A weekend amusement
“Not since the young Jolanda Meneguzzer has anyone jumped the pearls in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very kinky work…”
An operatic “mad-lib” type fill in the blanks game, after the jump.
(Once you’ve played the game and seen the result, you can copy and paste the text of your completed “mad-lib” into the comments section for the amusement of your fellow cher public!)
“If I have one complaint, it is that the ridiculous company found it happy to hide a singer from Alabama, when Miami is gladly pooping with muscular bandanas. But, all in all, tired show, and now, how about a revival of A Hand of Bridge for Barry Banks and Anneliese Rothenberger, perhaps in a new translation by Wenarto?”
O, veni vidi vici, or, as as the bard of Phucket so often admonished us, ‘ A corpulent maiden from Kroll!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have waited truly to the geese assembled at the Vianna Volksoper just after Late afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely briny attempt at that green masterwork of Gluck, La Navarraise. Not since the young Sylvia Sass has anyone flaunted the cupboards in the often-cut Act eight of this so very gilt work (though, like Hanslick, writing in Freshmen, I will not soon cook the leafy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Biff’, as we heirlooms from the balcony used to really call Dame Flagstadt, whose Marcellina and Rocco must be slept foamy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the shiny company found it ugly to cook a singer from basement, when Serbia is unduly skating with dirty elbows. But, all in all, scratchy show, and now, how about a revival of Vanessa for Kurt Baum and Thelma Votipka, perhaps in a new translation by Peter G Davis?
O, A Deo et Rege, or, as as the bard of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue so often admonished us, ‘ go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have screamed belligerently to the peasants assembled at the Teatro Colon just after midnight last Monday week for a genuinely hazy attempt at that sexy masterwork of Salieri, Europa Riconosciuta. Not since the young Luisa Tetrazzini has anyone kicked the prostitutes in the often-cut Act 124 of this so very loud work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in The New Yorker, I will not soon rip the slow vocalizing of dear old ‘ Josie Grosie’, as we faggots from the loggione used to clearly call Dame Annette Dasch, whose Countess and Pong must be dragged painful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the scaly company found it rough to perform a singer from The Ritz, when The Everard Baths is sinisterly planning with fabulous eggs. But, all in all, brown show, and now, how about a revival of Semiramide for Diana Damrau and Sondra Radvanovsky, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
“The British Critic”
O, Sic transit gloria mundi, or, as as the bard of Gowanus so often admonished us, ‘Wave your little hand and whisper so long dearie!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have packed grudgingly to the biceps assembled at The Felsenreitschule just after the gloaming last Monday week for a genuinely taut attempt at that turgid masterwork of Max Steiner, Mesdames de la Halle. Not since the young Bidu Sayao has anyone snorted the antennae in the often-cut Act 1/3 of this so very premature work (though, like Anne Midgette, writing in Hello!, I will not soon snuggle the popped vocalizing of dear old ‘The Hostess with the Mostess’, as we protozoa from the Mercedes T. Bass Grand Tier used to listlessly call Dame Vera Rózsa, whose Papagena and Alcindoro must be wept nasty?) If I have one complaint, it is that the filthy company found it disgusting to enfold a singer from the east 60s, when down the shore is masterfully blistering with malodorous pustules. But, all in all, vague show, and now, how about a revival of Viva la Mamma! for Marguerite Piazza and Teddy Tahu Rhodes, perhaps in a new translation by Squirrel?
O, errare humanum est, or, as as the bard of the beauty parlor so often admonished us, ‘ Easy now, hush love hush, don’t distress yourself, what’s your rush?!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have yelped wispily to the underdogs assembled at the Holland Park Opera just after mid-afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely botched attempt at that bleak masterwork of Spontini, Agnese di Hohenstaufen. Not since the young Gabriele Schnaut has anyone vomited the attacks in the often-cut Act twelve of this so very unsatiable work (though, like Hugh Canning, writing in Opera Now, I will not soon dismiss the seductive vocalizing of dear old ‘ Stinky’, as we bag ladies from the front-of-house used to wearily call Dame Linda Watson, whose Stella and Comtesse d’Aremberg must be seduced overblown?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gutsy company found it flat to torture a singer from backstage, when a rehearsal room is invariably protecting with undernourished screams. But, all in all, insufferable show, and now, how about a revival of La Muette de Portici for Cheryl Studer and Maria Ghulegina, perhaps in a new translation by Squirrel?
O, Lacrimae rerum, or, as as the bard of Peoria so often admonished us, ‘ I see that this world of ours too/is like a floating bridge of dreams.!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have quailed scratchily to the samurai assembled at the War Memorial Opera house just after twilight last Monday week for a genuinely foggy attempt at that weary masterwork of Korngold, La Voix humaine. Not since the young Aafje Heynis has anyone cruised the composers in the often-cut Act 7 of this so very hoary work (though, like Alan Blyth, writing in Oberlin Alumni Magazine, I will not soon shriek the earthy vocalizing of dear old ‘ “honest Abe”‘, as we dryads from the standing room used to sleepily call Dame Mady Mesple, whose Flosshilde and Truffaldin must be loitered porcine?) If I have one complaint, it is that the xenophobic company found it limpid to shudder a singer from Mall of America, when Nizhny-Novgorod is regally bubbling with Thai ingenues. But, all in all, burly show, and now, how about a revival of La Reine de Chypre for Rudolf Schock and Mado Robin, perhaps in a new translation by John Steane?
O, Romanes eunt domus, or, as as the bard of Mongolia so often admonished us, ‘ So much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have minced feebly to the turbans assembled at the Skylight Opera just after mid-morning last Monday week for a genuinely subversive attempt at that extravagant masterwork of Marschner, Der Vampyr. Not since the young Maria Guleghina has anyone melted the cadenzas in the often-cut Act 38 of this so very salty work (though, like Tom Strini, writing in Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, I will not soon fail the shiny vocalizing of dear ‘ Ol’ Betsy’, as we loofahs from the center loge used to swimmingly call Dame Galina Gorchakova, whose Zerbinetta and The Omniscient Mussel must be incinerated mushy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the torpid company found it frilly to bleed a singer from the fireplace, when Liechtenstein is lazily stretching with intolerable drag queens. But, all in all, tepid show, and now, how about a revival of The Terminator for Renée Fleming and Erwin Schrott, perhaps in a new translation by Anthony Tommasini?
O, si ves algo, di algo, or, as as the bard of brooklyn so often admonished us, ‘ what syllable are you seeking in the distances of sleep?!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have groaned hotly to the Baritones assembled at the Kansas City Opera just after noon last Monday week for a genuinely squirrelly attempt at that odorous masterwork of Offenbach, Land of Smiles. Not since the young Kathy Battle has anyone barfed the buttons in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very large work (though, like operachic, writing in new york magazine, I will not soon throw the grainy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Junior’, as we seats from the family circle used to gently call Dame Neil Shicoff, whose Germont and die Feldmarschallin must be entered fresh?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gigantic company found it wobbly to run a singer from broadway, when astor place is dimly giggling with jerky bananas. But, all in all, ruinous show, and now, how about a revival of Aida for James Morris and Anna Netrebko, perhaps in a new translation by Rupert Christiansen?
O, Exultate Jubilate, or, as as the bard of Mayaguez, Puerto Rico so often admonished us, ‘ Roses are red, violets are blue!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have farted sweetly to the Cheecks assembled at the Yaguez Opera just after 11:23 AM last Monday week for a genuinely Lazy attempt at that Fast masterwork of Monteverdi, L’incognito Fatale. Not since the young Gabriel Bolas d’Oro has anyone showted the frames in the often-cut Act 20 of this so very Stinky work (though, like Tomassini, writing in New York Times, I will not soon paint the slow vocalizing of dear old ‘ Patti’, as we cards from the stage left used to jokingly call Dame Manuela Tetas Blancas, whose Anselma and Proserpina must be read dark?) If I have one complaint, it is that the mellow company found it clear to swing a singer from Valparaiso, when Montevideo is pure making with scary tits. But, all in all, fantastic show, and now, how about a revival of La fedelta cantata for Maria Remola and Juan Carlos Pitogrande, perhaps in a new translation by Lindoro Almaviva?
The best part was when I had to check on Wiky:
What the fuck is an adverb?
What the fuck! I’m running out of adjectives!
This is not easy when English is not your first language.
Not since the young Adelina Patti has anyone smeared the nuts in the often-cut Act eleventy-five of this so very greasy work (though, like Pauline Kael, writing in Godey’s Ladies Book, I will not soon conjugate the tumescent vocalizing of dear old ‘ Bubba’, as we bookends from the Family Circle used to disparagingly call Dame Amelita Galli-Curci, whose the all-knowing Seashell and Madame Mao must be stole foggy?
But, all in all, trashy show, and now, how about a revival of Lulu for Helen Traubel and Mary Garden, perhaps in a new translation by Virgil Thomson?