concerts and one HD from the Met (warning - about which I'll feeling rather unsettled and critical).

Meanwhile, here's a little something to bring some joy. And don't take Olga for granted either.

ELIZABETH CONNELL MEMORIES II

Following on -

There was one other interesting moment in 1974, her second year in Sydney. She sang Antonia's mother in the Tales of Hoffmann that showcased Joan Sutherland's return. It was like 'who's that behind the portrait?'.

Another index of just what heights had been reached in two short years was that she gave an all Wagner recital in the Concert Hall as a farewell before heading back to London. And what's more nearly filled the place, with audience. She already had the voice to fill it, and there's not too many who can do that.

So the 'special relationship' with Australia had been established. She would return often and was due back this year to sing Turandot in Melbourne. I think I also read somewhere that she was thinking of moving back. Cooeee

The roles were the big ones - Abigaille, Lady Macbeth, Amelia (Masked Ball), Ariadne, Medee, Norma, Brunnhilde (concert with Edo de Waart and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra in the four years leading up to the Sydney Olympics), others, and she sang in the Olympic Arts Opening Gala Mahler 8 (which I remembered just a week ago).

Uppermost in my memories are the Lady Macbeth - a phenomenal aura about the whole performance - electrifying is no exaggeration - in a splendid 'old fashioned' production. She would start a note with her back to the audience and slowly turn and crank it up to full throttle. Cillario conducted. He knew his Verdi. It was back to the box office again to take my parents.

She sang the hell out of Abigaille dealing with some of the most difficult vocalism written as well as a (to put it mildy) challenging production from the then still young and made-to-outrage Barry Kosky. Good humour was another trademark.

Her Brunnhilde's were the best I've heard I think. (The SSO did one more concert just of Act 3 Walküre some time later.) They were womanly wise and they were sung with love. Her Walküre with Alessandra Marc remains unrivaled in this head.

As far as I know, Desdemona was not in her repertoire. But I've saved this till last; it speaks for itself. Un bacio, ancora un bacio. She kissed many lives.

ELIZABETH CONNELL MEMORIES

She was one of the few singers with whom I felt a relationship. She filled the stage or concert platform with a compelling presence and the most beautiful voice of seemingly unlimited reserves. She radiated warmth, sincerity, commitment, and a trust in herself. There wasn't ever arrogance or airs and graces or pretense, but an awareness of her gift and an honesty that came though in all she delivered. And for what she delivered to me, and to the world, I can only resort to the obvious - gratitude.

Her agent's biography and this 2008 London interview with Jim Pritchard give good insight into the woman, the singer, and the career. Obituaries in the Telegraph here and The Australian/The Times here. And another from The Sydney Morning Herald /Guardian Arts and Media where one could be forgiven for thinking they are quoting your humble blogger!

Having left her native South Africa and debuted in Wexford Ireland, she came to Australia guided by (Sir) Edward Downes (tossed in the deep end as she notes above) and sang in Prokofiev's War and Peace, the opera that opened the Sydney Opera House on September 28 1973.

I was at the third night of the run. I do remember Raymond Myers, a perfectly type cast Napolean and Eileen Hannan's lovely Natasha. I was young and in awe of it all. There was a buckling crack as the second scene ball room set got jammed dropping down from the flies while the guests danced on. It was a brilliant Tom Lingwood designed Sam Wanamaker extravaganza. But I can't say I remember Princess Marya Bolkonskya in scene three, the first time I saw and heard Elizabeth Connell.

In that opening season she next sang Venus. That I do remember. Vividly. The Venusberg was an introitus, two large wide labial folds (some said they were welcoming female thighs but I think they were being bashful) onto which female genitalia images were projected and which met at the centre top of the proscenium, from which apex Venus (the young mezzo Ms Connell) in a bright dazzling afro wig appeared suspended on a swing. If you aren't getting the picture, then check your anatomy. It was startling and provocative, and very effective. And now her voice was on the record -people were talking. I mostly remember the visuals and the naughty bits. And the (pilgrim's) chorus - coming up from underground, as if from nowhere, at the very back of the stage, hearing before seeing them with the most wonderful crescendo of sound as they appeared and came downstage on a stage utterly bare except for grass green carpet completely covering the floor.

Next year came another Lingwood triumph - the turning of the Concert Hall (the meant-to-be Opera Theatre hi-jacked by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra) into a stunning piece of Egypt for the first of several enormously successful fully staged operas in that venue (Salome, Tristan, Merry Widow, Otello, Lucia, Lucretzia Borgia - the last four for Our Joan). The whole affair was quite the talk of the town (should anyone open that link, there's an amusing letter from one Ruth Campbell of Greenwich about what appears to have been electricity shortages and the time given for blackout warnings). I'm just setting the mid-70s scene here. The sand coloured set dwarfed and blended into the hall such that the whole space became the theatre.

And Elizabeth Connell sang Amneris. Now I remember the voice, the voice that sang the Immenso ftha (Connell, arms outstretched, atop a giant stone slowly lowered over the lovers) was a force to be reckoned with. It looks like a recording exists.

Following the success of her Venus, she was cast in a role usually given to older dramatic sopranos: Kostelnika in Jenufa. I don't know if it was pivotal for her, but it was for me. It was the Australian premier, and with an incredible cast (Lone Koppel Winther, Ron Stevens, Robert Gard, Rosina Raisbeck, Copley designed, Downes conducted) it is still regarded as one the company's finest achievements.

Everyone was caught off-guard, and the response was huge and fast. Word of mouth ticket sales took off for a performance of such power as not to be seen again by me till the overwhelming Peter Grimes of just a few years ago. I was delayed at work and missed act 1, only to arrive to meet dropped jaws and warnings to be prepared. I wasn't. I would be stunned, by the work, by the team, and most of all by Elizabeth Connell. It was a penetrating portrayal of enormous emotional depth and incredible vocalism. It was in fact the last night and her last opera performance before she would return to the UK at the end of her two year contract. By now Elizabeth had a following, both inside the company and out. As she took her final bows, foot stamping rumbling through the theatre, from the upper loges either side of the stage great floods of shredded white paper snowed down.

Afterwards at supper at the Bennelong (restaurant) the gossipy waiter whispered with a nod of the head that Ms Connell was celebrating her birthday at that table over there. A bottle of champagne was ordered and sent, all our heads turned to watch its reception, which was 'the star' asking its origin, the waiter's head now nodding toward us, whence up she stood, bottle in hand and mouthed a hearty thank you with that unmistakeable Elizabeth Connell smile, genuine and warm. By now Happy Birthday (dear Elizabeth) had started, with the whole restaurant joining in a grand acclamation of recognition, acknowledgment and thanks.

Jenufa is about judgement (fear and guilt driven of course) and forgiveness. What isn't? Here's a hint:

I need to stop here.

More later.

ELIZABETH CONNELL 1946 - 2012

This is terribly terribly sad news. She died in her London home on the 18th February.

Her last song - When I have sung my songs to you I'll sing no more".

Only a few days ago I mentioned on David Nice's blog that she was the "only one still singing" from that legendary War and Peace which opened the Sydney Opera House. Now she's gone.

In the breaking news from her agent, Helmut Fischer wrote (0n Opera List) :

"This morning soprano Elizabeth Connell passed away in her London home after a battle with lung cancer.

She was truly the most wonderful human being, full of kindness, generosity, warmth and humour. The radiance of her personality always sparkled through her pure and crystalline voice as well, which is why even at 65, after 40 years of singing the most demanding dramatic soprano (and before that mezzo) roles she sounded about 40 years younger than her physical age.

Her last operatic performance was in February 2011 at the Prague State Opera as Turandot and her last concert was on 8 October at the Bad Urach Festival in Germany, at which she proved - despite her cancer - her versatility and flexibility and the flawlessness of her singing.

[ ]

Those who knew Liza and who were touched by her humanity and her art are left behind devastated and desperate - yet grateful for the invaluable gift that she has given to our lives.

[ ]

In sadness and loving memory

Helmut "

And it was in her very last public appearance in Hastings (a fund raiser for a friend; her philanthropy was under the radar of most) on 27 November 2011 that she sang, knowingly, "When I have sung my songs to you, I'll sing no more". A more profoundly moving farewell I can't imagine.

More later.

THE WALL IN SYDNEY

OK, so maybe it wasn't Roger Waters. Maybe it was one of the roadies, and there must be a lot of them because this was a big big international road show. A Tuesday-must-be-Sydney show.

The venue is functional cold. I hadn't been back since it was called the Superdome, built for the olympic gymnastics, and where Edo de Waart conducted a pretty interesting Mahler 8 for the opening of the Olympic Arts Festival. It was all completely wrong - this vast barn, without an organ which was relayed in from the Town Hall and adjusted for timing delays and errors, and orchestra, soloists and choir faced with the vastness of the void in front of them. I remember Elizabeth Connell and Alexandra Marc (now she could get a resonance going) and the stunning ethereal Shu-Cheen Yu (forest bird in Adelaide) up high (and I mean high) at Heavens gate. The story goes that the choirs and orchestra were augmented till the performance numbers were 1,000 to match the legend. Anyway, something happened. You know those weird occassions when something happens? A threshold is crossed and whatever was conspiring against a performance working actually ultimately contributes when another unseen factor appears - the mystery of transcendence. It was the best Mahler 8 I've heard, one which generated its own specialness and breathed air and feeling and truth into the work.

Which brings me back to The Wall in the clinical arena configured for 12, 500, each paying pretty big bucks. The crowd was generally dull. Even the usher (we were at the end of an aisle) said it was a quiet well-behaved audience. Boring boring. And there was that cringing "hello Sydney" squark from the man with the microphone, just to reassure us the team knew where they were. (What band was it - the Who? - who said it wasn't that they didn't remember Sydney, they didn't remember Australia!).

So it began. The music and lyrics are great. It's a great album - 70's (post-) psychedelic trip into loss, deprivation and separation. A fatherless son. Wars. The emphasis has shifted and the shift was really because of the brilliant use of video projection. Five huge brackets with three projectors on each created a vast visual kaleidoscope to ram home the messages, and the messages were antifascist and antiwar. Nothing wrong with that. But it was sledgehammering in its impact, and sometimes more is less. I was dazzled, but not ever moved. Interestingly, Roger Waters had personalised the victims, each brick in the wall identified by name and face. Special attention, in fact their own segment, was given to the London tube innocent shot by police (Charles de Mendes) and the Wikileaks video of the shooting of the reporters in Bagdad (collateral murder). The teacher (we don't need no ed-u-cache-shon) and the mother were giant paper maché puppets.

It was that personal pain, that heartbreak, that despair that made the original so potent. The more generic and clever and brilliant the show became, the less I was moved. It became about the form and the content was the loser. Never mind. It was good to see what the best mega shows do these days, and how they do it. It looked good, and sounded good. The songs and lyrics were all there. But it was also good to realise that you can't go back. The era has gone, and like consenting adults, visiting it is best done in the privacy of your own home.

These few shots are from the closing scenes, a self-propelled flying pig (still thinking about that), the fascist logo (crossed hammers) and the goose-stepping hammers, to give you a feel for how it all looked.

It could have ended, just stopped with 'think about that' you warmongers. It might (just) have worked. But no. In a patronising sycophantic twist at the end, the audience was invited to join in singing - Waltzing Matilda! Are you kidding me? I know it's about survival and resistance to cruel oppressive authority, I know I'd happily have it as our national anthem (mainly because no one else has a clue what it's about), I know I've cried singing it at the football (and we beat the Allblacks), but this is OUR song. We sing it when we want, and its not by invitation. It's from within.

So we left, down the old Olympic boulevard, past the stadium still lit blue as the whole city had been for those two weeks in 2000, and tossed it around.

What about the air raids where they dropped symbols, like bombs, the Christian cross, the hammer and sickle, the stars of David, the crescent moon, the .. I asked J, the teenage son of a work colleague. "What did you think they were J"? "Dogma" he said softly. At last I felt some emotion.