For the Love of Audra! Audra McDonald at Avery Fisher

This guy

Who’s got two thumbs and squealed like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert upon hearing the announcer utter the five most thrilling words in the English language:  “Please welcome Ms. Audra McDonald”? 

This guy.

Yup, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I have an unholy obsession with all things Audra.  When it was announced she was giving a concert at Avery Fisher, I went online immediately - well, after weeping uncontrollably with joy - to purchase tickets.  I haven’t missed a single one of her New York appearances (Broadway or concert) since she first won my heart as spunky Carrie Pipperidge in Lincoln Center's 1994 Carousel revival.

I know, I'm just a cult affiliation and scraggly beard short of "stalker" status.

Trish nearly gave me a coronary, though, when she called my office ten minutes to five (the concert started at 7 PM) explaining she was still in Jersey and was going to hop in her car right then and drive straight to Lincoln Center.  I wished her luck, hung up the phone, ripped open a bag of cheddar and sour cream Ruffles and started binge eating. 

Not that Trish’s situation had any bearing on my attendance.  Hell no.  But I was experiencing sympathy stress just imagining what it would be like stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel knowing Audra was emoting to my empty seat. 

These thoughts only fueled my paranoia.  There was no way I was going to be late.  I left my midtown office immediately so I'd have a reasonable two hours to make the 15 block trek uptown to Lincoln Center.  You can never be too cautious when it comes to Audra.

When I exited the subway at Lincoln Center I texted Trish for an update.  She was still stuck at the Lincoln Tunnel.  I did what any sensible super-fan would do and headed straight to the box office, left Trish's ticket and headed to my seat.  Nothing is more important than family, except Audra.  Trish would have to fend for herself. 

Because the concert was being taped live for PBS broadcast, the usher gestapo was out in full force exclaiming, “No late entry.  You cannot leave the theatre once the performance has started.  There is no intermission.”  These weren’t your typical grumpy, elderly ushers.  Oh no, for a live Audra taping you get burly, secret service types in tuxes with white, curly phone-cord earpieces.

Since the concert was also a benefit for Lincoln Center, the audience skewed into two very distinct demographics.  Seated up front with their stretched-faced wives were the wealthy elite, all tuxedos and bored expressions.  Sure, they had an idea who Audra was - "that black woman from the TV show" - but they weren't true fans.  Meanwhile, the more youthful, skinny-legged-pant-wearing, theatre nerd contingent was scattered about, delegated to the rear orchestra and balconies. 

At 7 PM on the dot, the house lights went down and the concert began.  Huh?  Lincoln Center?  Gala event?  Wealthy New Yorkers?  On time?

Trish’s unused seat mocked me with its empty stare, but once Audra uttered her first sung phrase, “I happen to like New York…” everything else became irrelevant.  By the end of Audra’s second number (her now signature version of Jason Robert Brown's “Stars and the Moon”) I resigned myself to the fact that Trish was going to miss the concert, leaving me with a super convenient place to lay out my coat and bag.

Then as if on cue, the back doors swung open during our applause and a horde of latecomers came streaming through.  According to Trish, there were so many rich, privileged old people screaming and complaining about not being permitted late entry, the house managers had no choice but to let them in.

Regarding Audra’s performance, well, what can I say?  She was, as usual, magnificent and looked gorgeous in a teal gown.  Here's the NY Times' rave.  My only disappointment was that she didn't perform much new material.  Tonight's program was largely a repeat of her 2011 Carnegie Hall concert which also happens to be the material included in her upcoming new release "Go Back Home."  Even so, Trish and I were in tears as soon as Audra started in on the 9/11-themed "I'll Be Here."  And I have a feeling in about six months casting directors all over the country will want to shoot themselves after Audra's rendition of Goldrich & Heisler's "Baltimore" makes the song an audition staple.

Unfortunately, the sound in the theatre was pitiful.  You'd think the nation's premier performing arts venue would have some idea about setting sound levels for a solo singer and orchestra, but apparently not.  There was loud microphone feedback during a couple of very dramatic musical moments.  And for most of the concert, it sounded like Audra was singing into the mouth of a very large cave - all muffled and echo-y.

Oh well, Audra is still Audra.  Hopefully, they'll be able to do some magic in the editing room before the "Live from Lincoln Center" telecast.  I'm setting my DVR right now.

Sondheim’s Passion and Thongs Gone Wrong (though not at the same time)

Oh, the magic of Powerpoint.  Click to enlarge.

With temperatures peaking just above freezing here in the Big Apple, it’s inevitable we spot our first glimpse of douchebaggery in the form of fratboys donning over-sized basketball shorts to prove their dude-worthiness.  This ridiculous display of testosterone ranks just below fist bumping on the douchebag scale (see diagram at left).  On a side note, it's amazing what you can accomplish on your lunch hour at work and have access to Powerpoint.

Anyway, this beautiful spring day also marked the completion of my 2012 tax returns.  Thankfully, Uncles Sam will be direct depositing a nice fat Birthday check into my bank account shortly.

Speaking of douchebags, no self-respecting bro would be caught dead without a tasty ho at his side.  To that end, I present Exhibits A, B and C of the species hobagueus skankilia, as each emerges from her long winter hibernation to entrap the male of her species (Author's Note:  No hos were harmed during filming).

Exhibit A:  We stumbled upon this wily thong-stress prowling the happy hour crowds around the bar at Linen Hall in the East Village, where Trish and I had dinner following Passion (scroll down for review).  In order to mask our covert photo shoot, I leaned in for a candid shot with a mouthful of what is likely our subject's favorite after-drink snack, spicy nuts (pun intended).  Our subject - an NYU law student, if my ears didn't deceive - was last seen lasciviously beer-goggling two young males of the species, petting their sweaters and slurring softly, "Your nithe."  Things aren't looking very bright for the future of the American judicial system.

Exhibit A-1:  A closer look at our subject's "assets."  Can she honestly not feel the draft?

Exhibit B:  Though fully covered, this desperate lass from the ill-informed "House of Black-Is-Slimming," stopped at nothing to squeeze into the six inches of unoccupied space between our table and the bar.  In her sad attempt to cockblock our thong-stress (just visible at left), she freely flaunted her ample wares right in our faces - literally.  Luckily, I was able to move my plate away from the edge of the table before she imprinted on my steak sandwich.

Exhibit C:  This rare sighting of the elusive afro'd-ass-cracker was captured by my work colleague, Tina, on her way home on the exotic Q train.  Notice our subject's exaggerated hunched position, used to obtain maximum crack exposure and reflection on the seat back.  Friends, don't let friends ride the subway bare-assed.

I suspect that as the weather continues to improve, this type of gag-inducing, inappropriate behavior will only increase in frequency.  And speaking of socios-exual politics...

Passion
Classic Stage Company
Saturday, April 6, 3pm

I was giddy as an 11-year-old girl at a One Direction concert as I waited outside the CSC to see another one of my straight-crush (sorry Audra and Carolee), musical theatre idols, Judy Kuhn, perform the lead role in Passion.  I hadn't seen her live on-stage since my senior year in high school (gulp - 25 years ago!), in my first Broadway musical, Les Miserables.

Trish, cursed with bad subway karma, nearly missed the show.  But thanks to the traffic Gods and plain dumb luck, she ditched the subway, jumped into a cab and with two minutes to spare pulled up in front of the theatre.  We managed to take our seats just in time for the dimming house lights.

I'm happy to report that Ms. Kuhn did not disappoint this aging theatre queen.  She gives a subtle and almost - almost - sympathetic portrayal of the obsessive Fosca.  I mean, really, as written, even a brilliant performance by Mother Theresa would not likely produce a completely sympathetic Fosca.

Ms. Kuhn sounds gorgeous and teases the audience with the strategic use of her now signature Florence Vassy belt.  Otherwise, her singing is beautifully controlled and buttery smooth.  And you can never have too much butter according to Ms. Paula Deen.

The intimate configuration of CSC is optimal for this nearly sung-through chamber piece.  Having seen the original Broadway mounting of the show, it seems the actors necessarily needed to amplify their performances to fill the larger house.  The result was exaggerated performances that bordered on garish caricature.  In a small house, the actor's can be more "real" and thus the idea of the handsome and hunky Giorgio (Ryan Silverman) falling for the plain and sickly (rather than hideous and witch-y a la Donna Murphy) Fosca, doesn't seem so far-fetched.

I'm not sure if it's the staging or the actor (probably a combination of both), but in CSC's production, Passion is definitely Giorgio's journey of self-discovery.  On Broadway, Donny Murphy's unrelenting Fosca anchored the production.  It was all about her manipulation, consciously or not.  With the emphasis distributed more evenly between the three main characters, the story becomes less about Fosca's hot bag of crazy and more about the nature and meaning of love.

Though I'm still not quite convinced of the show's premise, this scaled down, intimate production presents a much more successful case for a show that had originally divided critics (as well as Sondheim fans).  What was downright laughable on a Broadway stage, now plays like the over-zealous behavior of a lonely woman.

Shout out to Orville Mendoza who is representin' the Pinoys as Sargeant Lombardi.  I had a the pleasure of sharing the stage with him in NAATCO's Off-Broadway production of Antigone several seasons back.  Between shows we had an impromptu reunion at Momofuku Milk Bar down the street from the theatre, where we noshed on cereal milk frozen yogurt and candy bar pie.  We also got to hear some show gossip, but I can't divulge that in writing.  You'll have to ask me about that in person. 

I also kept waiting to bump into Ms. Kuhn on the street so I could embarrass Trish by insisting on a private concert.  Well, actually, I would probably just hold Ms. Kuhn down until she agreed to belt out the lines "how high does the sycamore grow" and "I don't seeeeeeeee, a reason too be lonely."  If you aren't familiar with either of those phrases you should be immediately banned from Broadway and punished for your ignorance by having all the music on your iPod replaced with Sarah Brightman's version of "Think of Me" on an endless loop.

And Judy, if you're reading this, please reconsider that restraining order.

A double dose of Porgy and Audra...um, I mean Bess, and quick thoughts on Leap of Faith

My unholy obsession with Audra McDonald continues.  Not only have I already seen the current revival of Porgy and Bess twice, but twice within three days!!  Yes, I'm practically a stalker.  I'm not even kidding.  Just ask Trish about my strange and elaborate plan for Audra's performance at my funeral.  There won't be a dry eye in St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Given this obsession, you should take anything I say in this review with a grain of salt, because I would never, ever say anything negative about the lovely Audra.  And thanks to TDF, I was able to get a double dose of that luminous voice last week.

The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess
Richard Rodgers Theatre
Tuesday, May 15 @ 7pm
Thursday, May 17 @ 8pm

Given Sondheim's scathing letter to The New York Times flaming Audra and director Diane Paulus for thinking they could "improve" Gershwin's masterpiece, I had mixed feelings going into the theatre.  Besides Audra, Sondheim is the other musical theatre icon I blindly worship.  Would this little tiff cause me to make the ultimate Sophie's choice?  Thankfully, no. 

The controversy surrounding the revival has since died down.  Paulus and team dropped the most radical of the talked about changes (an added happy ending), opting instead for the less radical addition of dialogue in place of the recitative.

Originally, I was going to first-act the show Tuesday night, thinking I'd sit through the whole thing on Thursday with Trish and Chris Grimm (our Billy Bigelow in Carousel who I was taking as a graduation gift - congrats!).  But I was in tears (in a good way) after "Bess, You Is My Woman" and I couldn't bring myself to leave at intermission.

Hearing those legit voices singing that romantic Gershwin score only made me long for the days before the American Idol-ization of Broadway, when gorgeous, trained voices could impress without riffing and screeching their way through a score.

And for those who thinks classic musicals are old fashioned and quaint, well, they obviously don't have a clue.  How many shows in the past twenty years include two gruesome on-stage murders, an extended rape sequence, a main character who's a slut and a drug addict and a not-so-happy ending? 

For Broadway standards, the singing is impeccable.  It's not opera caliber, but you'll likely never hear that quality of singing on a Broadway stage ever again.  The ensemble sound is gorgeous and the harmonies are breathtaking. Thank you again, George Gershwin.

The acting is also first rate.  Which only makes me wonder why other shows can't be cast with better singers.  Usually, the argument is that the director chooses an actor who sings over a singing actor, presuming that someone with an incredibly beautiful voice probably can't act with equal proficiency.  But that didn't seem to be an issue in this case.  So what's the deal, casting directors?!

Audra, of course, is glorious and should already make room on her bookshelf for a fifth Tony.  Norm Lewis, besides being the nicest guy on Broadway (he met me once years ago and will still stop and greet me by name whenever I run into him on the street) sounds better than ever and his character's transformation from vulnerable cripple to courageous hero is impressive.

Like me, Chris and Trish were in tears throughout, as was most of the audience.  With the exception of the recent revival of The Normal Heart and the first 10 minutes of The Lion King, I have not seen anything on Broadway more moving or thrilling. 

My only complaint would be with the sound design.  Though the orchestra is large by Broadway standards, it sounds thin and tinny through the house speakers and doesn't match the lush vocals coming from the stage.  And though I'm usual fine with a minimalist esthetic when it comes to set design, I don't think this production benefits from a stripped down approach, especially in the picnic scene.  A big white, sheet and a a sad, little bush?  That's the best you could come up with?  Oh well, I guess that's two complaints.  Who cares, Audra's in it!

Leap of Faith
St. James Theatre
Thursday, April 12, 8pm performance

I must be getting less critical in my old age, because I actually liked Leap of Faith.  Yes, it opened and closed in a hot second and the reviews were unanimous pans, but I enjoyed myself.

It's not a classic by any standards, but the story was engaging, the music was fun and it had a wonderful cast.  Trust me, I've seen Dance of the Vampires, High Fidelity, Nick & Nora and Lestat - I know bad. 

I think LOF may have suffered from premature show-jaculation.  That's not a technical term, by the way, I just made it up.  Instead of taking time to really work out the kinks and fine tune the book and score after its initial out of town tryout, they decided to rush into production months early because the St. James opened up (thanks to the forgettable On A Clear Day... revival's early closing).

Though Menken's score isn't on par with his early Disney days, he knows how to write a catchy tune and how to make a power ballad land.  He understands how a show tune needs to develop and how it works dramatically within the structure of a musical.  These are skills missing from much of the current pop music crossover artists who, though I applaud their ambition, don't really care to learn the history or fundamentals of theatre composing.  By definition, innovation requires understanding of what has come before.  I'm all for change, but why repeat the mistakes of your predecessors out of ignorance?

Anyway, off my high horse. 

As has been written in many of the reviews, the story generously borrows from The Music Man and 110 in the Shade.  This didn't really bother me, because the setting and period change were enough of a twist to keep me interested. 

Raul Esparza is in his regular intense-but-tyring-not-to-seem-intense mode.  He's probably not ideal for the role (I'd have gone Brian d'Arcy James or even Eric McCormack for some star power.  Can Bradley Cooper sing?  Hmmmm?) but he's always consistently great.  As Esparza's love interest, Jessica Phillips is a great match vocally and has a sincerity and warmth that was totally missing from her performance in Priscilla (maybe her awful Australian accent was the culprit).  As Esparza's stage sister, Kendra Kassebaum adds a likability factor to a somewhat under-written character. 

If the show can overcome the stigma of its quick Broadway demise, I can see it being a staple at the regional houses.

I'd go "straight" for Audra McDonald...

Well, as long as she'd agree to an open relationship.  There are certain lines even I won't cross.  And I've crossed many - don't ask.

As expected, Ms. McDonald looked and sounded glorious at her Carnegie Hall recital Saturday night, a coming home of sorts after abandoning the East Coast for TV land.  I forgive her.  Although I would have at least be-dazzled that shoulder strap or added a big, shiny necklace to that gown.  But I'm being petty, which is what we gays do best.

Backed by a chamber orchestra and jazz trio, she performed for nearly two intermissionless hours, casually bantering between numbers and making the huge auditorium feel cozy and intimate.

She stirred the crowd into a frenzy by opening with "I Happen to Like New York", had us nodding in knowing laughter with selections from "Craigslistlieder" (and me hoping I wouldn't be assaulted by one of my own ads) and stiffling back tears with the 9/11-themed "I'll Be Here" from Adam Gwon's new musical, Ordinary Days. 

Audra should run for president of the world.  Why?  Her audience was the most diverse group I've seen anywhere - gay/straight, black/white, old/young, hip/conservative.  She could unite the world through showtunes (that might possibly be the gayest sentence I've ever typed).

I haven't been to Carnegie Hall in years and though the steep rake is wonderful for sightlines, those steps into the balcony are crazy tall.  There should at least be a warning at the top of the stairs.  I almost fell forward and rolled right down off the balcony.  I can just picture it raining little old ladies in the orchestra section.

Luckily, I'll be able to fuel my Audra obsession at least through next year with her Broadway return in Porgy and Bess this winter and at her NJPAC concert on April 20.  Buy your tickets now!

I've linked to the NY Times review which goes into more detail about her set list. 

Carnegie Hall

Saturday, October 22

8pm performance

Collard Greens, Bernadette Peters, Drunk Gays and Cancer

What a weekend.  NYC had a summer flashback with temperatures in the 80s (yay, aerosol cans!).  It was the perfect weather for fulfilling comfort food cravings and seeing the incredible Broadway revival of Follies.  Again!  I know, I’m obsessed.  

We decided to try our luck at TKTS Saturday morning, but they only had extreme side seats available.  Even at half price (actually 40% off this particular performance), I’m not spending three hours watching bored chorus girls yawn in the stage right wing.  If that makes me a theatre snob, so be it.  No matter, like any true addict, I was determined to find a way to get my Follies fix even if it meant resorting to theft, murder or even - gasp! - prostitution.  Well, maybe not murder. 

We detoured a few blocks south to the Marquis Theatre and asked the box office attendant if there were any full-priced seats available for the matinee.  “Row F, center orchestra,” he smiled seductively, dangling that Follies crack pipe in my face.  Crap.  If he had said ‘last row mezzanine,’ I could walk away.  But my addict instinct kicked in.  My hands started itching and my forehead broke out in a cold sweat, paranoid that I’d never get to experience that Sondheim high again.  The desire was too strong.  I blindly handed over my credit card.  Like any junkie, I promised myself this would be the last time. 

We had a few hours to kill before the performance so we decided to try Shake Shack’s new midtown location.  It was still before noon so surely we’d beat the regular lunch time mob.  The line didn’t snake out the door and down the block as it usual does, but the dining room was standing room only prompting my newest pet peeve - people who refuse to give up their table after they’ve finished eating, laughing and lazily lounging as if they’re out at a fucking Hampton's country club, ignoring the hungry, tray-clutching throngs standing around them.  I can understand not wanting to eat and run, but sitting and nursing your empty cups after the dining room attendant has already completely cleared and wiped down your table is a little ridiculous.  Thankfully, a vacationing Australian couple graciously offered to share their table with us. 

This was my first Shake Shack burger and I must admit the burger lives up to the hype.  With one bite, my pent up rage aimed at those selfish table-hoggers subsided, replaced by the obscene pleasure - and accompanying grunts and sighs - that only a perfectly cooked bovine patty can produce.  We topped off our perfect burger with peanut butter milkshakes made with Shake Shack’s famous frozen custard.  Heart attack be damned!

We still had some time to kill, so we took a leisurely walk up to Worldwide Plaza for some sun and people watching.  How can you tell the temperature in NYC has peaked 80 degrees?  The gays are out in full force, armed with MacBooks and Starbucks grande iced caramel lattes and sporting the official Chelsea summer outfit of flip flops, khaki shorts and flimsy tank top.  Is it really October? 

I won’t go into too much detail since I just reviewed Follies a couple of weeks ago.  It really is just sensational, with every performance heartbreakingly honest.  Bernadette was in excellent voice (she seemed vocally tired on last viewing) and it seems she’s learned to maneuver through her break.  Jan Maxwell’s Phyllis remains the steely core of this production, her cathartic “Could I Leave You?” one of many highlights in the second act.  Ron Raines’ sumptuous baritone is like a little slice of vocal heaven.  Danny Burstein is so charming and sympathetic that you actually root for his adulterous husband.  And Rosalind Elias’ duet with her younger self evokes tears and an instant, wild ovation from the audience.  Imagine that - nearly stopping a show with an operetta-inspired aria.  Maybe Broadway audiences aren’t as stupidly puerile as I thought.  Then again, Mamma Mia! is still packing ‘em in at the Winter Garden.

But perhaps the most moving part of the show?  Experiencing this production with the weepy, emotional (and I think drunk) older gay gentleman sitting next to us.  In charming jacket and bow-tie, Charles (yes, that was his name, he introduced himself) wept, laughed, muttered “divine” and “brilliant” under his breath, screamed “brava” at every possible opportunity and generally had the time of his life.  Literally.  With tears streaming down his face in an almost instant standing ovation he exclaimed, “This is the greatest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”  I know, he sounds like he would be totally annoying, but he was so genuinely moved that you couldn’t help but smile and be charmed.

How do you top an afternoon of Follies and Shake Shack?  With an uplifting movie about cancer, of course!  We met Trish’s friend, Billy, after the show and headed to the Regal E-Walk on 42^nd Street to see “50/50”.  You should all buy your tickets now.  I won’t spoil it, but by the end, all three of us were reaching for a Kleenex - simply divine, as Charles would say.

Billy came over after the movie and stayed until 3 AM obsessing over his newest beau, a handsome young doctor.  Some people have all the luck.  Doc is apparently “the One,” so what can you do but nod your head and pretend to listen while you’re actually jealously fantasizing about the millionaire Abercrombie & Fitch model/helicopter pilot you’ll meet on the subway platform on the way to work on Monday morning when you drop your newspaper and he drops his portfolio and you accidentally bump your foreheads causing you to fall into each others arms, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, instantly falling in love, get married on a beach in Positano, buy a weekend home in Colorado and adopt two labradoodle puppies named Dolce and Gabbana.  Yes, I have a vivid fantasy life.  Anyway…

After a Sunday morning spent dozing in bed, Trish and I got our lazy asses up and headed to Harlem for a garden party.  The first thing you think of when you hear “Harlem” is likely not “garden party,” but the nabe’s cleaned up since the 80s and the white faces you see uptown aren’t necessarily lost tourists or drug addicts (though they might be). 

Jill, a family friend who also happens to manage opera singers, rented an apartment in a Harlem brownstone for the week while in NYC attending some seminars at the Met.  Guests have access to a private garden in the back.  The party was supposed to have been a networking event for Jill’s clients, but they all canceled at the last minute.  I’m not surprised.  Opera singers are some flaky individuals.  Must be all those vibrating sound waves shaking up the cerebrum.  Val and Juan drove in from NJ for the “event” so at least there was a group of us on hand to take back all the left over wine and cheese.

A block from Jill’s apartment and just down the street from Red Rooster, we noticed the signage for Sylvia’s, the famous soul food restaurant.  In an effort to salvage our little Harlem field trip, Trish and I decided to stop for some southern treats before jumping the M60 bus back to Queens.  The temperature was still hanging in the mid-70s so we grabbed a table out front and dined al fresco on fried chicken, BBQ ribs, collard greens, garlic mashed potatoes, mac and cheese and fried catfish fingers.  You know, just something light and healthy.  Incidentally, Sylvia's serves real southern sweet tea, made with simple syrup - not that tasteless brown water NYC restaurants pass off as iced tea. 

Collard greens, Bernadette Peters, drunk gays, cancer and Harlem garden parties - just your typical New York weekend. 

zombies and drag queens

After exiting the Met Opera House at 11:55 PM Monday night following their new five-and-a-half-hour production of Die Walküre, I couldn’t bear the thought of then sitting through a four-hour play.  So the next day I reluctantly called the Public box office and told them they could sell my fifth row center orchestra ticket for that evening’s performance of Kushner’s new play, “The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism With a Key to the Scriptures” - doesn’t exactly scream light-hearted family fun, does it?    

Normally, I would have sucked it up and forced myself to attend both marathon performances, but Kushner isn’t exactly Neil Simon.  And given the fact that significant brain cell wattage had been expended in the last 24 hours digesting Wagner’s gorgeous but musically dense score, I was in no mood for challenging, political theatre, no matter how brilliant. 

Instead, I stayed home and caught up on the last few episodes of my favorite reality show, RuPaul’s Drag Race.  Those queens are downright hilarious (and terrifying)!  And that’s just what I needed, some brainless lip-synching fun with a couple of bitches. 

I’ll still get to catch that “Intelligent Homo” later in the month.  As a member of the Public, I can post date my ticket and show up on another evening as long as they’re not sold out.  Membership has its privileges!

Die Walküre

Metropolitan Opera House

6:30pm performance

I guess I should talk about the Wagner.  Well, it was really, really long.  Not that I have a problem with that, but after a nine-hour work day, I wasn’t exactly at my best mentally.  I admit the nearly two-hour first act almost put me to sleep.  Not because it was boring per se, but because I was so darn tired.  I quick $5 brownie from the concession stand got my blood sugar levels back up.

The much talked about 16 million dollar production with its 45 ton set piece is impressive at first sight, but the novelty wears as the opera progresses.  The hulking piece of metal just isn’t that flexible and is surprisingly monotonous visually.  Yes, it moves and twists and you can project on it, but it’s not until the third act, with the flight of the Valkyries, that director Robert Lepage realizes the full potential of his bulky giant.  It’s here we get to see the sisters “ride” the over-sized planks like horses and then slide down their “necks.”  Until then, the structure just sort of sits there.  Perhaps he has some surprises in store for us in parts three and four of the cycle?  We shall wait and see next season.

The singing was some of the best I’ve heard on that stage in some time.  I’ve gotten used to listening carefully to the smaller lyric voices that often get swallowed up in the huge Met barn.  But it was a pleasure to hear full, dramatic voices fill that immense auditorium.  The hottie tenor, Jonas Kaufmann, sounded especially good as Siegmund, his unusually dark voice sounding downright baritone-ish in mid register.  His sister-lover-wife, Sieglinde, performed by Eva-Maria Westbroek, was a good match with a similarly thick, dark sound. 

I cannot say enough about Stephanie Blythe’s Fricka.  See her in anything if you get a chance.  That voice is just magnificent.  Terfel was solid if a little stiff as Wotan, though his voice is just gorgeous to listen to (get his Rodgers & Hammerstein CD, Something Wonderful, like buttah!). 

I was on the fence about Deborah Voigt’s Brünnhilde.  I’ve seen her perform before the gastric bypass and I have to say, I think she’s lost some of the richness in her voice.  Her top seemed a bit shrill to me, though her mid register still has the warmth I remember.  Or perhaps she needed the second act to warm up?  - because it seemed the quality of her voice bloomed a bit more in the third act.

Oh well, I’m glad I saw it but have no real desire for a second visit.  Although I’ll likely catch parts three and four next season given my completist mentality.  Or is that just my OCD kicking in again?

On a side note, my good friend, Chris, was speaking to an actor friend of his who mentioned he was going to be a supernumerary at the Met in “some opera called ‘Die, (as in “death”) Walker.’”  --  Actors are so pretty but so dumb.  Or as Chris commented - sounds like a great title for a zombie opera.  Get on that John Adams (the composer, of course, not our deceased second President). 

Le Comte Ory and burgers

Metropolitan Opera

Thursday, April 19

8pm perfermance

This is probably a dream cast for opera lovers.  Seriously, without another historical resurrection, Juan Diego Florez, Diana Damrau and Joyce DiDonato are as good as it gets.  As an added bonus, all three can actually (insert audible gasp here) act.   Unfortunately, the opera itself is sort of a mess. 

Bartlett Sher’s created and directed a stylish production and Catherine Zuber’s costumes show off some dazzling cleavage, but the story hobbles along in fits and starts due to an incredibly convoluted plot (even by opera standards).  When the lead trio of hams - in a good way - get to show off their coloratura and their comedic chops, the show whizzes along.  Otherwise, it’s slow going.  Though I never dozed off, I did find myself on more than one occasion drifting to thoughts of post-performance meal options.  But soon enough, I’d get slapped back to attention by an effortless high C or some other vocal feat.

The first act trio and ensemble that introduces us to Damrau’s character is the performance highlight, with all three singing actors at their best.  I truly suspect when this enters the rep with singers of less comparable acting skills, the opera will be a deadly, but pretty, bore.

My only “WTF” moment was the bed scene at the end of act two where Damrau and DiDonato (as a man) pull the old Cyrano trick, except with full body contact.  I understand the difficulty in staging this scene and yes, we’re expected to suspend our disbelief, but Ory is one horny bastard if he’s so turned on that he can’t figure out he’s in bed with two people, one of whom also has penis.  I mean, imagine if a counter tenor played the pants role?  That would be some truly non-traditional staging for the conservative Met.  Though my guess is that Florez would not be so open to a bout of tonsil hockey or dry humping from a dude, even for the sake of comedy.

The other highlight of the evening was the Cadillac burger at P.J. Clarke’s following the performance.  I only had a bite from Trish’s burger, but is was delish. 

I can’t wait to catch part two of the Met’s Die Walküre next month.  I’m still kicking myself for forgetting about my ticket to the sold out first part, Das Rheingold, last month.  Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid (picture me slapping myself on the forehead with the open palm of my hand).

Tenors...

“The reason tenors sound so good is that they have resonance where most people have brains.”

- Anna Russell (below), comedianne