A confession
I'm going to make a confession that will shock some, perhaps many, but first please indulge me while I explain my views on taste. The world is full of people who subjectively believe that their subjective opinions are objective. They can be found opining on everything from tea bags to wine, from literature to cheese, from dress to music indeed there is nothing under the sun that does not have an expert ready to instruct us on taste and what we should or should not accept as good taste. Those who seek to dictate “Taste” are, in my opinion, cultural terrorists. Maybe I'm a latent anarchist, but I believe everyone's opinion on things they've tried is as valid as that of anyone else. Of course if one has not tried something it's interesting to have ideas from others, but the question of taste whether of the palate or otherwise is, I believe, entirely subjective.
I really don't like opera. There, I've confessed. I don't like the warbling that deforms words and makes them incomprehensible. I'm sure Falsetto, Libretto and other opera-ree things are fascinating to some, but not to me. I don't want to follow a plot on Surtitles. Many have told me that x, y or z is difficult, but worth the effort. Frankly, I have zero interest in “Difficult” when I'm relaxing or seeking to be entertained. I like tunes and although I know that operas have tunes, many I love, I find sitting through the other stuff to get to them almost unbearable.
I'm fortunate that Aselle and I share common tastes, likes and dislikes, except about opera. She loves it. Some years ago she organised a box at London's Royal Opera House for a performance of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin. We were joined by two close friends and had dinner in the theatre's restaurant before the first act. To say I did not enjoy the first act is an understatement. I just don't understand how the creator of so much sublime music could have come up with this work. During the interval we went to the restaurant for pudding. I had a slow coffee and announced an urgent need to visit the toilet. I had it in mind to miss the second act opening curtain, at which point I'd be forced to repair to a pub and wait. In the words of a famous music hall song, I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, until, believing myself safe, I opened the door. “Hurry up Sir or you'll miss the second act,” he held open the door and beckoned urgently. The whole thing was most painful and made worse by being teased that there were three acts.
What I do like musically, apart from concerts and recitals, are Operettas. Not the modern ones where a single tune and its variations go on for several hours, but proper musicals like Oklahoma. Oklahoma has so many tunes that a certain modern composer could make at least twenty different shows out of it. It's exciting, engaging, tunefully foot tapping – it's entertainment! South Pacific, Mama Mia, My fair lady, The King and I, amongst others make me ecstatically happy, lost in a melodious world of make-believe.
I can pinpoint exactly where my love affair with operetta began. In May 1954 the Harrow Light Opera Company presented the Pirates of Penzance at the Harrow Coliseum, since sadly torn down and replaced with a supermarket. I think this may have been my first musical theatre experience and I remember it clearly. We had seats in the dress circle and I recall looking down on the sea of heads in the stalls below. The evening was magical, wonderful story, tunes galore, songs one could sing, tunes that inspired. I was hooked and have been a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan ever since. Last Saturday we went to the Theatre Royal Windsor for a performance of HMS Pinafore, mostly it was magical, but I noticed some warbling. Yes, many of the performers were opera singers. This is not fair. Keep warbling for those that enjoy it. Did Doris Day and Howard Keel try to make Eugene Onegin understandable? No, they stuck to musicals, sang with joy and clarity and made me, and many others very happy.
I loved singing as a child and was a member of the school choirs. I was chosen to sing in the Middlesex massed schools choir in 1955 and vividly recall the excitement, the rehearsals and preparation. Finally, the first of three days of concerts arrived and we filed onto the stage. Halfway through I started croaking like a frog. I could not hit notes or stay in tune. The boy next to me dug me with his elbow and hissed, “Stop singing”, the conductor glared at me. I closed my mouth. After the concert, the choirmaster and his lady assistant grabbed me and demanded to know if I had a cold or sore throat. “No.” “Well sing a verse from Linden Lea.” I croaked a line. “His voice has broken,” exclaimed the lady. “Sounds like it' agreed the CM. Broken? How could a voice break? I was devastated and, despite the CM cheerfully telling me it meant I was growing up, I was heartbroken. I never really discovered the right pitch after that and now only sing for my own pleasure and occasionally inflict it on my long-suffering family. I had also been keen on drama appearing in all the school plays and my deeper voice landed me the part of a grandfather in that years Christmas play. It was fun, but not really adequate compensation for the lack of song.
I really don't like opera. There, I've confessed. I don't like the warbling that deforms words and makes them incomprehensible. I'm sure Falsetto, Libretto and other opera-ree things are fascinating to some, but not to me. I don't want to follow a plot on Surtitles. Many have told me that x, y or z is difficult, but worth the effort. Frankly, I have zero interest in “Difficult” when I'm relaxing or seeking to be entertained. I like tunes and although I know that operas have tunes, many I love, I find sitting through the other stuff to get to them almost unbearable.
I'm fortunate that Aselle and I share common tastes, likes and dislikes, except about opera. She loves it. Some years ago she organised a box at London's Royal Opera House for a performance of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin. We were joined by two close friends and had dinner in the theatre's restaurant before the first act. To say I did not enjoy the first act is an understatement. I just don't understand how the creator of so much sublime music could have come up with this work. During the interval we went to the restaurant for pudding. I had a slow coffee and announced an urgent need to visit the toilet. I had it in mind to miss the second act opening curtain, at which point I'd be forced to repair to a pub and wait. In the words of a famous music hall song, I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, until, believing myself safe, I opened the door. “Hurry up Sir or you'll miss the second act,” he held open the door and beckoned urgently. The whole thing was most painful and made worse by being teased that there were three acts.
What I do like musically, apart from concerts and recitals, are Operettas. Not the modern ones where a single tune and its variations go on for several hours, but proper musicals like Oklahoma. Oklahoma has so many tunes that a certain modern composer could make at least twenty different shows out of it. It's exciting, engaging, tunefully foot tapping – it's entertainment! South Pacific, Mama Mia, My fair lady, The King and I, amongst others make me ecstatically happy, lost in a melodious world of make-believe.
I can pinpoint exactly where my love affair with operetta began. In May 1954 the Harrow Light Opera Company presented the Pirates of Penzance at the Harrow Coliseum, since sadly torn down and replaced with a supermarket. I think this may have been my first musical theatre experience and I remember it clearly. We had seats in the dress circle and I recall looking down on the sea of heads in the stalls below. The evening was magical, wonderful story, tunes galore, songs one could sing, tunes that inspired. I was hooked and have been a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan ever since. Last Saturday we went to the Theatre Royal Windsor for a performance of HMS Pinafore, mostly it was magical, but I noticed some warbling. Yes, many of the performers were opera singers. This is not fair. Keep warbling for those that enjoy it. Did Doris Day and Howard Keel try to make Eugene Onegin understandable? No, they stuck to musicals, sang with joy and clarity and made me, and many others very happy.
I loved singing as a child and was a member of the school choirs. I was chosen to sing in the Middlesex massed schools choir in 1955 and vividly recall the excitement, the rehearsals and preparation. Finally, the first of three days of concerts arrived and we filed onto the stage. Halfway through I started croaking like a frog. I could not hit notes or stay in tune. The boy next to me dug me with his elbow and hissed, “Stop singing”, the conductor glared at me. I closed my mouth. After the concert, the choirmaster and his lady assistant grabbed me and demanded to know if I had a cold or sore throat. “No.” “Well sing a verse from Linden Lea.” I croaked a line. “His voice has broken,” exclaimed the lady. “Sounds like it' agreed the CM. Broken? How could a voice break? I was devastated and, despite the CM cheerfully telling me it meant I was growing up, I was heartbroken. I never really discovered the right pitch after that and now only sing for my own pleasure and occasionally inflict it on my long-suffering family. I had also been keen on drama appearing in all the school plays and my deeper voice landed me the part of a grandfather in that years Christmas play. It was fun, but not really adequate compensation for the lack of song.
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