Rotten boroughs, desperate tenors, and secret ventures

I’ve just got back from my first singing lesson in Bedford. Beford’s around an hour away from Oxford, and near Milton Keynes. Other than Cardiff I’ve never been so far out of London while in England before. These little boroughs really are like other countries in their own right.

The lesson was great and I enjoyed it. It’s made me want to go and practice though. It was with the wife of one of our principals in Fanciulla, Bonaventura Bottone. Her name’s Jen Dakin, she teaches at the Royal Academy during the week and then teaches from home. I think she knows her stuff. We talked about the importance of relaxation onstage and finding freedom which is easier said than done, and she drew attention to how much tension I had. I know I’m in some holding patterns which have to change if I want to get better. I find it really hard to let go but if I take a different approach to practice things will get better. It’s down to mindset and psychology.

There’s a lot of new things to take in but I have to tell myself this is easy – that’s the key, working hard but telling your body it’s easy. I’m starting to forget all the things Lisa told me because the last couple months I have not practiced.

I thought Jen balanced the physical and emotional/ mental sides of singing well in her lesson. I didn’t feel physiology or interpretation got in the way of each other or fought for supremacy. She taught technique in terms I have heard before, which made me immediately comfortable, but also looked in from a fresh perspective to achieve these results. Also I think we clicked, which is vital in a way to a successful student-teacher relationship.

I really hope to get to see Jen again but she does live a long way away. Costwise it's ten pounds return trip, so not too drastic.

I have so much work to get done over the coming months on research, but I wanted to talk about last night. Manon at the Royal Opera House was an event. I saw Ailyn Perez as the heroine. I paid 20p (?!) to use the toilets at King’s Cross and get prettied up. Even with two hours to spare I just made the curtain up! Getting out of Covent Garden in rush hour was something to experience once in your lifetime – at Covent Garden station I was caught in a terrifying crush to get to street level, you have the choice of waiting 10 mins for an empty lift or taking about a hundred stairs. I chose the lift but didn’t see any buskers this time inside the station.

 I looked like a slack jawed yokel as I moved through the Opera House, eyes wide. I’d worn my crushed green velvet dress, off the shoulder, with the wide white collar. This dress was purchased at the Salvation Army store and I think it’s from the 70s, but there’s just something about wearing it that makes you feel ready for a night out. I had on my best little satin shoes with bows, and tripped along the steps to my box seat in preparation for the show to begin.

The experience of being up in the box at Covent Garden was an emotional one, because this is where I’d first fallen in love with opera, back in 2001 when I’d first travelled to England and heard the students on the streets outside the opera house. Seeing all those people, the house packed out, even being caught in the scrum of the coat check – you wouldn’t know opera was a ‘dying art form’ if you were inside Covent Garden tonight. I saw students in standing room only, young couples kissing and in love, old Russian oligarchs, opera establishment dressed in their finery, shop assistants wearing jeans and trainers – it was packed out across London society.

From where I was seated the view was slightly obstructed, but that didn’t worry me too much – I had the chance to focus on aspects of the performance I don’t usually get to witness. Covent Garden is spaced out in a unique way, with seats right to the very back of the auditorium and leading all the way to the rooftops as well in the very top echelons. I was in the upper circle, and could really see the players when they were centre stage, but half my view of the stage was also obstructed. I got to view the orchestra from my vantage point in their top and tails, and could see the conductor wiping his brow between acts.

The piece was four hours long, and in the intervals I got to walk around (and got lost) and observe the dining halls, which in themselves inspired awe. They were up on every level and seemed to be impossibly grand. The people in there looked far more expensive than I did.

It was hard to know who was there at Covent Garden and for what reasons. Some were there to see and some to be seen. The class system was alive and well in this particular establishment. I gawped at the endless corridors, the glittering chandeliers.

To the production itself. I’ve never seen Manon before, and as I say it was emotional seeing exceptional young performers doing what I want to do up on stage. The older I get, the further away my dream seems to be. I want to get started, so seeing people doing what I want to do is always a mixed emotion. Ailyn warmed into the role, a few nerves troubled her during her famous aria in Act II where she holds all the men captive with a glance. The nerves manifested themselves in a few intonation problems. But she portrayed a naïve young girl convincingly in the earlier parts and morphed substantially into the worldly woman (all too worldly) later in the opera.

The tenor singing made a strong case for Des Grieux but it’s yet another ungrateful tenor role – in this way tenors must get so bored always playing the ardent romantic. Baritones and basses get to play the villains we know and love. I can think of a handful of interesting tenor roles, they usually break out in strange and psychotic ways from being typecast for so long, but generally tenors are the guys waiting around for some unnamed tragedy to befall them at the hands of woman. And their recovered dignity is destroyed instantly when the woman, chastened by karma, returns begging forgiveness. Any credibility in terms of manhood is destroyed instantly as they always take the woman back. So it is with this opera. Manon ends up dying anyway, and you can’t help but feel Des Grieux would have been better off sticking with the priesthood she drove him to.

I have some problems with this production but they’re really problems with the piece itself. I’m not sure you could really stage Manon in another way. I was certainly caught up in the story but feel Massenet should definitely have employed an editor in the lengthier segments. The early scenes were most touching but I did hear several in the audience comment that the later parts dragged. And Manon’s inherent mercenary nature means it is hard to feel that much compassion when she dies.

Ailyn really did undergo a transformation throughout the course of the evening and it was an impressive age range she pulled off. The women onstage all seemed impossibly young to me, and the usual double standards of masculinity and femininity in terms of body type are becoming more and more apparent especially in large houses like this one (this was the company after all that notoriously fired Deborah Voigt for not fitting into a costume.) There were aspects of the production I strongly dislked and believe fell flat, such as when the ballerinas were chased by the men up the streets, not to mention the overstated/ out of place operetta direction of some of the physical action. All the men were portrayed as lascivious lotharios out to grab a hold of a young woman, and some of the larger women in the chorus were made objects of ridicule in this production, which I disliked.

I’d stayed the night at Bilas again (very lucky to have her) reaching Kilburn station in good time after the show. We had breakfast the next day (earlier that week I’d also seen her and she’d taken me to an absolutely delicious French bakery near Charring Cross where we both ordered far too much cake, with mock cream! She now calls me her “enabler”.) We found the same bar where we’d had our infamous 90s night a few weeks back. We were tucking in yet again when Rahila popped the question – that’s right, she asked me to be a bridesmaid! Although I AM thinking of boycotting because she categorically refuses to walk down the aisle to “The Thong Song.” What’s a girl to do? You ask a simple question…

I cannot express how excited I am to be such a big part of her big day. She has been a fixture in my life for so many years and it’s an honour. I’ve always seen Rahila as a bridesmaid when I’ve pictured my own wedding! I got excited and started squealing, and the barman came over to check what was going on. When he found out Rahila was getting married, he gave me an extra sausage in my breakfast!   

And so, dear reader, concludes another London weekend. Does anyone else find watching public displays of affection in public transport really hard to stomach? Even ones that aren’t overt, just sweet. I’m talking about being on a four seater in a train, facing a couple who are sharing a ‘moment.’ It’s just super awkward, you feel like you’re really intruding. And the guy is so annoyingly nice and not creepy and considerate, and you’re thinking how did this girl meet a real life guy like this? And then, at the crucial moment, your headphones come unplugged while you’re listening to the Rolling Stones' Beast of Burden and it blasts through the train carriage – ah, that cooled their ardour!