vilaine fille

F*ck Nader!

I am totally with Wonkette on this one!

F*ck Nader, and f*ck all of you who voted for Nader. No, cancel that: F*cking, after all, is good. You deserve dire and exquisite forms of torture.

Thanks to you, we have had eight years of idiocy and abominations. Thanks to you, we have Roberts and Alito on the Supreme Court. Thanks to you, 700,000 or more Iraqis have been killed, many millions are now refugees, some 4,000 U.S. military women and men have been sent to slaughter, and more than 60,000 service members have been wounded. Thanks to you, at last estimate, some $275 million a day is being spent on a pointless and immoral war. And the “dire and exquisite forms of torture”? Gross but equally painful varieties have been perfected and carried out, at public expense, thanks to you.

I have more contempt for you than I do for Republicans, who at least act on behalf of their own self-interest as they perceive it. You are not happy unless you bring down calamity upon all.

P.S. Earth to Naderites: The United States does not—I repeat, does not—have a parliamentary system of government. Did you ever study f*cking civics?

Buon compleanno, Bob!

Chacun se dit ami :
mais fou qui s’y repose ;
Rien n’est plus commun que le nom,
Rien n’est plus rare que la chose.
—Jean de La Fontaine

E niente in assoluto più raro
d’un amico di tal splendore
in versione trans!
—vilaine fille

Caro Roberto, tu che hai ascoltato (facendo così a me il più prezioso dei regali), sai quanto io, folle, ho sofferto ad opera di una carogna che di amico non aveva che il nome.

Sappi quanto sono fiera e beata di avere un amico vero come te che, pur essendo poeta sopraffine, t’intendi di cose e non solo di parole.

Grazie di esistere. Che il tuo anno novello ti porti salute, amore, felicità, successo e tutto ciò che desideri. Ti ammiro e ti voglio un bene dell’anima.

A te, talassomane, offro questa bellissima canzone, una di quelle che amo di più di un genio nostrano (c’est-à-dire, piemontèis). Buon compleanno, Bob!

Ma certe nostre sere hanno un colore
che non sapresti dire,
sospese fra l’azzurro e l’amaranto,
e vibrano di un ritmo lento, lento…
E noi che le stiamo ad aspettare,
noi le sappiamo prigioniere,
come le onde del mare,
come le stelle del mare…

Si muovono e c’incantano le ore
di certe nostre sere
e sanno di partenza e di tramonto
e di sorvolare lento, lento…
Ma noi che le sappiamo prigioniere,
non le possiamo liberare,
come le onde dal mare
come le stelle dal mare…
—Gianmaria Testa

Foto © la sor romana. Di’ alla tua mamma, amore, che il lemma (tu sai quale) è azzeccatissimo sotto tanti aspetti—infatti, direi quasi poetico. (Peccato che sia così, ma nulla ci possiamo fare.)

Pensée du mercredi 30 janvier

Ormai siamo soli nel mezzo del mondo,
qualcosa divide la gente da noi,
ma quello che conta è non essere soli,
quello che conta è che tu sei con me…
—“Quello che conta,” canzone del maestro Ennio Morricone interpretata da Luigi Tenco

27 January 1901

In long-ago 2005, I first published the following post, a vilaine fille favorite. As we remember Verdi, I also offer for your consideration a Verdi playlist that I made for a great Verdian, and some brief remarks on Verdi and Mozart (whose birthday is celebrated today).

The post includes some broken links. I hope to fix them (and the vilaine fille 1.0 styles) in coming days, but I’m still getting over la gastro (sigh).

Energy allowing, I’m planning to mark the day with the 1953 Traviata (yikes, Albanese sounds like un direttore di funerali), 1954 Forza, and 1955 Aida starring one of the past century’s supreme Verdians. And you?

Buon ascolto e buona lettura!

* * *

Verdi died in Milano on 27 January 1901, at 87 years of age.

From a letter by Arrigo Boito to Camille Bellaigue:

Verdi is dead; he has carried away with him an enormous measure of light and warmth. We had all basked in the sunshine of that Olympian old age.

He died magnificently, like a fighter, formidable and mute. The silence of death had fallen over him a week before he died.

Do you know the admirable bust by Gemito? That bust, made forty years ago, is the exact image of the Maestro as he was on the fourth day before the end. With head bowed on his breast and knitted brows he looked downwards and seemed to weigh with his glance an unknown and formidable adversary…

His resistance was heroic. The breathing of his great chest sustained him for four days and three nights. On the fourth night the sound of his breathing still filled the room, but the fatigue… Poor Maestro, how brave and handsome he was, up to the last moment! No matter; the old reaper went off with his scythe well battered.

My dear friend, in the course of my life I have lost those I have idolized, and grief has outlasted resignation. But never have I experienced such a feeling of hatred against death, of contempt for that mysterious, blind, stupid, triumphant and craven power. It needed the death of this octogenarian to arouse those feelings in me.

He, too, hated it, for he was the most powerful expression of life that it is possible to imagine.

***

From the time I first heard La traviata, Verdi's music has been at the center of my life. That ineffably beautiful prelude filled with a dying woman's breath and the bleak, timid dawn that glimmers outside her window. *Secret* music that we overhear only with pain and discomfort. I was thunderstruck, and my gratitude and awe continue to grow.

I don't remember the precise trajectory I followed. Probably Rigoletto came next, "burnt into music," as George Bernard Shaw wrote. Forza and Ballo were also early favorites. Though there was darkness in Verdi's character, I learned to love his best qualities: his reserve, sobriety, and generosity.

[Having been cleansed of the loopy dualism of my upbringing, I am now less troubled by Verdi's "darkness." Moses was a murderer; David, an adulterer; and Joseph… ah, Joseph! "Yosefa" is one of my Hebrew names, taken in honor of Yosef ha-tzadik, my grandfather Giuseppe, and also Verdi and Peppina. It reminds me that no one, for us, is "unredeemable."]

***

I had planned to assemble a handful of music excerpts to honor Verdi. In the end, though, everything else sounded scruffy compared with this: "La vergine degli angeli" from La forza del destino, recorded in 1928 by Ezio Pinza and Rosa Ponselle. The Act II finale of Forza was part of the February 1901 memorial concert for Verdi conducted by Toscanini at La Scala.

Bow your head, be silent, and lose yourself in the "dark splendor" of these voices and Verdi's music.

From a Christmas letter by Boito:

This is the day, of all the days of the year, that he loved the best. Christmas Eve recalled to him the holy marvels of childhood, the enchantments of faith, which is only truly celestial when it mounts as far as belief in miracles. That belief, alas, he early lost, like all of us, but he retained, more than the rest of us, perhaps, a poignant regret for it all his life.

He gave the example of Christian faith by the moving beauty of his religious works, by the observance of rites (you must recall his handsome head bowed in the chapel of Sant'Agata), by his homage to Manzoni, by the ordering of his funeral, found in his will: one priest, one candle, one cross.

He knew that faith is the sustenance of the heart. To the workers in the field, to the unhappy, to the afflicted around him, he offered himself as example, without ostentation, humbly, severely, to be useful to their consciences…

In the ideal, moral and social sense he was a great Christian, but one must be very careful not to present him as a Catholic in the political and strictly theological sense of the word: nothing could be further from the truth.

Ten favorite links

1. Casa Verdi, the home for aged musicians to which Verdi bequeathed the royalties from his operas, and that he deemed his "most beautiful work." Daniel Schmid's documentary Il bacio di Tosca offers an affectionate look at the home and its residents. (Another luogo verdiano: Villa Verdi at Sant'Agata.)
2. The Works of Giuseppe Verdi, from the University of Chicago's Center for Italian Opera Studies.
3. Verdi 2001: Online highlights of Parma's centenary tributes to its illustrious neighbor. (Note that I am using what puny sway I have to try to get these exhibits brought to New York.) La tempesta del mio cor, a study of the rhetoric of operatic gesture, is the real prize, but the sections on the Verdi myth and Visconti's Verdi productions are also wonderful.
4. A memorial article from The Musical Times, March 1901.
5. Verdi stamps from Paul den Ouden.
6. Postcards commemorating Verdi's death, from Historic Opera.
7. Verdi a tavola, a charming article about Verdi the gourmand. This page (in English) includes one of Verdi's menus from Milano's Grand Hotel and his prize recipe for (*gasp*) pork shoulder.
8. The American Institute for Verdi Studies. Membership is a bargain and includes NYU library privileges!
9. A lovely tribute to Peppina.
10. From the fabulous East Village Opera Company, versions of "La donna è mobile" and "Questa o quella" for the twenty-first century… and beyond! (Thanks, Steve!)

Ten favorite books

*The* book, I suspect, will be Philip Gossett's forthcoming Divas and Scholars: Performing Italian Opera (2006). Nel frattempo:

1. Verdi: A Biography by Mary Jane Phillips-Matz.
2. The Story of Giuseppe Verdi by Gabriele Baldini.
3. The Operas of Verdi, Volumes I, II, and III, by Julien Budden.
4. The Man Verdi by Frank Walker.
5. Life of Verdi by John Rosselli.
6. The Verdi-Boito Correspondence, trans. William Weaver.
7. The Verdi Companion, eds. William Weaver and Martin Chusid.
8. Encounters with Verdi, ed. Marcello Conati.
9. Leonora's Last Act by Roger Parker.
10. Verdi in Performance, eds. Alison Latham and Roger Parker.

Ten favorite recordings

Why no Rigoletto or Trovatore? Because there are no versions that I find completely satisfying. Yes, of course, I know and worship the Callas/Serafin and Callas/Karajan sets, but the mutilations (a.k.a. "the traditional cuts") are hard for me to stomach. If you feel otherwise, mazel tov. I quote Montaigne: Je donne mon avis non comme bon, mais comme mien.

[But… No Milanov! But… No Corelli! But… Bite me.]

1. Simon Boccanegra led by Claudio Abbado (DG).
   The single greatest recording of an opera that I know.
2. Aida led by Carlo Sabajno (various labels; 1928).
   Aida has had a happy history on disc, with superb recordings led by Karajan (Decca and EMI), Solti, Muti, and Levine. Still, listen to this excerpt (courtesy of Cantabile-Subito) from the judgment scene with Irene Minghini-Cattaneo as Amneris and Aureliano Pertile as Radamès. Simionato/Bergonzi, Gorr/Vickers, Baltsa/Carreras: I love 'em all. But this version throbs with sex and rage. It has the stink of the theatre about it, a tartness and vigor that I don't find elsewhere.
3. Macbeth led by Claudio Abbado (DG).
   The versions led by Leinsdorf, Muti, and Sinopoli are also quite fine, but this set, like the Boccanegra, documents the Abbado-Strehler collaboration at La Scala: surely the pinnacle of Verdi performance in the twentieth century.
4. Un ballo in maschera led by Gianandrea Gavazzeni (EMI), supplemented with the versions led by Karajan (DG) and Muti (EMI).
   Gavazzeni for the white-hot fire generated by Callas and di Stefano in the love duet; Karajan for that autumnal glow and the ideal Oscar of Sumi Jo; Muti for silken grace. Oscar, as Baldini reminds us, is no mincing fop but the "laughter, warm embrace, and mercy" that live on after the murdered king.
5. Falstaff led by Riccardo Muti (Sony).
   There is also a DVD of a Muti-led performance at Busseto, with Juan Diego Flórez as Fenton. Falstaff, too, has a proud history on disc, but no one for me better captures the quicksilver, fairy-music aspect of this score than Muti. I commend to you, as well, the Music & Arts set pairing performances led by Serafin and de Sabata.
6. Ernani led by Riccardo Muti (Kultur).
   The CD incarnation is hard to come by, so get the DVD. This is slashing, incandescent, not-to-be-missed Verdi.
7. Don Carlo led by Carlo Maria Giulini (EMI).
   I don't care for the French-language sets led by Pappano (EMI) and Abbado (DG), though I eagerly await the coming of a good one. Still, Giulini's reading—world-weary, grave, and filled with a melting tenderness—will always have a proud place chez moi.
8. Messa da Requiem led by John Eliot Gardiner (Philips).
   The Requiem, too, is amply well-represented on disc. There are admirable sets conducted by Toscanini, Giulini, de Sabata, Serafin, Fricsay, Reiner… Gardiner's sizzling reading, though, uses David Rosen's critical edition and period instruments. And for all that they are not classic "Verdians," Anne Sofie von Otter and Luca Canonici slay me with their rapt, poignant singing.
9. La traviata led by Riccardo Muti (EMI).
   This "come scritto" performance does not offer the variations that would have been expected in second verses, but its febrile swiftness, the patrician grace of Kraus and Bruson, and Scotto's intensity make it my top choice. (You didn't really expect me to pick a performance that leaves out, oh, a third of the music, did you?)
10. Otello led by James Levine (RCA).
    Here, too, there are several strong sets from which to choose, but I love the coruscating fleetness of this score under Levine. (Caveat: The CD issue I own has miserably bright sound. Did the LPs really sound this bad?) Another great reading: Muti's DVD version.

For the best in Verdi singing, look no further: This, children, is how it's done.

Mary Jane Phillips-Matz's magnificent biography of Verdi concludes thus:

Few heads of state have been tendered higher honours than Verdi, universally hailed as an artist, a model citizen, and a philanthropist. To the world, as to the nation he helped to found, he left an enduring legacy of music, charity, patriotism, honour, grace, and reason. He was and remains a mighty force for continuing good.

Sorrisi e canzoni IV

28. et si le vieux bonhomme ne nous apporte pas tout ce que nous avons demandé, rêvons encore plus fort et sans limites puisque les étoiles inconnnues seront telles que nous les aurons dessinées (merci, zivvoug)
29. staunch, there-for-me friends
30. an angel who sings of radiance, hope, newness, and beauty
31. exhilarating winter weather
32. scoring a copious prize
33. another miracle wrought of not giving in (hi, E!)
34. that la gastro, at least, makes you lose weight…
35. que sera, sera
36. oh how I feel like a beautiful child again (Sancta Rufola, forgive the paraphrase)

Pensée du dimanche 27 janvier

…Non so chinare la testa,
che non si china la testa,
e non si regala l'intelligenza e la compagnia,
e non è il caso di aspettare,
non è il caso di aspettare
mai più.
Perché la vita non va così,
è la disciplina della Terra…
—Ivano Fossati

Pensée du mercredi 23 janvier

You are my sister,
and I love you.
May all of your dreams come true.
I want this for you.
They’re gonna come true.
—Antony & the Johnsons

Tu B’Shevat 5768

In the Talmud, Rabbi Abbun said: “In the world to come, a person will be judged for all the fine fruit that he saw but did not eat.”

Imagine yourself as a tree. Your branches are now barren, but your roots are hidden, strong, and very deep in the earth…

When we say “yes” to newness, we do not need to know what form newness will take. All we need is faith that like the trees that begin to come alive on Tu B’Shevat, we also will bring forth beautiful flowers and new fruit.
—Melinda Ribner

Rinat Shaham

I fell in love with Rinat Shaham the artist in 2003, upon seeing her daffy, tender Dorabella in BAM’s Così fan tutte. I fell in love with Rinat Shaham the woman soon after interviewing her for Time Out New York in 2004. She is an earthy, deeply kind, winsome, well-grounded, and (yes) dazzlingly beautiful human being.

Rini is now a cherished friend, so I no longer write about her when I am paid for my scribblings. In 2006, I could not bring myself to blog about her Carmen at New York City Opera—Rini was wonderful, but the show as a whole evinced avert-your-eyes-and-ears awfulness. (I wish that the Met and City Opera would drop Carmen and, for that matter, all French operas from their repertory, until and unless they make a solemn effort to stop doing violence to French music.)

In any event, over the weekend, along with drinking the best coffee I’ve had outside of Italy and visiting not one but two great yarn shops, I once again had the privilege of hearing Rini sing. With the Philadelphia Orchestra, she performed Leonard Bernstein’s Symphony No. 1 (“Jeremiah”), which she repeats Tuesday at Carnegie Hall and Wednesday and Friday in Philadelphia.

Rini lived Bernstein’s music in a way that I’m at a loss to describe. I want to focus on two key words: first, Y’rushalyim (“Jerusalem”), whose sins and widowhood the prophet bemoans. As Rini sang Y’rushalyim, it was sinuous, graceful, and radiant, like a princess—yet mournful. It was at once covered with ashes and lit from within. How many artists can convey such complexity of feeling?

Similarly, the symphony’s penultimate word—Adonai (“Lord”)—unfurled from the hush of veneration to a searing reproach, ever shimmering with awe.

I was so spent after Rini’s performance that I could focus only intermittently on Jennifer Higdon’s The Singing Rooms, a new work for violin, chorus, and orchestra. Jennifer Koh (like Rini, a graduate of the Curtis Institute of Music) played with extraordinary ferocity and a kaleidoscopic range of colors.

Higdon set a series of beautiful poems by Jeanne Minahan, and I quote from one of them:

Three windows offer two versions of the day,
the first: cool and sweet, a blue cascade
of watered light,
the second: bright heat barely held back
by the venetian blind…

Both are here, though you
cannot be:
that heat, that long shade of blue.

At Curtis, Rini sang in an alumni recital Brahms’ “Zwei Gesänge,” Op. 91. In “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” her voice took on the rich, dappled colors of the forest, lush in the sunset’s golden glow. In “Geistliches Wiegenlied,” we heard a different voice—maternal, virginal, yet fervently protective of the infant Jesus.

In coming months, Rini repeats her Carmen in Stuttgart, portrays Cherubino in Valencia, reprises the Bernstein in Paris, and makes her La Fenice début as Rosina in Il barbiere di Siviglia.

Pensée du lundi 21 janvier

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.