Teresa Stich-Randall (above) sings Strauss’s Vier letzte Lieder, with the Radio-Symphonieorchester, Vienna, conducted by László Somogyi. The recording dates from June 1964.
Listen here.
In November of 1963, I attended my first-ever performance at the Metropolitan Opera (at the Old Met!). It was DON GIOVANNI, and Ms. Stich-Randall sang Donna Anna.
Around noon on October 7, 1967, I bought a big bunch of yellow chrysanthemums from a street vendor and rushed over to the stage door of the Metropolitan Opera House; the flowers were for one of my idols at the time, the Italian soprano Mirella Freni who was singing Juliette in Gounod’s ROMEO & JULIETTE that afternoon. I bounded up the steps to the Met’s stage door reception area and approached the desk. An indifferent woman was there, talking on the phone. When she finally hung up, she ignored me. “I want to leave these flowers for Miss Freni!” I said. She looked up at me wearily and said, “Miss Freni is ill and is not singing this afternoon.” Walking out, I held the door for a chorister who was coming in; “Want some flowers?” I said to her, handing her the mums. A few hours later I had fallen in love.
Gay men fall in love with women all the time; of course, it isn’t ‘that kind’ of love. It’s usually an attraction to their beauty and their talent, tinged with a bit of regret that it couldn’t ever be the ‘other kind’ of love. That is exactly how I always felt about Jeannette Pilou. She made her Met debut that afternoon as Juliette and for the next few years she was a singer who intrigued me so often with the delicacy and charm of her singing, her unfailingly fresh dramatic interpretations of some of opera’s most beloved characters, and her modest sincerity and great kindness. The stages at Lincoln Center have been home to so many beauties, from Carol Neblett to Helene Alexopoulos, and Pilou was one of the most memorable of them all.
Jeannette Pilou was born in Egypt and could trace her heritage to the Greeks, but for me she was always a French soprano. Her voice was lyrical with a metallic thread that gave it an easy projection. It was not in itself one of those beautiful instruments that immediately melt the listener; she never had a long breath line and her top register could get an edgy quality. Her appeal vocally was in the way she phrased and used a delicate pastel palette to make music you’d heard a hundred times seem new and alive. Aside from her incredible physical appeal, Pilou’s interpretations invariably brought those little gestures and expressions that you always remember. In the final act of TRAVIATA when the dying Violetta rises from her sickbed to be reunited with her beloved Alfredo, Pilou hastily looked at herself in the mirror before turning to present her ravaged face to her lover. I’ve never forgotten that moment of desperation which spoke so clearly of Violetta’s helpless regret over her fate.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself, because I must start with that debut Juliette which is where my love affair began. Pilou looked so fetching on her first entry at the Capulet ball, spiraling into her little introductory “Ecoutez, ecoutez!” with a voice that wafted clearly into the big house. Not long after, she won her first big applause at the Met singing Juliette’s waltz, “Je veux vivre” with easy scale-work, pointed diction and youthful vivacity; she even touched on the high-D in the cadenza which Freni had been omitting. Moments later Pilou encountered her handsome Romeo, Franco Corelli, and the chemistry was apparent from the start. Corelli was having quite a success as Romeo at the Met with his passionate vocalism, thrilling the house with a stunning diminuendo on the final B-flat of “Ah, leve-toi soleil!”. He was one of the few tenors at that time who looked good in tights, too. In their love duets, Corelli really seemed smitten with Jeannette and they sounded wonderful together. Corelli drew a thunderous ovation when he took a full-throttle top C upon Romeo’s banishment from Verona. The afternoon ended with a mammoth ovation; the curtain calls had been designed so that the title characters always bowed together and they came out several times until finally Jeannette made the beautiful gesture of withdrawing to let Franco have a solo call. The house exploded and Franco was so gracious when he brought Jeannette out again. In addition to the lovely impression her Juliette had made, Jeannette had endeared herself to the legion of Corelli fans in no uncertain terms. I met her after the performance and she was so lively and sweet, and even more beautiful up close than she had seemed to be onstage. Her speaking voice was so intimate and enchanting; I immediately added her to the list of singers whose performances would be a priority.
Violetta in the Cecil Beaton production of TRAVIATA was my next Pilou role; she looked every bit as striking as Moffo in these costumes. She was paired with the light-voiced tenor Luigi Alva and they made a beautiful blend in the duets. Jeannette was so moving in the great Act II duet with Germont (Robert Merrill) where she struggled valiantly to maintain her composure as her fragile world crumbled around her. Phrase after phrase of wonderfully modulated vocalism wove a spell. A few years later, Pilou stepped in to a broadcast of TRAVIATA replacing Montserrat Caballe; I was in the house enjoying Jeanette’s portrayal and her colleagues Carlo Bergonzi & Sherrill Milnes so much. A downward transposition in “Sempre libera” caused something of a scandal among the fans; I thought it was a rather minor transgression in view of what she was able to convey in the role.
Micaela in CARMEN followed with Jeannette making a particularly lovely impression in the Act I duet with Nicolai Gedda. This was the infamous Jean-Louis Barrault production set inside the bullring. The cast, led by Grace Bumbry, almost managed to overcome the awkward staging; Jeannette’s big aria was lovingly phrased. Next came Zerlina in DON GIOVANNI in which she presented a very youthful, zesty portrayal of the peasant girl; singing opposite the Don of the young Puerto Rican heartthrob Justino Diaz, Jeannette reveled in the seductive expressiveness of “La ci darem la mano”.
Jeannette & Franco Corelli created an atmosphere of extraordinary romance when they appeared together in BOHEME. This was one of Jeannette’s most moving portrayals, using her mastery of parlando in the Act I narrative and spinning out some fragile piani in her ‘Addio senza rancor’. Franco was in prodigious voice, his singing so passionate and virile but also very tender; he was obviously smitten with his beautiful Mimi and changed the words in the love duet from “Dammi il braccio, mia piccina” to “Dammi il braccio, mia bambina.” In the moving trio where Rodolfo tells Marcello of Mimi’s hopeless ill-health, not knowing that Mimi is listening, Franco tore his heart out and the audience burst into a volley of bravos mid-act. Jeannette & Franco carried the romance of their characters into the curtain calls.
At the dress rehearsal of NOZZE DI FIGARO in February 1972, Jeannette had one of her most attractive roles in Susanna. She gave a portrayal free of soubrette cuteness, utterly natural. Vocally she was in the captivating company of Cesare Siepi, the reigning Figaro of the day, the radiant Pilar Lorengar (Contessa) and the beloved and versatile Evelyn Lear (Cherubino). On the podium the great Karl Bohm served up perfect tempi and ideally supported his singers. The ensembles and gentle comic by-play were a joy. FIGARO soared. The photo shows Jeannette with one of New York’s best-known opera fans, Lois Kirschenbaum.
It was amusing to walk Jeannette out from her dressing room after the rehearsal; when we came to the main reception area it was jammed with singers coming and going from coachings and I very much enjoyed observing the effect Jeannette had on all the men, including some very well-known tenors and baritones. If she was aware of the waves she was causing, it didn’t show; she greeted everyone with easy, modest charm and left them all panting in her wake.
Later in the month, Jeannette took part in a memorable evening when FALSTAFF was revived. Sir Geraint Evans and Regina Resnik trod the boards with grand portrayals of Sir John and Dame Quickly. Renata Tebaldi was singing Alice Ford for the first time at the Met. The orchestra launched the scampering introduction to the second scene and when the curtain rose and the audience caught sight of the great Italian diva, the place erupted. The applause obliterated the music and when it died down the singers had lost their way; “Start over!” someone yelled and that is exactly what Christoph von Dohnanyi (debut) did. Jeannette was a cuddly Nannetta. In a magical moment she arrived at Herne’s Oak dressed as the Queen of the Fairies on a white Shetland pony. Her aria, “Sul fin d’un soffio” was spun out of moonlight. At the end of the romping ensemble which concludes the opera, Jeannette tackled a bright top-C. The curtain calls were so much fun and the audience truly reluctant to let the singers go. I had an aisle seat in the orchestra and sitting two rows ahead of me was Franco Corelli. I thought it was pretty nice of him to come out and support his long-time colleague Tebaldi. After the performance I spent a long time backstage with Jeannette who was in a particularly sociable mood. Everyone else had gone home, but she seemed in no hurry to leave. I said goodnight and came out to find Corelli pacing back-and-forth near the stage door with a limo waiting. Did they have a date? If so, she may have been standing him up.
Jeannette and Nicolai Gedda were reunited in a wonderful performance of Gounod’s FAUST; the Met’s production was rather ugly (though later replaced by an even uglier one) but along with Cesare Siepi’s famed Mephistopheles, the singers carried the day. The role really suited Jeannette to perfection: her clarity of enunciation of the French text added to the sweetness and dexterity of her singing made the long ‘Roi du Thule’ and Jewel Song sequence delightful. Later she and Gedda harmonized rapturously in the ‘Laissez-moi’ duet (the highlight of the score, in my opinion) and Jeannette sang the concluding lines of the Garden Scene (‘Il m’aime!’) with slowly mounting ecstasy. As the tides turned against Marguerite, Jeannette relied on the metallic thread in her voice to project over the orchestra in the Church Scene and in the ascending phrases of the final trio.
It was a long time before I saw her onstage again; I spent some time in Houston and she was busy at other opera houses. In fact four years elapsed before I next saw her, again as Marguerite in FAUST, this time opposite the less-than-romantic looking but mellifluous Stuart Burrows in the title role. Jeannette’s interpretation had deepened although the production had deteriorated further with an especially awful ballet now being interpolated. She and Burrows rescued the evening.
There was another very long hiatus before her next – and for me her most memorable – Met role as Melisande in Debussy’s masterpiece in 1983. The production was murky and grim (it has since been replaced by a far more atmospheric one) but musically it was so rewarding both in James Levine’s brooding traversal of the dense score and in the ideal interpretations of the three principal roles: Pilou as Melisande, Dale Duesing as Pelleas and the unforgettable Jose van Dam as Golaud. As the gentle and mysterious Melisande, Jeannette ‘spoke’ her lines with a refined sense of lyricism and she was so moving in her simplicity and deeply feminine vulnerability. The overwhelming sadness of watching Melisande’s life fade away following the birth of her daughter left me feeling bereft.
Two years later I saw Jeannette onstage for the last time, singing Nedda in PAGLIACCI. The tension in her upper register had taken its toll but she had some wonderful lyric passages, most notably in the duet with Silvio, and she mounted a fiery defense in the final moments before Nedda is brutally murdered.
I had long since stopped visiting singers backstage but I did run into her in the Met lobby during her final season of Neddas and Micaelas and she was as lovely and gracious as ever. In the years since I first met Jeannette Pilou, the memories of her portrayals and of her easy kindness to a young and eager fan have stayed with me vividly.
Here is Jeannette singing Juliette’s entrance and Waltz @ The Met.
Above: David Rendall as Don Ottavio in DON GIOVANNI
It’s sad to learn of the death of British tenor David Rendall, who enjoyed a brilliant international career until an onstage injury forced his premature retirement.
Read about Mr. Rendall’s rise from his studies at the Royal Academy of Music, London, to his great successes on the world’s foremost opera stages here. He later wrote of his sad demise here.
I had the good fortune to see David Rendall onstage at the Metropolitan Opera House where he sang more that 130 performances in NY City and with the Company on tour, beginning with his 1980 debut as Ernesto in DON PASQUALE. My first chance to hear him came when the Met brought their DON GIOVANNI to Boston. I later saw him – an expert Mozartean – in COSI FAN TUTTE and IDOMENEO, as well as Matteo in Strauss’s ARABELLA. His other Met roles included David in MESTERSINGER, Alfredo in LA TRAVIATA, and Tamino in ZAUBERFLOETE.
In 1983, David participated in the Met’s 100th anniversary gala, joining such luminaries as Edda Moser and Sesto Bruscantini in an ensemble from Rossini’s ITALIANA IN ALGERI, which brought down the House. Watch it here.
One of my favorite Rendall recordings is of the English-language production of Donizetti’s MARY STUART, which marked Dame Janet Baker’s farewell to the English National Opera; listen to their lovely duet here.
And here is the tenor’s “Il mio tesoro” from Mozart’s DON GIOVANNI.
David Rendall was married to the beloved mezzo-soprano Diana Montague; their son, Huw Montague Rendall, upholds the high musical standards set by his parents in his highly successful career in opera and lieder.
Above: Frank Guarrera
During the pandemic, all sorts of operatic treasures had popped up on YouTube. I think that the collectors who have their own channels are finding time to post more, digging deep into their archives. It’s such a boon for music lovers, who – up til then – had been mostly deprived of live in-venue performances..
Here we have Leoncavallo’s PAGLIACCI from a recording made in 1958 for the Metropolitan Opera Record Club. All of the singers in the cast were dear to me in my earliest days of opera fandom.
Listen here.
Above: Jack Swanson as Count Almaviva and Andrey Zhilikhovsky as Figaro; a Jonathan Tichler/MET Opera photo
Author: Oberon
Saturday May 31st, 2025 matinee – With the exceptions of Aigul Akhmetshina and Alexander Vinogradov, all the singers in this afternoon’s Met matinee of Rossini’s BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA were new to me: not only had I not heard them before, I hadn’t even heard of them. On the podium, Giacomo Sagripanti was also unfamiliar to me.
Above: Aigul Akmetshina as Rosina and Peter Kálmán as Dr. Bartolo; a Jonathan Tichler/MET Opera photo
It turned out to be a very worthwhile afternoon, not just because of the infectious rhythms and sheer brilliance of the score, but it also served to take my mind off – at least for the duration – of a looming domestic falling out.
In his Met debut season, Giacomo Sangripanti proved a deft Rossini maestro; his tempi seemed lively but never rushed, he never let the orchestra encroach on the singers volume-wise, and he allowed some added notes and embellishments from the singers, which is always fun. The orchestra played the overture swiftly and brightly and solo passages for oboe, horn, clarinet, and bassoon were all beautifully played.
The first voice to be heard was that of baritone Joseph Lim as Fiorello, and he made an excellent impression. In the past he has covered some roles at The Met (and he’d sung one of the Flemish Deputies in a DON CARLO I attended); I think he deserves more stage opportunities. After I got home and took a look at some of his on-line photos (there’s one above), I realized he had been at the stage door talking with friends after the performance. I wish I had chatted him up.
The lovely orchestral intro to Lindoro’s serenade set the scene for the very appealing singing of Jack Swanson as Count Almaviva, who had just made his Met debut in the opera’s previous performance. His singing is technically neat, with nice phrasing and an enticing dynamic range. The audience took to his singing at once, and he was warmly applaud throughout the performance.
Mr. Lim’s voicey Fiorello was again heard, and then Figaro, in the person of Andrey Zhilikhovsky opened his afternoon with a fantastic “Largo al factotum” bringing some subtle touches to the familiar piece, along with blooming top notes. He was unfazed by the super-fast tempo of the aria’s final section, polishing it off with a splendid, Met-sized high note. The house rang with cheers from the crowd, who seemed thoroughly engaged in the opera’s every note and word.
A special bouquet here to the excellent harpsichordist, Liora Maurer, who kept reminding us all afternoon of the instrument’s charm. The big-toned bass voice of the Hungarian Peter Kálmán asserted itself briefly, and then Mr. Swanson rewarded us with more poised lyricism with “L’amoroso sincero Lindoro”, to which Ms. Akmetshina briefly replied before being whisked from her window. Mssrs. Swanson and Zhilikhovsky now set up their plan to gain access to the Count’s beloved; their duet features some fluent coloratura from the baritone, in which the tenor joins; the pair harmonize to fine effect. Figaro urges the Count to play drunk when they gain admitance to the Bartolo household; the pair have more mirthful, high-speed singing, and then Mr. Swanson tops the first scene off with a golden high note.
Ms. Akmetshina’s “Una voce poco fa” showed off the warmth and depth of her luscious low range, along with engaging fiorature and some bright top notes; her singing flows on thru her playful warning that anyone who tries to cross her will pay for it. Another excited burst of applause was her reward. Mr. Kálmán’s prodigious bass returns…
…and we then meet the imposingly sung, characterful Don Basilio of Alexander Vinogradov (photo above). His “Calunnia” aria is full of insinuating inflections, but is always sung rather than giving in to buffo-parlando. His thunderous “colpa di canone” shook the house, and then a mini-cadenza took his voice high before plunging to the deepest depths…once again, fervent applause burst forth, filling the hall.
The wonderful Rosina/Figaro duet, “Dunque io son” found Aigul throwing in some extra top notes; Mr. Zhilikhovsky suggested she write a love note to her Lindoro, which – she slyly replies – she’s already done. Their duetting is speedy, laced with humor, and filled with luscious tone.
I’m beginning to feel the severe chill that almost always affects enjoyment of the opera up in the score desk area. Mr. Kálmán’s “A un dottor della mia sorte” blends power with insinuation in a buffo tour de force. It concludes with the basso’s perfect pattering and a hilarious finish capped by a massive final note.
We briefly meet the house-keeper Berta, usually sang by a mezzo but today taken on by soprano Kathleen O’Mara; the change in range will bring some fun in her aria later on.
The ensemble “Fredda ed immobile” was the part of the opera I liked most when I first heard it live (as “Frigid and motionless“) at Lake George many, many moons ago. The puttering introduction and Aigul’s chesty lead into the long, riotous Act I finale held my interest, but by now I was literally shivering, so I thought of going home.
But then a young Frenchman, Guillaume – visiting New York City for the first time – stopped by to chat and next thing I knew, Act II was about to start.
Ms. Akhmetshina turned Rosina’s music lesson aria, “Contro un cor” into a real showpiece, capped by a brilliant top note, whilst Mr. Vinogradov added some extra low notes to Basilio’s music. Mr. Kálmán expressed Dr. Bartolo’s fury vibrantly.
Ms. O’Mara (above, at the 2024 Operalia competition, where she won 1st prize) added some embellishments to Berta’s aria, along with interpolated top notes, including a real zinger at the end.
As the opera moves towards its ending, I must again mention Maestro Sangripati’s excellence; the music truly seemed so alive.
The charming “Zitti, zitti” trio was neatly dispatched by Ms. Akhmetshina and Mssrs. Swanson and Zhilikhovsky, and then the tenor took on the demanding “Cessa di piu resistare” with its beautiful andante, which segues into an elaborate tenorized setting of what sounds very much like the finale of LA CENERENTOLA. Mr. Swanson capped his impressive afternoon with a final top note, superbly sustained, igniting a tumultuous ovation during which each cast member evoked shouts of approval.
I very much enjoyed seeing Aigul again after the show, and she signed my program:
I had wanted to meet the other singers, but either I didn’t recognize them in time to approach them, or they seemed preoccupied.
~ Oberon
Above, today’s BOHEME cast: Anthony Clark Evans, Gabriella Reyes, Dmytro Popov, Sean Michael Plumb, Corinne Winters, and Alexander Köpeczi; a MET Opera photo
~ Author: Oberon
Sunday May 25th, 2025 matinee – A cast largely new to me brought me to the Met this afternoon for yet another BOHEME. It proved to be one of the most moving BOHEMEs I have ever experienced, and it brought us the Mimi of an extraordinary soprano, Corinne Winters.
Opening my Playbill today, I was surprised to find that Yannick Nézet-Séguin was listed as the conductor. I was quite certain that he had not originally been scheduled, and sure enough – in checking the season brochure – it was to have been Riccardo Frizza. I was annoyed at the prospect of Y N-S ruining the afternoon with his tendency to overwhelm the singers with volume from the pit. There were passages where this happened today, but to me he was more attentive than usual to the voices. (Chatting with folks at the stage door after the show, the general feeling was that the orchestra was often too loud.)
The quartet of Bohemians today was exceptionally pleasing. Tenor Dmytro Popov as Rodolfo had made a very fine impression in this role last season, and he was equally appealing today. The two excellent young baritones in the cast were Anthony Clark Evans as Marcello and Sean Michael Plumb as Schaunard.
And the Hungarian-Romanian basso Alexander Köpeczi (above) was making Met debut this afternoon as Colline; I’d lately read about him and have watched some of his video clips on Facebook….very impressive!
A favorite with Met audiences, Gabriella Reyes, was a warm-toned, lively Musetta, and in Corinne Winters we had one of the most moving Mimis of my (extensive) experience; she had first appeared at the Met in 2011 as Countess Ceprano in RIGOLETTO, but today really felt like a Met debut – and an extraordinary one at that.
Curtain up, and Mr. Evans’ rich tone gets the singing off to a great start; Mr. Popov immediately shows off a finely-projected lyric tenor. They are joined by Mr. Köpeczi, his darkish, handsome timbre will keep the music gorgeously anchored all afternoon. And then Mr. Plumb makes his mark with a voice that will bring Schaunard to prominence as the opera unfolds. Evans/Marcello baits the Met’s go-to Benoit – Donald Maxwell – and then he and his pals head out to Cafe Momus, leaving Mr. Popov momentarily alone. A knock at the door brings Corinne Winters’ Mimi onto the Met stage: the beginning of a captivating performance from this fascinating singer. Her sound and style are Italianate, and the voice carries beautifully in the big space.
Mr. Popov’s “Che gelida manina” is lovingly phrased, with persuasive dynamics and a true sense of the poetry. The conductor is not really supportive, but the tenor fares very well anyway, with a nice top-C. Then Ms. Winters commences Mimi’s narrative, in the course of which both Rodolfo and myself will fall in love with her. Clear-toned lyricism is a Winters trademark; her lower range distinctive, her word-colourings always fresh and appealing. The orchestra is much too loud at the start of the love duet – and must the audience laugh at every single title as love blooms between poet and seamstress? But the singing is so convincing as the couple experience the delight of new-found happiness. The act ends on a long-held, harmonized note. Magic!
The scene-change lasts so long, they might as well make it an intermission: the mood has been shattered anyway. Mr. Popov makes the most of every note and word as he introduces Mimi to his friends…and the tenor makes something special out of “…sbaccio l’amor!” The children’s chorus have fun with their calls of “Parpignol…Parpignol!” and Mssrs. Evans, Plumb, and Köpeczi seize upon every note to keep their characters engaging us in this crowded staging.
Musetta arrives in the person of Gabriella Reyes, and, as she settles in after some initial commotion, Ms. Winters and Mr. Popov have a lovely exchange. Then Ms. Reyes launches the waltz, full of allure and insinuation. The soprano shines in this aria, capping it with a house-filling top-B. Anthony Clark Evans then encores the melody with baritone-power, leading to a massive climax. The parade passes thru: the last joyous moment of the opera.
Following an endless interval, the prelude to Act III was nicely and subtly played by the Met orchestra. Ms. Reyes’s sweet lyricism recalls her waltz, and then the hapless Mimi appears. From her first hesitant line, Corinne Winters captures every nuance of Mimi’s plight with her touching, expressive singing. Finding Marcello/Evans, the soprano and baritone are simply wonderful in their duet: clear, emotionally-charged singing from both. The soprano is spectacular here, her timbre and way with the words would make you swear you’re listening to an Italian prima donna.
As Mimi hides, Mssrs. Popov and Evans have a telling exchange, superbly voiced despite some over-playing from the pit. Then the tenor confesses his fears about Mimi’s health with “Mimi a tanto malata…” which continues to his outpouring of truth at “Una terrbil tosse“. Mr. Popov saturates these passages with passionate despair…bravissimo!
Mimi steps forward to the sound of a theme full of heartbreak, and Ms. Winters is infinitely touching in Mimi’s farewell, “Donde ieta usci...”, so beautifully phrased and coloured, her lower range so evocative, her crushing final words gorgeously intoned, with a lingering last note that vanished into the air like a whispered goodbye.
Rodolfo/Popov seeks to mend things; the couple remind one another of the things they love – and hate – about each other. Meanwhile, Musetta and Marcello are having their own battle royale. In the ensemble, the sopranos pour out vibrant sounds. Then, alone again, Mimi and Rodolfo resolve to stay together: Mr. Popov’s ravishing “…stagion di fior...” true poetry.
After a pathetic second intermission wherein most of the audience stayed in their seats, twiddling their thumbs, we have the reminiscing duet of Rodolfo and Marcello, recalling happier days: wonderful singing from the Popov/Evans team; and though the orchestra encroached for a spell, it ended with soft musing. Bravi, gentlemen!
Now the four Bohemians reunite; recalling past good times together, they party, all singing lustily. Mr. Plumb again impresses here. They dance, and duel, until suddenly Musetta bursts in, bringing with her the dying Mimi. In this heart-stopping moment, time seems to stand still. Ms. Winters brought forth a wealth of detail in her singing here, from the outpouring of “Si rinasce…” to her wistful greeting of each of the Bohemians: “Tutti qui...”
Mr. Köpeczi sings Colline’s wrenching farewell to his old coat, hauntingly recalling it as his longtime companion thru good times and bad…the basso’s resonant voice, loaded with emotion, sounds marvelous in the big house. Bravissimo!
Finally left alone with Rodolfo, Ms. Winters seals her fascinating performance with her heart-rending singing of “Sono andanti…?” Pure poetry here, her lower range battering my heart with its unique incandescence.
The mood was somewhat spoilt by audience members laughing at the title/translations…they should by turned off by this point. But Ms. Winters restores proper dignity when she finds Mimi’s pink bonnet under the pillow, inducing a flow of memories. And then she sleeps away.
The curtain calls were lovely today, each singer warmly greeted as he/she stepped before the gold curtain in this, one of the last two Met productions wherein curtain calls involve an actual curtain. Ms. Winters was deservedly cheered for her engrossing performance.
Above: a sizeable crowd gathered at the stage door to greet the singers, and I was very happy to re-connect with tenor and voice teacher Jason Ferrante, who I’d met when he was at Julliard and I worked at Tower Records. Ms. Winters is one of Jason’s longtime students. I met Ms. Reyes, and Mssrs. Evans, Plumb, and Köpeczi (how Mr. Popov managed to slip by me I am not sure). And Ms. Winters’ personality is as lovely as her voice; she seemed genuinely moved by the audience’s response to her performance this afternoon.
All in all, a wonderful afternoon at The Met…an afternoon that recalled another such day – many, many seasons ago – when I fell in love with Jeannette Pilou. Today, Corinne Winters cast a similar spell over me. She was so kind as I tried – so clumsily – to express my admiration.
~ Oberon
Above: Elīna Garanča and Brian Jagde as Amneris and Radames; a Ken Howard/MET Opera photo
~ Author: Oberon
Sunday April 27th, 2025 matinee – Two of the opera world’s brightest stars joined the cast today for the first of four Metropolitan Opera performances of Verdi’s AIDA, concluding this season’s run of the new production: Elīna Garanča, who had recently withdrawn from some European performances but who thankfully made it here to sing for us, was Amneris this afternoon, and the great Mongolian baritone Amartuvshin Enkhbat, whose Met debut as Germont in 2022 was truly impressive, as was his Amonasro this afternoon. Both of these singers came to worldwide recognition after participating in the Cardiff Singer of the World competition, the mezzo in 2001 and the baritone in 2015.
The only aspect of today’s performance that I wasn’t looking forward to was the presence on the podium of Yannick Nézet-Séguin, whose fast-and-loud, brass-happy conducting has spoiled several Met performances for me.
After a the opera’s expressive prelude, superbly played by the MET Orchestra, the huge voice of Morris Robinson drew us immediately into the story. As Radames, the stentorian tenor sound of Brian Jagde responded to the hint that Robinson/Ramfis had just dropped with an urgent recitative and then commenced the “Celeste Aida” which was taken a bit faster than usual; the tenor’s massive top notes immediately impressed the crowd, winning Jagde enthusiastic applause: with this man in command, the Egyptians were sure to win the coming battle.
Ms. Garanča as Amneris enters, immediately making a lovely vocal impression as a lyrical princess; in her elegant phrasing, her every note spoke of her deep affection for Radames. A dulcet clarinet solo introduces Angel Blue’s Aida. The orchestra was sometimes too loud during the ensuing trio.
Krzysztof Bączyk immediately made an excellent vocal impression as the King, as did the clear-toned Messenger of Yongzhao Yu. “Su del Nilo” felt a bit rushed, but Mr. Bączyk and Mr. Robinson traded bass sonorities to fine effect. Ms. Garanča chimes in…but from the pit, a N-S noise fest is developing. Angel Blue soars above the ensemble, then immediately commences “Ritorna vincitor!” in which Aida’s dilemma is introduced: she is torn between her love for Radames and love of her homeland. Some nice, chesty resonances underscore her anguish, though her topmost range seemed a bit tight. Her lyrical, prayerful ending of the aria was truly beautiful.
As the action moves to the Temple of Vulcan, Tessa McQueen’s offstage Priestess is too far upstage to make an immediate impression but soon she is moved to a more congenial spot from which to display her attractive voice. There are lovely harmonies from the priests, and then ballet commences, only to have the music’s beautiful sense of calm (played with nice rubato touches) spoilt by someone’s coughing fit. Morris Robinson’s fabulous introduction to the consecration ritual, and Mr. Jagde’s heroic response, soon fall victim to over-playing from the N-S pit, nearly swamping the voices.
Bringing the house lights up a bit prior to the ensuing boudoir scene really shatters the mood; there’s a late seating, with latecomers stumbling about in the near darkness whilst people who’d arrived on time think it’s a bathroom break. Cellphones come on throughout the hall. Chatter spoils the ensuing opening harp solo as the women’s chorus seeks to restore the mood after this intrusion of reality.
Ms. Garanča’s thrice-voiced, dreamy summoning of her beloved is so seductive. After the ballet interlude, the Egyptian princess baits her Ethiopian rival. Sparks fly as their rivalry is revealed; Amneris has the upper hand, and Ms. Garanča’s “Figlia de’ Faraino!” is blisteringly set forth. Some of Ms. Blue’s higher notes are a bit harsh, but her touching prayer at the end – “Numi pieta!” – sounded gorgeous.
The Triumphal Scene is grandly done, orchestra and chorus blazing away – interspersed with more lyrical passages – and then the ballet boys bring down the House with their bold, stomping dance. Mr. Bączyk sounds splendid as the King greets the conquering hero: Radames. The prisoners of war are brought in, among them the incognito King of Ethiopia – Aida’s father, Amonsaro – in the person of Amartuvshin Enkhbat. N-S lets loose the brass, but the baritone is unfazed, singing handsomely. Angel Blue produces a shining top-C. Now Mssrs. Robinson and Bączyk exchange bass sonorities as they debate the fate of the prisoners…of course, the priest wins. Bączyk now gives his daughter’s hand in marriage to Radames, with Ms. Garanča revelling in her triumph. The concluding ensemble was a bit messy.
On the banks of the Nile, Morris Robinson again impresses as he leads Amneris to a all-night prayer vigil. Angel Blue phrases the “O patria mia” poetically, her lyricism to the fore. She doesn’t float the top-C, but she makes much of the ensuing lament with a neat crescendo and then a hushed “…mai più…!”
Amartuvshin Enkhbat is authoritative and truly impressive as he tells his daughter what she must now do in the name of her country. His wonderful phrasing as he manipulates her leads to some very fine cantabile passages from Ms. Blue. The orchestra again overplays, but the baritone rises to the challenge with an epic “Non sei mia figlia!” Ms. Blue’s anguish is palpably voiced, and her father responds with the inspiring “Pensa che un popolo, vinto, straziato!”; here the orchestra gave truly marvelous support, making it a highlight of the performance.
Radames now appears, and Ms. Blue treats us to a very seductive “La tra foreste vergini” as she tempts him to run away with her. The soprano’s turnings of phrase here is most inviting. But Mr. Jagde is unsure…his dolce B-flat as he ponders his choices was magical indeed. There was an intrusion by someone in distress in the audience, which killed much of the atmosphere as the duet moved to its end; Ms. Blue’s closing B-flat was short and unsteady; then the stretta was on the wild side, the soprano’s top not really assured. Amonasro’s reappearance sealed the baritone’s success, and then Mr. Jagde nailed his “Io resto a te!” with amazing power and thrust.
Elīna Garanča now took command of the Met stage with a Judgement Scene in which every word and note counted. Her “Vorrei salvarlo…” was full of hesitant hope, and then the chilling orchestral passage, ending on a splendid clarinet low note, brought Radames before her. Simply gorgeous clarinet playing underscored Ms. Garanča’s beautifully desperate plea, to which Mr. Jagde responded with a great outpouring of tone. Garanča’s brilliant “Morire!!?” was phrased immediately into her ensuing entreating passages. Jagde silenced her with a massive B-flat. Tension reaches a boiling point, Garanča’s voice rising to two scorching B-flats as her desperation overwhelmed her.
Radames is led away, and Ms. Garanča’s lament is hauntingly sung, her anguish over her jealously having caused Radames’s downfall marked by a pianissimo intoning of “…io stessa lo gettai!” fading to a whisper. Morris Robinson’s chilling calls of “Radames!” must still be echoing somewhere in the univese. Soft drum rolls ominously underscore the ensuing trial, with Robinson/Ramfis becoming increasingly impatient.
Harsh accents from the orchestra underscore the death penalty prouncement, the deep brass voices terrifying. Ms. Garanča’s pleas are in vain; in her fury she curses the priests, soaring to a climatic top A. A prolonged ovation ensued, the crowd cheering the beloved mezzo in a well-deserved salute.
The final scene opened with Mr. Jagde’s doom-ladened phrases of farewell to Aida. When she steps from the darkness of the tomb, the great farewell duet commences. Here one wished for more piano singing from Ms. Blue but overall the duetting voices were wonderfully expressive and moving. Then Ms. Garanča’s solemn invocation of peace lingered on the air as darkness fell.
The ovation when Elīna Garanča took her first solo bow was genuinely tumultuous; a bouquet flew onto the stage, and the comely Elīna literally prostrated herself in response to the waves of love pouring across the footlights.
~ Oberon
Above: performance photo by Brandon Patoc
~ Author: Mark Anthony Martinez II
Saturday April 26th, 2025 – The New York Philharmonic played a fantastically curated concert of Mozart and Bartók. Although the throughline of the pieces isn’t immediately apparent, the pairing of Mozart at his most theatrical — with the Magic Flute Overture and his Fifth Violin Concerto — with Bartók’s The Wooden Prince, originally written as music for a ballet, made for a fantastic night of music.
The guest conductor was Iván Fischer, and he conducted marvelously: at ease in the music while simultaneously seeming to really have fun. Maestro Fischer appeared to conduct The Magic Flute Overture from memory at the podium, moving through the different sections of the piece with wide arm gestures.
I had just recently seen The Magic Flute at the Metropolitan Opera the week before, so the piece was still fresh in my memory. Something very interesting was that, when I heard it that night at the Philharmonic, the overture seemed more like a symphonic suite than an overture to a stage play. It seemed more related to Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony somehow in this moment, rather than the opening to Così fan tutte. The music was played perfectly, with every dynamic crystal clear in execution. Maybe it was the perfection of how the piece was played that made it seem more symphonic and less like a piece written for the stage, where inevitably something new happens every night.
I particularly liked the restraint that Maestro Fischer (above, photo by Brandon Patoc) showed in the moments of the overture where silence mattered more than sound, such as the callback to the brass opening punctuated with long rests. The rests seemed longer than usual, but the impact was memorable because of it.
The audience gave a very warm and deserved applause, after which the orchestra reduced in size to prepare for the violin concerto.
The soloist, Lisa Batiashvili (above), came out in a very memorable bright yellow dress with a baby blue sash around her waist. Normally, I don’t notice what soloists wear in performances, but this outfit seemed too intentional, almost as if it were making a statement. I thought that the color scheme seemed coincidentally similar to the Ukrainian flag until I saw a giant brooch of the U.S. Stars and Stripes cinching the sash onto her. So whatever the intent was, I’m sure it meant something to those more sartorially inclined.
Batiashvili played the Mozart with clear familiarity with the style and music. Normally, I feel soloists tend to lean into the fiery, show-stopping nature of concertos, but Batiashvili tended toward austerity and restraint in her playing for the first two movements. The piece was played in a way that seemed courtly: certainly pleasant, but not too forward to draw attention to itself. Things changed when Batiashvili reached the cadenza of the first movement. The cadenza started out seeming to be in a Mozartian style, then veered into the chromatic and atonal. It wasn’t bad by any means, and certainly showcased Batiashvili’s virtuosity. It was just surprising to hear something so very non-classical in such a quintessentially classical piece. I read the program afterwards and saw that the cadenza was composed by a 15-year-old Georgian composer named Tsotne Zedginidze, which made quite a lot of sense in hindsight.
I quite enjoyed the unconventional cadenza because it made me look forward to hearing the other cadenzas, which were also newly composed, one of them by the soloist herself. The other cadenzas were more traditional in nature though, which maybe was a good pairing with the one anachronistic one.
The third movement was where Batiashvili took off and seemed to have the typical soloist verve. I had never heard the finale of this concerto before, and I loved the effects that gave the whole piece the moniker of “Turkish.” The sections where Batiashvili played the more exotic melody and the strings played col legno seemed like a vision into the future of where classical music would head with early Romanticism. The sections sounded more like Mendelssohn in one of his symphonic overtures rather than Mozart, and I was thrilled to hear it.
After the concerto, Batiashvili gave several curtain calls, and it seemed like there was going to be an encore, but in the end, one didn’t come.
Before the concert began, I overheard some audience members chatting and wondering why the screen normally used for super-titles for lyrics was open. Another audience member joked that it was just so they could make sure to tell people to silence their cell phones before the show.
During intermission, the size of the orchestra ballooned, and it was almost impossible to fit more musicians on the stage. Before he started the Bartók piece, Maestro Fischer gave a short introduction. He told the audience that the piece was originally written for a short ballet, and — in an unconventional but amazing idea — had the original stage directions for the ballet projected onto the aforementioned screen while The Wooden Prince was being played.
This piece was another first for me, and it was truly a masterpiece. The piece starts with a humming sound that almost feels like what you’d expect from a movie showing deep space.
The story of The Wooden Prince follows a prince who falls in love with a princess, who is guarded by a fairy. The prince is blocked from being able to see the princess by the fairy, who enchants the forest in which they are to physically prevent the prince from reaching her.
The stage directions were such a wonderful idea because they showed where Bartók’s mind went when he was creating the music for each physical gesture. At first, I thought there were going to be instruments tied to each of the characters, but in the end, the entire orchestra was involved in every scene to provide complete sonic storytelling.
I found myself thinking about how The Wooden Prince compared with some of the other great ballets, like Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake and Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. The conclusion I came to was that The Wooden Prince was uniquely its own masterpiece.
~ Mark Anthony Martinez II
(Performance photos by Brandon Patoc, courtesy of the NY Philharmonic)
~ Author: Oberon
Saturday March 22nd, 2025 matinee – In 1883, a Swedish soprano named Christina Nilsson sang Marguerite in FAUST for the opening of the then-new Metropolitan Opera House. Last week, another Swedish soprano named Christina Nilsson (photo above) made her Met debut as Aida. This afternoon, I went to hear my second AIDA of the current season to see how she fared in the daunting role.
Another singer new to me, tenor Alejandro Roy (above), stepped in today as Radames; he had made a short-notice Met debut in TURANDOT in 2019 opposite Christine Goerke…
…and the Amonasro, Roman Burdenko (above), had just made his Met debut a few days ago.
Alexander Soddy was on the podium, and while he has good ideas about tempi and the alternating currents of grandeur and intimacy that run thru the score, he (like so many opera conductors today) tends to let the orchestra get the better of the singers all too frequently. Despite this, the score seemed extremely beautiful today, and I often felt moved.
The Messenger and the Priestess – Yongzhao Yu and Ann-Kathrin Niemczyk – made the most of their moments. The two bassos were both super: Alexander Vinogradov (Ramfis) and Krzysztof Bączyk (the King) have powerful voices and they sounded assured throughout their range. So many phrases from these two gentlemen impressed me today. In the ensemble in the opening scene – and again in the Triumphal Scene – where both bassos have great moments, they created a sonic energy that was so pleasing to experience.
Mr. Burdenko likewise made a vivid impression, his opening “Suo padre!” immediately established his dignity and fierce pride. Capable of both power and subtlety, Mr. Burdenko made every phrase come to life; a feeling of steadfastness emerged in his plea “Ma tu, Re…“. In the Nile Scene duet with Ms. Nilsson, the baritone veered from venomous (“…tu sei la schiava!“) to tenderness (“…pensa che un popolo…vinto…straziata…”) Bravo!!
Mr. Roy’s voice exudes masculine confidence; it’s tinged with baritonal shadings at times but he also had the top notes for the music when needed. Following with my score, he seemed to heed all the dynamic markings, though he took the end of the “Celeste Aida” full voice. Joining in the trio with Ms. Nilsson and Judit Kutasi (Amneris), the three were sometimes covered by the orchestra. Again, in the Temple Scene, the sturdy voices of Mssrs. Roy and Vinogradov had to combat the orchestra’s volume..
Having only one intermission, after the Triumphal Scene (wherein Mr. Roy blasted an epic B-flat at one point), the tenor must sing in succession the demanding Nile Scene and the dramatic confrontation with Amneris, and then bring forth lyricism for the tender final duet, “O terra addio…”). He handled this marathon quite impressively. I thought he might run out of steam near the end, but the final “…si schiude il ciel…” with Ms. Nilsson was handsomely clear and sustained.
Ms. Kutasi, whose Amneris was disappointing at my earlier performance this season, fared little better today, though her B-flats in the repeated phrase “…dal ciel si compira...” in the Judgement Scene were her best notes of the day. I really don’t know what is going on with her; there are exciting clips of her on YouTube, but the voice now is very erratic. The audience cheered her enthusiastically.
I grew up on such plushy spinto Aidas as Leontyne Price, Martina Arroyo, Leona Mitchell, Gilda Cruz-Romo, and Anna Tomowa-Sintow. Ms. Nilsson today curiously put me in mind of Lucine Amara, an under-appreciated ‘big lyric’ soprano who could float lovely piani on high; Ms. Nilsson’s style is not as Italianate as Lucine’s, but their vocal heft is similar.
A ravishing clarinet solo introduces Aida, and the Nilsson voice has immediate appeal; she sounds young – even girlish at times. In the cantabile passages of the trio and ensemble of the opening scene, her singing is very persuasive; but Mr. Soddy lets that ensemble get too brassy…and there was an added drum rhythm I’d never noticed before.
Ms. Nilsson got to show her stuff with “Ritorna vincitor“, her singing reflective, her phrasing having a lyrical glow; she gave the aria a lovely, poignant finish. In the boudoir scene, the soprano’s tone sometimes lacked richness, but she fared well in the Triumphal Scene, with a gleaming top-C to cap the ensemble’s first half.
On the banks of the Nile, Ms. Nilsson shaped “O patria mia…” perfectly, though more colours could have been introduced along the way. Her sweet high-C lingered long on the air, and her sustained phrases at the aria’s finish were gorgeous. Mr. Burdenko’s raging “…tu sei la Schiava!” elicited a blistering top-A from the soprano. She later got enticingly floaty and provocative with “…la, tra le foreste vergini...” in the duet with Radames, before spinning out a magical “…fuggiam…fuggiam.....” The stretta, with Mr. Roy, was excitingly sung.
The tenor commenced the final scene expressively, and Ms. Nilsson’s lyricism glows, lit by beaming high notes along the way; here she really reminded me of Amara. Mr. Roy sang valiantly as the opera moved towards its solemn ending, his voice well-matched to Ms. NIlsson’s. They took a joint bow, to a warm salute from the crowd. Mr. Roy had saved the day, and Ms. Nilsson had won new admirers.
Notably, it was the all-male ballet in the Triumphal Scene that roused the audience to the afternoon’s most enthusiastic cheers.
~ Oberon
~ In 1967 the Metropolitan Opera held its first June Festival. Having just opened the ‘New Met’ in September 1966, ticket demand for the premiere season at Lincoln Center had been phenomenal and the Company seized the opportunity to add several performances in the month of June. This was a bonanza for the fans and also provided the general public, who were curious to see the interior of the new opera house, expanded possibilities. The Met offered some very fine casting that June, and topping the list of exciting events (at least from the fans’ point of view) was the belated Met debut of the German soprano Elisabeth Grummer.
Grümmer was 57 at the time, and had already had a very successful career in Europe and had made several top-class recordings, working with Europe’s finest conductors. She had made her debut with the Met on tour in Boston earlier that Spring and was now coming to the House in the role of Elsa in Wieland Wagner’s production of LOHENGRIN.
This was my first chance to see this opera; Sandor Konya was at that time the leading exponent of the title role, and my beloved Irene Dalis was singing her venomous Ortrud. Stalwarts Walter Cassel, John Macurdy and William Walker completed the cast. Andre Cluytens, who was to have conducted this production of LOHENGRIN, had died the previous summer and so Joseph Rosenstock was on the podium. I suppose by international standards that Rosenstock was considered a routinier but – inexperienced as I was – I was simply thrilled to be there.
Grümmer made her entrance, and I recall the entire phalanx of Family Circle standees were waiting with collectively bated breath for her first line, which she deployed with a silvery pianissimo: “Mein armer bruder!” We were under her spell immediately and she went on to sing a really thrilling Elsa and to win a very warm acclaim from the packed house. Although nearing the end of her career, Grümmer had maintained her clarity of sound; the voice had a lyrical feeling but she was able to ride the ensembles with a bit of metallic thrust. It was an exciting debut but after repeating the role once, she never sang at the Met again. (She did appear as the Marschallin at the New York City Opera the following season.)
A large contingent of fans gathered at the stage door. Sandor Konya came out and was so kind; aside from signing my programme he gave me a beautiful photo of himself as Lohengrin. Irene Dalis appeared and she even remembered me and thanked me for coming. Then the crowd began to drift away. I knew Grümmer hadn’t left yet and I couldn’t imagine why no one wanted her autograph after such an exciting debut.
After a few moments only a half-dozen of us remained. A chorister walked out and someone asked him if Miss Grümmer was coming out soon: “Oh, she doesn’t sign autographs!” Someone else emerged and saw us: “You waiting for Grümmer? She won’t sign.” The other fans left. I figured at least I would get a glimpse of her. It had been an hour since the curtain had fallen, and I was exhausted. But something kept me there.
A car pulled up; the driver got out. He looked at me and said, “If you’re waiting for Elisabeth Grümmer, you’re wasting your time. She doesn’t like giving autographs.” I shrugged, trying to pretend that I WASN’T waiting for Elisabeth Grümmer.
Finally the stage door opened and Ms. Grümmer walked out with a gentleman. They got in the car and closed the doors. But they didn’t leave. I stood by the stage door holding my program and pen, looking as forlorn as I could. I was 19 but looked younger, and I hoped she would take pity on me. The driver was pointing at me and the soprano looked my way hesitantly. Then she suddenly rolled down her window and gestured to me. Neither of us spoke, but I handed her the program. She briskly wrote her name and handed it back to me with just a trace of a smile. I thanked her and made a little bow; she rolled up the window and the car pulled away.
Click to enlarge:
Oberon's Glade 