LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 10

Hoovering, dishwashing, Guardian, tea, muesli, rant at renovations next door: all done!  What a domestic soul I am becoming.  As if.

     The sharing of homemade videos is becoming rampant and the innate lunacy contained within them is becoming more pronounced; but there is a sort of defiant dark humour that is positively uplifting in them as well.

     The dark humour connected to the virus is best exemplified by the writing of John Crace, the parliamentary sketch writer, in the Guardian. 

https://www.theguardian.com/profile/johncrace

     He was a point of sanity throughout the whole Brexit farrago and he continues to be a guide through the shameful antics of the so-called government of the United Kingdom.  If you have not read his withering condemnation of the Blond Buffoon and Dom then you should.  It might be gallows humour in these dark times, but it always manages to raise a laugh, yes, that laugh might well be rueful but it is better than allowing yourself to plumb the depths of disbelief at what the Conservatives think they can get away with!  I recommend him without hesitation, as I recommend any and all of the books that he has published.  Long may his pen show up the vicious charlatans for what they are!

     While we are on the subject of the worth of our present government, you might like to read the following:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/mar/24/confused-dangerous-flippant-worlds-media-pans-pms-handling-of-coronavirus-boris-johnson

This is a summation of the reactions of the rest of the world to the way that the Blond Buffoon and his circus have handled the pandemic in the UK.  When this is over, we must hold our political ‘masters’ to account.  It is more than likely that the Conservatives’ policy over the virus has directly led to more deaths than if they had adopted some of the measures that other countries have put in place.  There must be an accounting with an independent report that aims at transparency when apportioning blame.

     My jaundiced view has been tempered by the fact that the renovation next door continues (illegally?) with much banging and that is the last thing that you need when you have been locked up for the last nine days – with the prospect of months to come!

     Another irritation (if that is the right word for it) is that I have not managed to dislodge the various earworms of snatches of the operas that I recommended yesterday.  The bits and pieces of “Four Saints in Three Acts” by Virgil Thomson is particularly difficult not to hear.  Stein’s libretto is nonsensical and I pity the poor singers having to learn some of the sequences that they have to sing, but it is undeniably (for me) catchy.  When Stein was taxed about the fact that nobody could understand what the opera was about, she countered with the brave assertion that if you enjoyed it you understood it!  And the opera was popular and ground-breaking.  It had a black cast of singers in its first performances and the set design used the newly invented cellophane as part of the decoration: very avant-garde!  Well, for 1927 it was!  I do urge you to go to YouTube and listen and look at the fragments of this fascinating opera!

     I do also urge you to look at the classic repertoire as well.  It is easy to cheat your way through famous operas on YouTube as they often give you the famous bits, in terms of overtures, preludes and arias, in manageable bite-sized chunks.  And you never know what you might like.  I know someone whose first operatic experience was ‘Tristan and Isolde’ by Wagner, a long and dense opera.  She loved it and become an enthusiastic operaphile on the spot!  It takes all sorts.  And it has taken me a long time to honestly admit that I enjoyed a performance – which I did with the last production of the Liceu.  Some operas, like ‘Eugene Onegin’ by Tchaikovsky I first heard in a dress rehearsal and instantly ‘knew’.  It helped that I knew the dance music from it that I had given to me as one of my first EPs (extended play discs) when I was a kid, but operas like that are almost absurdly approachable.

Enough of this escape into Culture.  Back to reality.  We have now been in lockdown for 9 (or officially 11) days, so that means that we are getting to the end of the incubation period for the virus and this week may well be one in which there is a jump in the figures of those who are infected.  It has been suggested that people should think twice about ANY journeys outside the residence (yes, I am talking to you people next door!) for any reason at all.  Even bread buying, which is an almost sacred ritual in this country, is too weak an excuse to leave the house!

     We are not entirely breadless.  We do have individually sealed, square, flat, wholemeal, calorie reduced, ‘buns’ that seem to last for ever.  Whether you can actually convince yourself that what you are eating bears any resemblance to ‘bread’ is something else, but in times of crisis it is better than nothing.  Just.

     We have enough food to get us through to next week and we can assess the situation then and decide whether it worth while for (Toni) to venture out again for supplies.

I have just come in from my morning walk around the pool.  The weather is not as clement as it has been for the past few days and it was more of a chore than usual.  As I trudged my way around (varying the direction) on my lonely circuits, during which nobody has joined me, I felt like a Rudolf Hesse figure, plodding his way around the empty exercise yard in Spandau.  Having typed that, I realize that there are too many associations with that image that have nothing to do with my present situation.  But it is interesting that I did not delete it, but rather chose to discuss its inappropriateness; or on further consideration there are elements that illuminate: the sense of isolation in an institution made to accommodate more; the artificiality of the incarceration; the politics of continuation – and I think that I am overthinking an image of an aging man in a prison exercise yard!  A bit.

The number of Covid-19 infected people in Spain has not surpassed that of China!  The largest number of cases is in Madrid, which is not locked down in the same way as Barcelona.  It seems foolish not to be truly Draconian in a situation of absolute crisis, but that is politics for you!

I have always taken a ghoulish delight in following the build up to each Olympic Games.  I am not so much interested in the sports as in the various crises: political, financial, social, architectural etc that illuminate the via dolorosa from the moment the games are awarded, to the opening ceremony.

     It used to be the almost comical corruption of the IOC members and the shocking ways in which the successful city managed to capture the games that added to the delight of nations.  The IOC has (allegedly) cleaned up its act, a little and there is more transparency about the awarding of the games, so my prurient interest has to concentrate on unrealistic timetables for delivery and the corruption in building that seems an Olympic Event in its own right.

     I well remember the tune of the BBC presentation of the Olympics in Tokio in 1964 - I am humming it in my mind as I type)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fw1mgjrXZ0c

Only surpassed as an Olympic tune by the brilliant song for the Barcelona Olympics in 1992

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgVGl5bnf8c

Tokio 2020 has had its share of scandal, but is obviously going to be overshadowed by Covid-19.  If (and it’s a big ‘if’) the games take place in 2021 they will still be called the 2020 games apparently.  I like quirky things like that!  Does this mean that the next games will be three years later, not four? 

     Such considerations keep me occupied.

"Tristan und Isolde" is a really good opera. Who knew!

 

When I first saw the programme for the present opera season in the Liceu my heart sank: Tristan and Isolde was a feature.  The opera famous for length and nothing much happening on stage was set to be my early Christmas 'present' in musical terms.  And yes, I am being ironic.

I had approached the evening with increasing dread, trying to explain to Toni just what hard work some operas could be.  His response was, “Why go?”  To which my (unsatisfactory) response was, “Have you seen the cost of the tickets!”

So, I took my place yesterday, having remembered to turn up an hour earlier for the 7 pm (rather than the 8 pm start for normal length operas) with something of a heavy heart.  I sank into my aisle stall seat and waited for oblivion or ecstasy to take me!

In the event neither did. 

The opening prelude played by the orchestra of the Liceu was beautiful with measured and detailed playing which gave an accurate indication of the performance throughout this long opera.  In many ways the orchestra, Orquestra Simfònic i de Gran Theatre del Liceu was the true star of the evening as the reading of the music by the director Josep Pons was such that I was able to appreciate details that, in spite of previous hearings, I had never truly appreciated before.

The first appearance of Isolde (Iréne Theorin) demonstrated the assurance that she brought to the role throughout the evening.  Each nuance in the changing relationship of the two main characters was easily captured by her voice which retained richness of tone and assurance no matter whether she was singing piano or fortissimo.  The same could not be said for her Tristan (Stefan Vinke) where, the first time that we see them both together on the deck of the ship taking them to Cornwall, he appeared uneasy in his movement on stage and the quality of his voice felt a little rough to me.  Vinke did, however come into his own in the second act where the mixture of power and delicacy seemed to fit the register of his voice more happily, and he, after all, managed to sing through a role that would have ripped lighter voices to pieces with its demands.  His voice was something that I warmed to throughout the evening and, while I never felt that he matched his Isolde in terms of sheer quality, he was a noble partner.

Our first glimpse of the set was of something quite minimal with a strip of film of waves at the back of the stage suggesting the sea.  However, during the first act a giant ovoid shape was gradually lowered.  At first it reminded me of a giant spider’s egg sac, something holding a disturbing element of life within itself, but later a photographic realization of the surface of the moon was projected onto the shape and perhaps the idea of lifelessness and the link with the supernatural was suggested - though the realism of the moon surface markings suggested another interpretation.

In the second act the giant ovoid had been turned around and looked like the shell of a massive Easter egg.  Inside the curve of this egg were doorways, one of which, sited at the top of the egg had a curving staircase down to the stage level.  It looked interesting and was made more so by the use of projections on the convex surface.  For the long love duet the outlines of two trees were shown each growing branches into the other eventually filling the space.  Projections of fire were used effectively and a clichéd but exciting destruction sequence as the projections seemed to show the destruction of the edifice.

Although the set was simple, it had an epic grandeur and although it only vaguely suggested Marke’s castle it had a majestic elegance and gave a fitting setting for the performance of Albert Dohmen playing Marke, King of Cornwall.  His voice was rich and full and he played the role with a tired dignity that added pathos to the story without making it mawkish.

Sarah Connolly was an amazing Brangäne who sang superbly through her time on stage and moved with a professional assurance which gave a dramatic unity to the narrative, as did the other sung characters - this was an ensemble piece.

The final act had the ovoid turned so that its concave side was facing the audience.  A small ramp let up to a circular hole cut in the side that acted as a lookout for the anticipated ship bringing Isolde to her wounded lover.  Although massively there the set never intruded, it gave a setting, allowed action became almost a character in the action, but one that allowed the glory to go to the singers.  A beautifully judged use of something that could have been mere intrusion.

The final moments of the opera had dry ice smoke pouring through the hole in the set and settling on the bodies of the lovers, while shafts of light blazed through to the glorious sound of the music.  You might say that it was a little over the top, but how else to you adequately end an evening that was performed so well of an opera so awesome as this?

So, I liked it.

Much to my amazement.  I still think that there is an orchestral symphonic poem or even symphony that I might like to hear based on judicious selection of the music in this opera.  And, yes, I know that I am showing my essential uncouthness by suggesting that some of the music might be surplus to requirements and that it might benefit by some cutting.  But perhaps this is just another stage in my appreciation of the music and it might suggest that there is still some way to go before I am a true Wagnerite!

Surprise yourself!

 

You are never too old for a first time.


I suppose I should let that opening line just rest, alone. Let the sense of it be found in the individual sensibility of the invidual reading it. But that is not my way. Where there is an introduction there is writing!


The first, ‘first’ of the last few days was with food. I pride myself on being my mother’s son as far as things culinary go. She was prepared to try virtually anything, up to and including cheese that had to be stunned with a hammer before it could be eaten. Her love of pungent cheese I have come to understand, but one food stuff that she enjoyed, I still find difficult: tripe.


That last word is not a comment, it is a food stuff. The stomach lining of cows. It looks revolting and tastes worse. My mother cooked it in chunks with onions in milk and water and kept saying how delicious it was while my father and I looked on in horror. Neither of us was ever tempted to try what looked like surgical waste.


In Spain tripe is called callos, and in Madrid it is the signature tapa of the city (Catalans might say ‘exactly!’) and can be found in sandwiches even. Usually, however, callos are served as bits in a sauce.


As my mother’s son I felt that the time had arrived for me to try and break another frontier and try them. In the past there was the occasion where four of us visited Madrid and decided to try the signature tapa only to find when the thing actually arrived three of my companions refused even to try the dish. And I gave up after a few mouthfuls.


So, in theory, I was open to try callos again, but not go out of my way to order them. Luckily the number of times that callos features on a menu del dia in these parts is limited and so my theoretical indulging could remain hypothetical rather than real. Until the inevitable happened and callos appeared on a menu and I decided the time had come – and there would be another two courses to take the taste away (to say nothing of the wine) if I didn’t like them.

They were served with chickpeas (gabanzos) small chunks of chorizo and unidentifiable bits of fat-wrapped pig bone all in a sauce.

I took my first taste with a certain amount of trepidation and a half empty spoon and, even with the rather slimily textured slide of the first piece of tripe down my questioning throat, I realized that my genetic background was going to allow me to (even) ‘enjoy’ this first course and, as the last of the pictures in this little series will prove, I managed to finish my dish – with the exception of the inedible parts that were only there for flavouring. Job well done.

Though to be entirely frank, the other starter choices on any future menu del dia will have to be startling awful before I chose callos again, but I have eaten them and with what could be describe as something approaching relish. And if that sounds like fairly qualified approbation, well, it is.


The second first, so to speak, comes by virtue of accompanying a friend to the local Chinese supermarket for sundries. I went there for nothing and came out with three glass jars, an illuminated rose tree, a set of bubble multi coloured lights and, my first, an illuminated star.


Now I have bought illuminated stars at this time of the year before as I am a great believer in the pure vulgarity of the decorative holiday season of Christmas. I am not a fan of those who produce tastefully decorated homes by restricting the colour palette to two primary colours or just black and white or any variation thereof. Excess is never enough in my opinion.


So, this star is for putting in the window. I know that Cardiff is the home of the illuminated house and garden near the roundabout where over-kill Christmas Lights is given its concrete (if you can say that about light) manifestation – but I was never a fan. But am now. If only with a single multi-coloured, flashing piece of vulgarity. And I love it!


Our part of Castelldefels is hardly enthusiastic about Christmas decorations, and even the municipality is, shall we say, undemonstrative on our particular part of the beach. You have to look long and hard to see any signs of Christmas here. But not now, thanks to the power of LED lights our single star blazes out jollifying the whole of our section of the street!

The star is in the kitchen window facing the road and is at first floor level. On the ground floor you can see through to the back garden, the front part of which is filled with various forms of solar light, so coming back home at night can be a fairly shocking, though intensely satisfying experience, at least to me a confirmed light lover!

Tomorrow back to the Liceu and the long haul of Tristan. Although I am the first to admit the beauty of some of the music in this piece, I do find it difficult to regard it as anything but an ordeal. It starts an hour earlier than normal and we still probably won’t get out before midnight!


Perhaps, this will be the occasion when I really get why this opera is regarded as being as transformative as it is in the history of music.


I am reminded of a production of Tristan I saw years ago. It was beautifully sung, but I found it dramatically dead and the staging was minimalistic to the point of utter boredom. Indeed at one point in one the performances that I attended I counted the number of people in the dress circle because it was more interesting than what was happening on stage. During the interval one of my friends fell on a bottle of wine while slipping down stairs (don’t ask) and I volunteered to take her to casualty and miss the rest of the opera. Such selflessness! 

So I have history with this piece.


However, I approach this performance with hope and a reasonably open mind, strong in the faith that I have a more spacious and comfortable seat than I used to have a few years ago when I watched opera from the Upper Levels!


The real trick is to survive rush hour traffic, get to the Opera House with enough time to wash the driving out of your mind and allow the music to fill it!