The day my dog ate a mixing bowl

Happy (almost) New Year, opera buddies!

I considered taking the week off from my weekly postings on this space, but I find I'm consumed with the paranoid feeling that if I ever skip a week, no one will ever come back and keep reading. Yes, I need one of those pop psychology books about self-esteem, I'll grant you that...

So here's my compromise: instead of blogging about matters operatic, I shall relate an anecdote having nothing to do with denizens of the opera zoo, or even music for that matter.

Agatha: canine cookie monster

Gather around, children, and your kindly Uncle Blogger will tell you about the time my dog ate a mixing bowl. And yes: you heard me right - the actual bowl, in addition to the stuff in said bowl.

The dog in question was the late great Agatha Winters, my little reddish-gold Sheltie mix who was our household pet for a good fifteen-plus years until she succumbed to old age in 1998. She was a friendly little thing, smart and humanized in the way of house-dogs that live indoors around people. She was pretty musical, actually; my wife, a vocal coach and accompanist, had a lot of singers coming to our house for rehearsals or coachings in those days. Agatha was not above joining in on a rendition of Musetta's Waltz with a visiting soprano, though her voice was beset with a host of technical shortcomings. Inadequate training in her youth, no doubt.

Her one quirk was an intense fear of heights - simply hopping off a bed produced dramatic trembling and hesitation before committing to the leap. A vet pointed out that she was cross-eyed, leaving her with no depth perception. When jumping off any raised surface she couldn't tell how far down the floor was, poor puppy.

But on to the anecdote. There came a day when Agatha was maybe four or five years old that my wife (That's Mrs. Humble Blogger to you) and I had a yen for home-made oatmeal cookies. There were only the two of us in those days, so the small-sized pyrex mixing bowl was sufficient to hold the sticky cookie dough.

As the oven pre-heated, we decided to splurge on some butterscotch chips and went on a quick reconnaisance mission to the supermarket, just a mile and a half down the road. We left the bowl of cookie dough on the kitchen table. Agatha was in her basket by the refrigerator, having supervised the process of mixing the ingredients with an interested eye.

We were gone - what? - twelve minutes, tops. Upon our return, we beheld the following tableau:

• The mixing bowl was now on the floor.
• There was no dough anywhere; just a greasy sheen on the floor where it had fallen.
• The remnants of the bowl consisted of two large-ish glass shards, enough to account for no more than two-thirds of the entire bowl.
• Agatha lay prone in her basket. Her eyes were glassy, staring straight ahead in dazed misery. Her mouth was open, tongue hanging out. Her belly was distended as if she was about to give birth to a small pony.

Agatha's total affect said, clearly and eloquently, "I am a very bad dog. I don't know why I did that. Please have mercy on me and shoot me in the head. I. d.o.n.'t. f.e.e.l. g.o.o.d."

It did not require Sherlock Holmes-level deduction to grasp the reality that our naughty dog had somehow knocked the bowl onto the floor, where it had smashed into two large pieces, plus some smaller shatterings mixed in the the cookie dough.

Gilda the Wonder-Beagle

In her crazed cookie-lust and greed, she had gobbled everything down, glass fragments and dough alike.

Naturally, fearing the worst, I called the vet, who was remarkably sanguine about Agatha's plight. In a tone suggesting I was the eighth person reporting this same problem that day, he said, "Don't bother bringing her in here. One of two things will happen. Either the glass will shred her internal organs before you could possibly get here, OR..."

"Yes?" I thought breathlessly.

"Or", he continued, "the cookie dough will coat the pieces of glass and she'll just pass them out harmlessly."

The darn dog lived another ten years.

I swear to you that every detail of this story actually happened exactly as I've described: no "lily-gilding", no elaboration, no hyperbole. Word. The dog ate glass.

Come to think of it, the drama of that memorable afternoon was kind of operatic!

Happy New Year from your Humble Blogger and his current dog, Gilda the Wonder-Beagle. We'll be back next week with opera stuff as per usual. Well, I will be; Gilda doesn't care for opera. She'll be napping.

Camelot: when May was semi-lusty

Virginia Opera hasn't been in the musical theater business for several years, but the 2012-2013 season sees us diving back in head-first with two classic productions: Rogers & Hammerstein's Carousel in May, and Lerner & Loewe's Camelot coming soon in January.

"The Lusty Month of May" Evanston High School, 1968

I've had personal experience with both shows. In the late 1980's I music-directed a college production of Carousel, an experience I'll be blogging about on these pages a few months from now. But here my subject is the musical about Arthur, Guenevere and her bari-hunk boyfriend Lancelot. As it happens, Camelot was my introduction to the theater world, as a member of the chorus for Evanston Township High School's spring production in 1968,

All teen-agers go through a period of rebellion. For many, it's experimenting with drugs, alcohol or sex. For some, it's joining a street gang or indulging in petty crime.

For me, it was auditioning for a show.  Wild child, yup, that's your Humble Blogger...

You must understand, I had spent the first 15 years of my life with my fanny plastered to a piano bench, drilling Hanon, Czerny, Beethoven, Chopin and others into my fingers. My childhood, apart from schoolwork and the normal quotient of TV shows, was largely made up of hours of practicing, weekly lessons, and a succession of keyboard competitions and recitals.



 Leslie Fox Pai today: still "all that"

So as a geeky, socially-underdeveloped sophomore at ETHS in Evanston, Illinois, I was unable to resist the siren song of music theater. And when I saw that I had been chosen for the chorus, clutching my mimeographed copy of the rehearsal schedule in trembling fingers, I experienced a thrill that ignited a lifelong passion for music theater and its cousin, grand opera. You'd have thought that I was starring in a Hollywood film or making my debut on Broadway itself; so glamorous and exciting did this venture appear to me.

This was the 1960's remember; Camelot was still a fairly new show, having premiered on Broadway in 1960. The Richard Harris-Vanessa Redgrave film version had only been released in 1967. We were being oh-so-contemporary and "happening", baby! And what a production it was - the theater department pulled out all the stops: there were two casts, including - get this - a double-cast chorus. The lavish costumes cost ten thousand dollars, a suitably royal sum in 1968.

When my thoughts turn to that long-ago production, the first image that comes to mind is the one I'm sharing with you in this post. It's a memory that causes my adult self to smile ruefully but compassionately at my awkward teen-aged self. And it has to do with Guinevere's perky number from Act I The Lusty Month of May, the scene in which she is first introduced to the newest knight of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot.

It's a lively, frivolous number with whimsical lyrics having to do with , er, *cough cough*...

...sex...

Tra la! It's May!
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when ev'ryone goes
Blissfully astray.
Tra la! It's here!
That shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts
Merrily appear!
It's May! It's May!
That gorgeous holiday
When ev'ry maiden prays that her lad
Will be a cad!
It's mad! It's gay!
A libelous display!
Those dreary vows that ev'ryone takes,
Ev'ryone breaks.
Ev'ryone makes divine mistakes
The lusty month of May!
(source: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/c/camelotlyrics/lustymonthofmaylyrics.html)

Naturally, we members of the chorus were plunked around the stage in boy-girl pairings while Lynn Kearney (the Guenevere in my performances) warbled prettily, waiting to pipe in harmoniously on the refrains. But of course, the number would fall flat if we just sat on our duffs staring at our Queen; it's the job of the director to get the chorus members to look engaged; to keep things lively; in a word, to act.

Our stage director, William Ditton, made no bones about his intention for the chorus "business". Young Glenn listened somewhat aghast as Mr. Ditton told us to - how should I say it? - make out with our partners. "Really go for it, ladies and gentlement", he said (or words to that effect), "I want to see some passionate hugging and kissing from you guys. Okay?"

Now, with these instructions in mind, bear in mind the following factors:

• I, Glenn Winters, having been (as mentioned above) the prisoner of the piano prior to this moment, had never been on a date. At all. Ever. Did I like girls? Oh yes, brother, but from the position of "worshipping from afar".
• My partner was a radiant, impossibly drop-dead beautiful girl named Leslie Fox. Leslie was blessed with a gorgeous mane of red hair, a lovely face and bushel-basketsful of poise and elegance  She was the type of girl who would logically date the captain of the varsity football team. Let's sum up: she was the product of a first-class gene pool, and could have dropped out of school to pursue modeling had she chosen. She was, to use a phrase not yet coined in 1968, "all that". 

Oy.

I was p.e.t.r.i.f.i.e.d. of this girl. Make out with her?!? I was afraid to LOOK at her! Seriously, I don't have any memory of my bony, scrawny self even daring to make eye contact with her during rehearsals or performances. Kiss a girl in front of all those people? THIS girl? You're kidding me, right? Mr. Ditton might as well have asked me to parachute from an airplane or run with the bulls in Pamplona.

Of course, we choristers had also been bidden to smile, smile, smile during the number. It is the curse of amateur choruses that they tend to go through their paces with frozen faces devoid of affect, resembling hostages or prisoners on death row. So my most vivid memory of Camelot consists of the following tableau during opening night's performance of Lusty Month:

The stage lights shine down blindingly, making the audience difficult to see through the glare. Lynn Kearney is singing her heart out in her best Julie Andrews persona. I, Glenn Winters, have my mouth stretched in a crazed, frozen grin making the Cheshire Cat look like the Mona Lisa. My right cheek, straining to hold the expression, develops a twitch that I can't quiet. While other chorus members are necking in near R-rated frenzy (or so I choose to believe), I have three or four fingers tentatively perched on Leslie's left shoulder, with a good twelve inches of empty space separating us. I keep my eyes focused on the glare of the lights, singing for all I'm worth.

Hoo-boy!

Leslie deserved better. What must she have been thinking? To her credit, she exhibited no impatience or inclination to ridicule; she sat there, doing her best, tolerating my shyness with good grace. Through the wonder of social media, I've made contact with her in the last couple of years. She accepted my" apology" for my hopeless helplessness of all those years ago with good humor. 

And she's clearly still "all that". Tra la, yo!

"The List": What's in and out for 2013

Renée and Sondra? Renée needs to lose the beard...

You never know, as a blogger, which posts will attract a handful of page-views, and which will go viral. At least, this blogger has yet to get a handle on it. However, certain trends do start to start to pierce the fog of my distracted brain over time, such as these:

• Top 10 lists are pretty popular. (Thanks, Dave!!)
• People seem to like posts of the "rant" variety; you know - griping, complaining, generally venting on pet peeves, irritants and things that drive me crazy.
• On the other hand, insightful, penetrating musico-dramatic analyses of operatic masterworks (in other words, what I'm supposedly good at) reliably fall into the "read by my wife and a handful of opera geeks" category... <sigh> 

And then there was last year's post of "The List" for 2012, the premise of which was to duplicate the Washington Post's annual tabulation of what's "in" and "out" in American culture, but focusing (naturally) on the opera world at large.

Wow, you liked that - a lot! No, not as much as my tirade-rant about child prodigies (which continues to draw 1,000 views a month and was the subject of a column in Forbes), but still pretty good for an opera blog.

So, bowing to the ancient principle of supply and demand, here we go! Grab a cup of joe, put your feet up, and wallow in the second annual edition of:

"The List": What's in and out for 2013

OUT: "Gran dio!!"
IN: "Errmergerd..."

OUT: Four annual productions at Virginia Opera
IN: Five annual productions at Virginia Opera plus bonus shows this season and next.

OUT: Spectrum Resident Artist Program at Virginia Opera
IN: Emerging Artist Program at Virginia Opera

OUT: James Levine playing computer solitaire while watching reruns of "Law & Order: SVU"
IN: James Levine conducting operas at the Met

OUT: Fabio Luisi as heir apparent to take over permanently for Levine at the Met
IN: Fabio Luisi as dedicated Music Director of Zurich Opera, with occasional Met moonlighting

OUT: James Levine perceived as a slouching, barely conscious robot on cruise control at the podium
IN: James Levine perceived as masterful sculptor of variegated, luscious, world-class orchestral color

OUT: Rolando Villazon as the Albert Pujols of opera (i.e. superstar big bopper tenor)
IN: Rolando Villazon as the Peyton Manning of opera (i.e. trying for post-surgical comeback)

OUT: Lyric Opera of Virginia
IN: Virginia Opera as "the" official opera company of the Commonwealth; as always.

OUT: Peter Mark as Virginia Opera's competitor at Lyric Opera of Virginia
IN: Peter Mark as Virginia Opera's Artistic Director Emeritus

OUT: The Enchanted Island as the Met's "Big Premiere Thing"
IN: The Tempest as theMet's "Big Premiere Thing"

OUT: Renée Fleming as opera's "It Girl" and leading lyric soprano
IN: Sondra Radvanovsky as opera's "It Girl" and leading lyric soprano

OUT: Robert Lepage's Ring cycle being anticipated with excited anticipation; "Cirque de Soleil Meets the Met".
IN: Robert Lepage's Ring cycle as bruised, battered recipient of reviewes ranging from scathing to scornful for its creaking, unreliable set, silly mechanical horse and lack of directorial vision.

OUT: Jay Hunter Morris, anonymous journeyman opera singer
IN: Jay Hunter Morris, star Wagnerian tenor

OUT: The Metropolitan Opera House as 20th-century dinosaur with outmoded sub-par technology
IN: The Metropolitan Opera House as a 21st-century facility with sixty million dollars' worth of planned computerized renovations.

OUT: Chicago Lyric Opera as the home of standard operas by Mozart, Verdi, Puccini and the like.
IN: Chicago Lyric Opera as the home of mariachi opera. ¡Olé!


My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com

Hey opera characters: Santa didn't forget you!

Santa Claus: big, big opera fan, as it turns out. What, that surprises you? What kind of music did you think they play at the North Pole all year long; Christmas music? After two months of carols, aren't you about ready to throw up? Santa's no different, amigo. He and the elves like to chillax to the sweet, sweet strains of Italian bel canto.

So Santa likes to make a little extra room in his gi-normous sack of presents for a few trinkets he saves for your favorite opera characters.

Okay, they may not be literally your "favorites"; they were the characters for whom I could think up gags, if you must know.

All righty! Let's see what Santa is leaving under the tree for the "support from the diaphragm" crowd, shall we?

The Commendatore (from Don Giovanni): a kevlar vest. Santa wants to even the playing field in your duel in Act I.

Werther (suicidal hero in Massenet's opera): a membership in eHarmony. Santa thinks you need to get out there and meet some other girls.

Falstaff (ne'er-do-well title character in Verdi's opera): a membership in Jenny Craig. Dude, try a salad once in a while. Santa says your cholesterol level is "naughty".

Gilda (the love-struck maiden from Rigoletto): cell phone number for Donna Elvira, Don Giovanni's ex. Santa thinks you need to chat with her about the consequences of obsessing over the wrong man.

Tristan (Isolde's main squeeze): an antidote. Santa thinks you'll be happier with a non-drug-induced romance.

Frosch (jailer from Die Fledermaus): a couple of silicone ear plugs for when Alfred bursts into song. Santa says there's no reason to suffer, and your bit in Act III needs to be tightened up; it's running a little long.



For Desdemona

Desdemona (from Otello): a DVD of "The Burning Bed" with Farrah Fawcett. Santa thinks she needs to be your new role model, sweetie; when your man turns abusive it's time to take control of the situation.

Hansel and Gretel: a couple of years in scouting, and a compass. Santa thinks your wilderness survival skills are pretty lame.

Jenůfa: a plastic surgeon. Santa sees no reason for you to go through life with that thing on your face.

Stéphano (the page in Romeo & Juliette): ten years of sessions with a shrink. Santa suspects you're going to have a hard time dealing with the fact that your stupid smartass song about a turtledove got two men killed. Good job! Can you say "guilt trip"?

They'd take a bullet for Riccardo. Or Gustavo. Whoever.

Riccardo/Gustavo (from either version of Un Ballo in Maschera): a security detail. Santa thinks it's odd that you're the governor/king, and yet you go out in public with no bodyguards. Wise up, dude. You want a few goons wearing dark glasses and packing some serious heat around you.

Wowkle (Indian squaw from The Girl of the Golden West) two semesters paid tuition for "English as a Second Language" at your local high school. Santa may have his reindeer trample you if you say "ugh" one more time.

Dr. Dulcamara (pitch-man from L'Elisir d'amore) an updated product line. Santa claims you would make a good sales rep for ExtenZe, that modern-day herbal supplement for "natural male enhancement". Once Nemorino actually lands Adina, he'll want to feel confident, right? Right!

Radames (from Aida) an attorney. Santa thinks you're carrying that "you have the right to remain silent" thing a little too far, but definitely keep quiet until legal counsel shows up. This trial is a JOKE, dude.

Go ahead, Fricka - kick the tires! Take her for a test drive!

Fricka (Wotan's wife in Die Walkuere): permission to borrow Santa's sleigh and reindeer team during the post-Christmas off season. You're the wife of a god, for Pete's sake: you look ridiculous in your little wagon with a male sheep pulling it along. Time to upgrade. Just have it back by Halloween, okay? You know how early the holidays begin these days...

The entire cast of Il Trovatore: Uh-oh, bad news: Santa is stumped. Y'all are pretty much goners. Ain't nothing gonna make those spirits bright, including dashing through any snow.

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com

Top 10 Ways the Tough Economy Has Impacted the Opera World

You know, it's been a while since I wrote a blog post consisting of a Dave Letterman-style Top Ten list.

You've missed those, right?  Am I right?   ........Hello? <crickets>

Sigh.

Well, TOO BAD FOR YOU, because that's what I'm offering this week.

We all know that the recession has been tough on everybody. Even though recent headlines express cautious optimism that unemployment figures and other economic indicators are showing signs of recovery, many people are still "hurtin' for certain". Every segment of society has been affected by shrinking revenues and slashed budgets, right? What you may not realize is how this has affected the opera world. Dire straits, people, DIRE, I tell you! So without further ado (because, really, who needs ado?) I present

TOP 10 WAYS THE ECONOMY HAS IMPACTED THE OPERA WORLD

No. 10 
Companies planning to produce Verdi's I Due Foscari can only afford one Foscaro.

No. 9 
In that merry operetta Die Fledermaus, the revelers now sing a rousing toast to "King Apple Juice".

No. 8
In Act I of Puccini's La Bohème, Schaunard's groceries now consist of a couple of packs of chicken-flavored ramen noodles

No. 7
Due to the rising cost of fresh flowers, Madame Butterfly and Suzuki now toss corn chips instead of rose petals in their famous ensemble, to be known as the "Cool Ranch Doritos duet".

No. 6

Worcester, Mass. Look - on the left - that's Minnie!!

Minnie, Puccini's Girl of the Golden West, can't come up with the cash for a stage coach, so she now stars in The Girl of Worcester, Mass. 

No. 5
In Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier, Octavian now presents Sophie with a rose he made out of a pipe cleaner and some Reynolds Wrap.

No. 4
Good news - Strauss's Die Frau ohne Schatten remains unchanged! ...The frau still can't afford a shadow.

No. 3
Another downsized production: Prokofiev's The Love for One Orange and Two Seedless Grapes.

No. 2
In Menotti's Amahl and the Night Visitors, the shepherds' gift to Melchior, Balthazaar and Kaspar consists of a bag of microwave popcorn. Not the butter kind, either - just plain.

No. 1
Vaughan Williams' Riders To The Sea? They're hoofing it on foot or they're staying home.

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020.