Today was not the day to develop a runny nose.
This evening saw me set off with Buddhist calm into the extended traffic jam which is the coast road into Barcelona. My destination was the Gran Theatre del Liceu for a performance of ‘Elektra’ by Richard Strauss.
Almost as soon as I found my seat – wait, that’s not true. I have tried to work out the cabbalistic complexity which is the seat location as printed on the ticket but I have constantly failed. The most that I have achieved is to be in the general area of where my seat might be. Then the red Nehru jacketed workers, using a knowledge passed down through generations, usher you to your seat.
This was the best seat in which I have sat: the front row of the second tier with an expanse of red plush on which to rest my programme. If I had had time to buy one!
I really should have done my homework and not relied on a WNO performances of god knows how many years ago. I can remember the safety curtain with Electra written in blood on it and a hapless Electra swinging disconsolately around the fragment of a colossal statue of Agamemnon.
This production opened with a faded and rotting classical façade with a few small slight showing through the wall, when this was flown the thrust of the production was vividly presented by showing the changing room with flashing insect-o-cuter for a collection of what looked like German concentration camp female guards.
The main set of the opera was the palace which had faded grandeur with classical detail filled in with corrugated iron sheets and a Napoleonic chaise longue vying with oil drums for attention. 
This was a society driven by paranoia and life and death being indistinguishable one from the other.
The singing throughout and the orchestral playing were equally superb. Total authority and intense drama characterised the production both dramatically and musically.
But back to my nose.
Almost as soon as I had finally found my seat, settled back and waited for the lights to dim it was as if a tap had been turned on inside my olfactory system. I was intensely aware of the proximity of the lady on my right and I leaned towards the empty seat on my left. Subtle drawing of my hand across my face in a gesture which I felt expressed Straussian angst and Wargnerian loftiness, but which was actually designed to stem the flood, did nothing of the sort.
A desperate (but contained) rummage in my pocket managed to unearth a minute fragment of tissue which had to absorb above its surface area for much of the performance.
It being sod’s law of course, ‘Electra’ is a one act opera and is therefore performed in its entirety without a break.
While the massed flow of mucus rushed to obey the laws of gravity I also developed a cough. My desperate attempts to suppress the urge to cough brought quite literal tears to my eyes which coursed down my fact to join forces with . . . well you get the idea.
The fragment of tissue gradually disintegrated as did my composure.
The fact that I was able to appreciate the music at all is a direct reflection of my determination to get value for money for my vastly expensive seat!
My enjoyment was more than shared with the less fluid members of the audience who shouted their appreciation at the final curtain. Flowers rained down on the singers, some bouquets hitting the stage with solid thuds. When Clytemnestra took her bow aficionados in the gods threw handfuls of leaflets down onto the stage!
This is a production not to miss. Whether you know the music or not, the sheer drama of the piece will keep you transfixed.
I feel that this exemplification of Greek family life is trying to tell me something about the present state of education in my school, but I am too tired to work out the detail of the lesson.
Perhaps tomorrow.
This evening saw me set off with Buddhist calm into the extended traffic jam which is the coast road into Barcelona. My destination was the Gran Theatre del Liceu for a performance of ‘Elektra’ by Richard Strauss.
Almost as soon as I found my seat – wait, that’s not true. I have tried to work out the cabbalistic complexity which is the seat location as printed on the ticket but I have constantly failed. The most that I have achieved is to be in the general area of where my seat might be. Then the red Nehru jacketed workers, using a knowledge passed down through generations, usher you to your seat.
This was the best seat in which I have sat: the front row of the second tier with an expanse of red plush on which to rest my programme. If I had had time to buy one!
I really should have done my homework and not relied on a WNO performances of god knows how many years ago. I can remember the safety curtain with Electra written in blood on it and a hapless Electra swinging disconsolately around the fragment of a colossal statue of Agamemnon.
This production opened with a faded and rotting classical façade with a few small slight showing through the wall, when this was flown the thrust of the production was vividly presented by showing the changing room with flashing insect-o-cuter for a collection of what looked like German concentration camp female guards.
The main set of the opera was the palace which had faded grandeur with classical detail filled in with corrugated iron sheets and a Napoleonic chaise longue vying with oil drums for attention. This was a society driven by paranoia and life and death being indistinguishable one from the other.
The singing throughout and the orchestral playing were equally superb. Total authority and intense drama characterised the production both dramatically and musically.
But back to my nose.
Almost as soon as I had finally found my seat, settled back and waited for the lights to dim it was as if a tap had been turned on inside my olfactory system. I was intensely aware of the proximity of the lady on my right and I leaned towards the empty seat on my left. Subtle drawing of my hand across my face in a gesture which I felt expressed Straussian angst and Wargnerian loftiness, but which was actually designed to stem the flood, did nothing of the sort.
A desperate (but contained) rummage in my pocket managed to unearth a minute fragment of tissue which had to absorb above its surface area for much of the performance.
It being sod’s law of course, ‘Electra’ is a one act opera and is therefore performed in its entirety without a break.
While the massed flow of mucus rushed to obey the laws of gravity I also developed a cough. My desperate attempts to suppress the urge to cough brought quite literal tears to my eyes which coursed down my fact to join forces with . . . well you get the idea.
The fragment of tissue gradually disintegrated as did my composure.
The fact that I was able to appreciate the music at all is a direct reflection of my determination to get value for money for my vastly expensive seat!
My enjoyment was more than shared with the less fluid members of the audience who shouted their appreciation at the final curtain. Flowers rained down on the singers, some bouquets hitting the stage with solid thuds. When Clytemnestra took her bow aficionados in the gods threw handfuls of leaflets down onto the stage!
This is a production not to miss. Whether you know the music or not, the sheer drama of the piece will keep you transfixed.
I feel that this exemplification of Greek family life is trying to tell me something about the present state of education in my school, but I am too tired to work out the detail of the lesson.
Perhaps tomorrow.
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