Tuesday at 7:00 PM, WQXR’s Operavore and Caramoor Center for Music and the Arts offer a sneak peek at “Verdi in Paris,” the theme of this year’s Bel Canto at Caramoor. Maestro Will Crutchfield (not pictured) will present soprano Angela Meade, tenor Noah Baetge and baritone Marco Nisticò in a program of songs and arias from Les vêpres siciliennes. [The Greene Space]
For more than 25 years since its US debut at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the French early-music group Les Arts Florissants has been visiting the New York area at least once every season. Since its life-changing Atys first arrived in 1989 at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (where the Lully returned one last time in 2011), LAF has presented works there which have challenged many perceptions about 17th and 18th century opera. So acolytes of William Christie and his remarkable musicians and singers and—one might hope—scads of new fans are eagerly anticipating the four-performance run of Charpentier’s David et Jonathas opening on April 17 at BAM’s Howard Gilman Opera House. Read more »
One quick way to warm up: Watching tenor heartthrob Roberto Alagna.
“Considering one of the season’s star singers is a plus-size female impersonator, opera this fall is anything but a drag.”
There were a disproportionate number of young people at the Met today—even younger than me, which is really young. That made me happy and smile while filing in line to enter the auditorium. Hopefully this is the next generation of undying fans and queens about to plunge into a “new” world of opera spearheaded by John Adams‘ Nixon in China from the 80s: a MET premiere no less! But let’s get to the dish of this dress.
I saw the final dress rehearsal of Adriana Lecouvreur at the Royal Opera House on Monday this week, and I think I have never seen the place so crowded for such an event. No wonder, for here was a cast you might dream of, in a highly finished piece of work mounted by one of our finest directors, shown without any perceptible hitch.
A painter’s nightmares of death start to become real. A man’s lover dies of a flesh-eating plague and inhabits the body of a new young fling. A TV news anchor finds herself on the other side of the headlines, drowning in the Holland Tunnel. If Edgar Allan Poe were alive today, these are the operas he might have written.
When invited to participate in a discourse on artistic standards (hello, internet!), it’s easy — pleasurable, even — for an aesthete to bray about “the fall.” Where are the true heldentenors? Your kingdom for a Callas! (Or a Stratas, or a Rysanek!) And might the public, at long last, deserve a stable of directors who possess the good sense to avoid both the trope-y familiar as well as the ill-advised pathways of, ugh, the modern?