Operatic

I have not historically been a fan of opera. In general, I find the voices to be a distraction from the music rather than an enhancement, and I haven’t developed a taste for forceful vibrato. My parents, both French horn players, seemed to prefer symphonic music to opera when I was growing up, because I became adept at identifying composers based on scant instrumental measures, but I’d be hard-pressed to name the provenance of even the most commercialized arias. The idea of attending The Ring, a glorious, well-reviewed and received Wagnerian extravaganza that takes as many hours to perform as a part time job, fills me with a sort of quiet horror.

However, one of my best friends is an opera singer, and I have discovered that taking the time to learn about what your friends care about can be unexpectedly rewarding. It helps that Anne Carolyn has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve heard. She’s a lyric soprano (she’ll tell me if I have this wrong in some way) with a coloratura range, so she can flit about effortlessly in the stratosphere, and make your heart weep with the beauty of her lower notes. I’ve been trying to describe her voice recently, and I simply can’t do her justice. But she sounds like no one else—there’s a texture to her voice, like a rich golden silk brocade rather than smooth satin.

Anyway, the peerless Anne Carolyn Bird (ACB) has been in Santa Fe all summer, an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera. This is quite an honor (and one that she has lived up to); the SFO is well-known, and people come from the world over to attend new and classic shows at the unusual outdoor hall. We attended three in the four nights we were in town.

First, Ainadamar
This opera was debuted three years ago at Tanglewood, when ACB was a vocal fellow there. She’s been involved in it since the beginning, and this was my second time seeing it. Its framework is the murder of Federico Garcia Lorca by, basically, fascist vigilantes; and his relationship with the actress Margarita Xirgu. But that’s not what the opera is about, and in this performance, it’s been polished enough that even I could see what the story really is. The dark, frantic, graffiti-like sets, the ascetic costumes, and the music—a combination of Latin rhythms and themes, percussion, burbling fountains, haunting chords and unbearably beautiful phrases—paint a vivid picture of freedom and oppression, love and heartbreak, hopelessness and endurance. There isn’t really hope, but the lesson is that endurance could lead there. The costuming of the fascists in commando fatigues made the whole experience all the more immediate. The mob madness that took the life of Lorca isn’t just a thing of the past.

Second, The Apprentice Scenes
This is the way to see opera! On one night, we enjoyed major scenes from 10 or 11 different operas, including Romeo et Juliette, La Boheme, The Rape of Lucrezcia, and ACB’s . . . which I can’t remember the name of, but the title character was Lucia, whom of course she played (sang?). Although the scenes ran well into the night, starting at 8:30 and ending about 11:30, the quick scene changes (and attendant uplighting of the auditorium) between each scene kept our blood pumping and our attention caught. It’s worth noting that the costumes for these 10 to 20-minute blurbs were incredible—ACB’s dress could’ve been a couture piece on the runway in Paris.

Third, Turandot
This is Puccini’s last opera, and he didn’t quite live to complete it. It’s worth noting here that the only time in the three nights when I was at risk of falling asleep in my seat (very unusual for me, as for the last several years I’ve nodded off for at least a little while in virtually every theater I’ve been in) was in Act III, after Liu the slave girl kills herself, and coincidentally Puccini dies, and someone else composes some music to fill in until the famous tenor aria recap at the end. But the rest of it was quite enjoyable. Turandot, to my untrained sensibilities, is a fairly traditional opera—the storyline is overwrought and irrational, the music sumptuous, most of the singing a little too operatic for my taste. (I find that opera is a great deal like a drinking game—in opera, the story often appears to be merely an excuse for the music, as is the game an excuse for the pounding of multiple shots of Jaeger). The visual spectacle of this opera was incredible. Brilliant silks and satins, feathers and ribbons, lace and elaborate wigs. The set was full of translucent staircases and stands (a metaphor for “ice princess” Turandot), and high walls and drop-offs, with people marching around right at the edge. Just a little scary.

In all, I’m pleased to report that I enjoyed the opera experience more than I thought I might, and more than I have in the past, even when my dear friend ACB wasn’t on stage. There’s hope for me yet.