ARIA READY: Q&A with Francesco Demuro, our Rodolfo

Italian tenor Francesco Demuro made his U.S. debut with Seattle Opera back in 2009, when he sang Alfredo in La traviata (you can hear a clip from that production here on his bio). He returns to Seattle next season to sing Rodolfo in La bohème, opening February 2013, and we recently spoke to him about his character's famous aria, "Che gelida manina." Below, he shares his thoughts on the music, the role, and what makes La bohème so meaningful to him. (Mr. Demuro's remarks have been translated from the Italian.)

 
Why does your character sing this aria?
We are in Paris and Rodolfo is a young poet who lives in a chilly attic. Before meeting his friends, fellow Bohemians, at Café Momus, he decides to finish his writing, so he lingers in his apartment. Someone knocks on the door—it is Mimì, a young girl, his neighbor, come to ask for a match. She is exhausted because of the first symptoms of tuberculosis, and Rodolfo offers her a bit of wine. The candle goes out, the key falls to the floor, and he and Mimì are looking for it together in the dark when their hands meet. Suddenly there is a strong connection between the two of them. And in that moment they share their stories with each other. Rodolfo is the one to begin presenting himself, with “Che gelida manina.”

What emotions does the aria showcase? Do you have to modulate your voice to color different emotions, at different parts of the aria?
Rodolfo wants Mimì to get to know him and at the same time make her feel what he is feeling in this encounter. It is a moment of great pathos and true romanticism. During the aria the vocal color changes—each phrase has a different sound. In a single aria he goes through many different moods, and it requires the proper vocal expression for each diverse emotion.

Francesco Demuro as Alfredo in Seattle Opera's 2009 production of La traviata.
Photo by Rozarii Lynch

In Act Two, on the subject of how smoothly Rodolfo woos Mimì, Colline and Schaunard joke that “Non son armi prime le sue rime." / "Tanto che sembra ver ciò ch’egli esprime!” (“His lines are antiques." / "That’s why they work!”) Is Mimì truly unique, or has Rodolfo sung an aria like “Che gelida manina” to other women before?
Perhaps he’s sung other songs, but not “Che gelida manina”! That one’s for her; the circumstances of their meeting are unique, and Mimì is his great love.

Does your character change as he sings this aria? How does the relationship between you and Mimì change as a result of what you sing?
After having found each other in this encounter, in all their fragility and hope, the aria permanently joins the souls of Rodolfo and Mimì.

What is the great challenge about singing this aria?
The difficulty is giving the proper depth and weight to voice and interpretation.

What do you hope the audience is listening for when you sing this aria?
La bohème is a great masterpiece—melancholy and brilliant with perfect dramaturgy. It requires great interpretive intensity; Puccini wanted to give much to the listener, and the listener should come with a pure heart, in order to be able to take from the opera the most beautiful emotions.

Eglise Gutiérrez (Violetta) and Francesco Demuro (Alfredo) in Seattle Opera's 2009 production of La traviata.
Photo by Rozarii Lynch

What do you love the most about singing this aria?
I love Puccini deeply, and La bohème is the work of my heart. When I play this role, every fiber of my being vibrates. I let myself be completely carried away by the music, these wonderful notes; I dig into myself, into my most intimate feelings, to bring even more to the character. I can't wait to sing it at Seattle Opera, where I happily made my debut in the United States and have the most beautiful memories.

ARIA READY: Rodolfo's "Che gelida manina"

People sing for much the same reasons that birds do, particularly to stake out their territory or to attract a mate. Surely one of the most well-known and beloved 'mating call' arias in all opera is Rodolfo's "Che gelida manina" from La bohème. It's a great aria for a lyric tenor to show off the beauty of his voice and the ease and quality of his high C (when he gets to the word “la speranza,” hope). He sings this aria in order to woo the soprano character, Mimì, so this aria really does stand or fall as a mating call; Rodolfo's motivation here is to make his listener fall in love with him.

The aria comes toward the climax of Act One, in a scene that plays somewhere on the spectrum between romantic comedy and romantic fantasy. Rodolfo and Mimì, both tender, broke young people, both starved for affection, are new neighbors who've been eying each other on the stairs for the last few weeks but haven't yet found an excuse to interact. Here's their chance: "Will you relight my candle? The wind on the staircase blew it out," says Mimì. And to prolong the encounter, she happens to lose her key. (Whoops!) And her candle goes out again. (Double whoops!). And (triple) so does his! As they're crawling around in the dark, on the floor, ostensibly looking for the key, he takes her hand and sings "Che gelida manina," an aria which sounds like a mating-call even if it reads a bit more like a profile on a dating website:

What a frozen little hand...may I warm it? The night is dark and cold. But soon the moon will rise to warm us. Up here, the moon is our neighbor. Wait with me, miss...and I’ll tell you who I am, what I do, and how I live. Would you like that? Who am I? Who am I! I am a poet. What do I do? I write. And how do I live? I live. Poor but happy, I squander rhymes and love songs like a great lord. When it comes to dreams and dragons and castles in the air, my soul is a millionaire! Every now and then, two thieves steal all the riches from my treasure chest. Your eyes are the thieves. Just now they stole my ordinary dreams and my most cherished dreams, all of them are gone. But it doesn’t bother me. Because something even better has taken their place: hope! Now that you know who I am, talk to me. Tell me: who are you? Would you like to tell me?

Mario Lanza sang "Che gelida manina" to Dorothy Kirsten in the film The Great Caruso.

What makes Puccini the dominant opera composer of the 20th century is how photographically naturalistic and real this scene is. He created it in 1896, a few years before film-makers had started figuring out how to tell a story photographically. Puccini had his librettists write a speech that moves from the conversational and prosaic, to the rapturous and lyrical, then back again; but it flows as it would in real life, without sounding artificial, like most opera poetry. The text also captures the wonderful tension between a young man who's tender and sensitive, constantly checking in with her, and one who's really quite taken with himself. And Puccini wrote music that follows the natural patterns of the words; listen in particular for the jerky punctuation of the passage that reads "Who am I? Who am I! I am a poet. What do I do? I write. And how do I live? I live." Listen, moreover, for Puccini's sneaky use of melody; he gets the tune in first while we're paying attention to something else, so that the melody feels familiar and natural when it's time for it to take center stage.

Although on a computer the visual tends to dominate the aural, we have a couple of YouTube "Che gelida maninas" to share with you today. (Careful, though--a YouTube search yields thousands of results for this extremely well-known aria!) First, take a peek at Rolando Villazón singing the aria, from the beautiful 2008 film adaption of La bohème also starring Anna Netrebko.

Let's compare that recent "Che gelida manina" with this one, from a black-and-white PBS airing starring Nicolai Gedda as the poor, lovestruck poet. Which mating call works for you?

From February-March 2013, we'll have two tenors sing Rodolfo in our production of La bohème: Francesco Demuro and Michael Fabiano (the latter making his Seattle Opera debut in the role). This Wednesday, we'll check in with Demuro and get his impassioned thoughts on his character and this aria. In the meantime, we'd love to know your favorite interpretations of "Che gelida manina." Share with us your Bohème memories or links to some favorite videos. YouTube is a great place to start, with more than 2,190 results for this aria alone!

ARIA READY: Q&A with Brett Polegato, our Dandini

Brett Polegato as Figaro in Vancouver Opera's 2003 production of The Barber of Seville.

While Brett Polegato was in Seattle for Madama Butterfly a few weeks ago, Seattle Opera's Communications Editor, Jessica Murphy, got to sit down with him to look ahead to next season and ask him about Dandini, the character he'll sing in La Cenerentola, and the amazing entrance aria he'll sing halfway through the first act, "Come un'ape." Brett had plenty to say about this aria, which he loves, about our production, which he has previously done in his hometown of Toronto, and about playing comedy seriously.

Why does Dandini sing this aria?
In the drama, my boss--Prince Ramiro--is disguised as me, his valet, and wants to scope out the joint. Because he has to get married, he wants to observe the women in his kingdom without them knowing that he’s the prince. So he’s said, “In just a second the prince will be here to meet all the eligible girls.” That’s when I come in and I pretend to be the prince. Dandini sings this because it’s his first opportunity not to be a servant...normally he’s the Prince’s servant. It’s his chance to be bigger than life, to imagine how he would behave if he were prince.

It sounds like fun.
It is. You have to have a great deal of energy. It’s almost a Broadway show tune; it’s really an advertisement for the prince. So it’s just fun, like a big dance number. The chorus and the other characters also play an important part in the second part of the aria, singing along, so it becomes like a big chorus line by the end of it. It’s all about you, a commercial about how great you are: I can do anything! It doesn’t move the plot forward; it really is about dazzling people.

William Burden as Pylades (left) and Brett Polegato as Orestes (right) in Seattle Opera's 2007 Iphigénie en Tauride.
Photo by Bill Mohn

Is it hard to sing?
It’s very demanding, because it has to sound easy. It has to sound fun and comic. But like a lot of Rossini, with fioratura and coloratura, it’s technically quite difficult. Like many of the heroic arias it’s split into two parts. There’s a slow, beautiful section and a fast section; in the slow section there are a lot of runs and a huge range and changes in vocal phrasing--a legato passage and a passionate moment. And then the fast part is extremely wordy, it has a huge range and there’s not a lot of opportunities to breathe. It’s unusual for a character of Dandini’s stature to have that type of aria. Think of Figaro’s “Largo”—that’s just fast all the way through, very talky, not a lot of coloratura. Stylistically it doesn’t change very much, whereas the Dandini aria incorporates everything.

Your character is in disguise. Do you have to reflect that disguise in your singing?
That’s always a hard thing in opera because it can come across as very put on. The good thing about this is that no one in this scene knows either the prince or Dandini, so neither of them has to disguise their voice--no one would know what they would sound like. But Dandini does have to sing with different voices in that there are moments when he is talking to Magnifico and his daughters mixed with these asides to the prince: “Look at them, these two daughters are really ugly!” or “Am I doing a good job?” For those you have to make sure the audience knows you’re not being presentational.

These sets and costumes for La Cenerentola, pictured here at Houston Grand Opera in 2007, will be seen in Seattle in January 2013.
Photo by Brett Coomer

What’s it like to sing a huge aria upon your entrance? I’m sure you have other roles in which the audience has had a chance to get to know you a bit more before you sing the big aria.
Yes, although I like this one because…first of all, it’s a great entrance. I did this production before, in Toronto, it’s wonderful, over-the-top, you are immediately likable--even more so than Figaro in his entrance--because immediately the audience sees you having so much fun. Apart from the ugly stepsisters, who are funny in a different way, Dandini is the first identifiable character; he’s very much like the audience. He really has nothing to lose in this story; from the outset he knows when this day is over he’s going back to being a servant. So he can say whatever he wants because he has nothing to lose. He’s quite forthright with the prince (sometimes when other people are around, so the prince can’t chastise him). It gives Dandini a chance to be frank about things he maybe wouldn’t do or say otherwise.

What do you like about this production?
It’s a wonderfully fun production. Very colorful, and it captures the fairy-tale aspect of the piece. It’s not a cerebral experience. It’s very entertaining. When we did this in Toronto, there were kids in the audience 5 years old and up, and they loved it and laughed. While Barber is funny, the people are quite mean. In La Cenerentola the humor is not quite so malicious. I find it a much more charming piece overall, and the ensembles are great. There’s a wonderful ensemble in the second act, in which everyone is terribly confused, and Rossini just uses rolled Rs and percussive Ps to make it musically funny.

Brett Polegato (Sharpless) with Patricia Racette (Butterfly) in Seattle Opera's May 2012 production of Madama Butterfly.
Photo by Elise Bakketun

Which is harder to perform, comic roles like this one or serious roles like those you’ve done on our stage up to now?
I get asked to do comedy a lot but I think by nature I am a more serious person so I gravitate toward more serious roles. If I get hired for comedy, maybe it’s because I play comedy quite seriously, and people find that funny. Just taking people at face value in comedy seems to be hysterical sometimes.

Can you give us an example of how you might work out a funny moment for an opera comedy?
Many people who do comedy come with a bag of tricks they insert. For me, though, comedy just comes out of the scene. I remember one time doing Rossini’s L’italiana in Algeri and there’s a moment when one of the characters says to me, “When I sneeze, that’s your cue to exit.” But my character doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do. This was totally spontaneous, and I didn’t even think it was going to be funny, but the character says this, and sneezes, and I reached into my pocket for my handkerchief, and the audience howled with laughter. I didn’t do it in a comic way, I did it in a very honest way: “Oh, do you need a hankie?” It just comes out of being aware of what your colleagues are doing onstage.

Brett Polegato at Seattle Opera in 2005, as Henry Miles in The End of the Affair
Photo by Bill Mohn

What should someone who has never before heard this opera be listening for?
One of the reasons I love singing Dandini is it really is a true Rossini coloratura role. Many people who know The Barber of Seville think Figaro is a role that requires tremendous technical agility. It really doesn’t, it’s a patter role from start to finish, whereas Dandini is required do everything, and all in this aria. It’s fun to be able to do a comic piece and still have it be vocally challenging. It keeps you on your toes!

Would you say that it’s usually easier to sing comic roles than serious ones?
A lot of comic roles for baritones and basses tend to be very syllabic, very wordy and talky (or barky!). They don’t allow for a great deal of beautiful singing. Dandini does; there are some really beautiful moments. In fact, the people with the most coloratura in this opera are Cenerentola and Dandini, both of them servants. I think Rossini felt much more connection with these more human characters than he did with the pompous father or the magician or the prince.

La Cenerentola at Houston Grand Opera in 2007.
Photo by Brett Coomer

You sing the second half of this aria as an aside.
Oh, that’s the other interesting thing about Dandini. He often talks to the audience. It’s not an aside; he specifically says this to the audience. “Just wait till the end to see how all this comedy is going to turn into tragedy!” And then in the second act, he says, “I told you everything would turn around in the second act!” No one would say that to themselves, so it’s clear that he is there to help the audience. In the second half of his aria he’s saying, “I’m your narrator for this evening, stick with me, watch with me and we’ll see what happens!”

Turandot - Speight’s Corner with Dr. David Brunelle

Sit in on a conversation between General Director Speight Jenkins and opera enthusiast Dr. David Brunelle about Puccini’s final masterpiece. Topics include correct pronunciation of the title, who is the real heroine of the piece, and what makes “Nessun Dorma” the most popular aria in the world today.



Learn more about Turandot on the Seattle Opera Website

ARIA READY: Dandini's "Come un'ape"

These whimsical sets and costumes for La Cenerentola, as pictured here in 2007 at Houston Grand Opera, will be part of Seattle Opera's January 2013 production of Rossini's comedy.
Photo by Brett Coomer

After fairy-tale happy endings to the serious stories of Turandot and Fidelio, our season moves on to one of the classic fairy tales of all time, Cinderella. We’re doing Rossini’s delightfully hilarious version of this beloved story, La Cenerentola, which is short on magic and high on personality and fun. Think of it as The Barber of Seville 2.0: it features pretty much the same singers and even some of the same music as the Barber. If you heard Lawrence Brownlee sing Almaviva at Seattle Opera in 2010, you heard a huge aria at the very end of the opera, “Cessa di più resistere,” which is cut more often than not. Not much happens in it, plot-wise (the young lovers have already defeated the old miser, at this point) although psychologically it’s an interesting piece in which this young guy, who’s been pretending to be other people all night long—a starving student, a drunken soldier, a foppish music teacher—finally becomes the willful, glittering nobleman we know from The Marriage of Figaro. But Rossini himself cut that aria from Barber and used it, nine months later, to end La Cenerentola. In this opera he gives it to Cinderella, again at the very end of the opera, when she is no longer a servant but has become the princess. Mezzo sopranos stole the aria from tenors, with Rossini’s blessing, and have loved singing it ever since.

But for ARIA READY this week we’ve chosen another of La Cenerentola’s wonderful arias: the show-stopper entrance aria for Dandini (the Figaro of this opera), who is the Prince’s valet and mischievous sidekick. If you don’t remember Prince Charming having a sidekick, in other versions of the Cinderella story, that’s because Rossini added himself to the story with this wonderful character. In Rossini’s version, the Prince (named Ramiro) doesn’t want to get married because all the girls in his kingdom are superficial, pretentious ninnies, like Clorinda and Tisbe, daughters of the unbelievably pompous Don Magnifico. So he exchanges identities with his servant, Dandini, in the hopes of finding a girl who likes him simply for himself, not for his royal title—and he’s already fallen for Magnifico’s pretty young housekeeper, Cenerentola, when Dandini arrives to invite the daughters of the house to his ball.

Dandini, meanwhile, is having the time of his life playing the aristocrat. His aria, which comes complete with choral introduction and other characters supporting him vocally during the fast movement at the end (the cabaletta) is a parody of that classic eighteenth-century opera seria form, the metaphor aria. That is, the lofty, noble characters in most operas of the two generations before Rossini always sang arias that began with metaphors: “Like a river rushing toward the sea, so I am determined on achieving my goal...” or “Like a serpent who has been bruised by your heel, I shall slither back for vengeance...” or even “Like a rocky crag, firm against the buffets of sea and wind, my soul stands firm in its faithful love!” (The first two, from Handel’s Giulio Cesare; the third, another mock-metaphor aria, from Mozart’s Così fan tutte.) Dandini’s metaphor compares himself, false prince on this bride-quest, to a bee buzzing from flower to flower. But in the fast section that concludes the aria, he turns straight toward the audience and sings, over and over again in tongue-tripping patter, that what now seems a comedy will become a tragedy, for the arrogant and unkind. Rossini’s music tells us exactly how much glee and delight Dandini will experience as he watches the downfall of Magnifico, Clorinda, and Tisbe.

CHORUS: Hurry, choose a wife before the summer is past. Otherwise your royal lineage will die out.
DANDINI: Like a bee on an April day, flying from rose to rose, seeking out the sweetest blossom, I’m dashing back and forth between all the beautiful maidens. I’ve seen many a beauty but I haven’t yet found one delectable enough for me.
CLORINDA: Prince!
TISBE: Sire!
CLORINDA AND TISBE: Such a grace you bestow on us!
DON MAGNIFICO: What a flood, a bottomless pit of honor!
DANDINI: Not at all. Lovely! Charming! They look just like their daddy! (aside to Prince Ramiro) (How am I doing?)
PRINCE RAMIRO (aside): (Idiot! Careful, watch it.)
DANDINI: Have mercy! Lower your eyes: their gaze is driving me mad. They’re like pairs of cannons aimed straight at my heart! So cute, so gracious... just like their daddy! (aside—up tempo) (But our comedy will end as a tragedy for them.)
PRINCE RAMIRO: (Oh, why isn’t she here, with her grace and kindness?)
CLORINDA AND TISBE: (He gazes at me, sighs, he’s delirious...there’s no doubt, he is already my slave!)
DON MAGNIFICO: (He’s already a goner. “Excellency” becomes “Your Majesty!”)
DANDINI: (Our comedy will end as a tragedy for them!)

Jean-Pierre Ponnelle directed wonderful movie versions of both Il barbiere and La Cenerentola, arising out of productions at La Scala conducted by Abbado. Here’s Dandini’s entrance aria, staged by Ponnelle with precise comic movement in the ancient Italian tradition, sung by Claudio Desideri. Francisco Araiza played Ramiro in this film (Cenerentola, who doesn’t appear in this scene, was a gorgeous young Frederica von Stade), with the great Paolo Montarsolo as Magnifico and Margherita Guglielmi and Laura Zannani as Clorinda and Tisbe.

On Wednesday we’ll get a chance to hear from our Dandini, Brett Polegato, who recently won rave reviews for his performance of Sharpless in Seattle Opera’s Madama Butterfly. Polegato, who’s has also sung the glum Henry Miles in The End of the Affair and the tormented Orestes in Iphigénie en Tauride for Seattle, is extremely excited to show us what he can do when it comes to comedy. The brilliant production he’ll be in, designed by a group of Spanish artists who are new to Seattle Opera, was filmed in Barcelona a few years back with a stellar cast including Joyce DiDonato and Juan Diego Flórez. The titles are in German, but the entire opera has been uploaded; you can find David Menéndez singing Dandini’s aria, complete with carriage and giant mice, at 40:13 in the video:

Fidelio: Preview (2003)

Two choral excerpts from Beethoven’s triumphant finale accompany video footage and photographs from our 2003 production, which will be revived at McCaw Hall this October.



Learn more about Fidelio on the Seattle Opera Website

ARIA READY: Q&A with Christiane Libor, our Leonore

We started looking at “Abscheulicher!”, the major aria at the heart of Fidelio, the other day, and today we find out more about this great piece from the singer who will be performing it in Seattle, Christiane Libor. Ms. Libor will be making her Seattle debut with Leonore in the fall, and we’re tremendously excited to have her take on this challenging role, which she has already sung with great success in Berlin, Hamburg, Zurich, and Nice. Says Speight Jenkins, Seattle Opera’s General Director, “When I heard her in Berlin, I determined at that moment to do for her a Fidelio. She is amazing.” We asked Ms. Libor a few questions about singing this aria, and were impressed by her thoughtful and heartfelt answers.

Why does Leonore sing the aria “Abscheulicher”?
This aria is all about her "mission" and what she knows she has to do.

What do you like the most about singing this aria?
I like the dramatic and musical effects—the changes between action and reflection.

What is its greatest challenge?
For me the challenge is being both male and female. This is a big part of the fascination of the role - being a woman, myself, playing a female character playing a man - and trying to convey both roles/genders/characters as a part of the drama.

Does singing it take a lot out of you?
The role is harder for me mentally than physically or vocally.

What’s the dominant emotion in this piece?
Eternal love.

Presumably you’ve never been in Leonore’s extreme situation (i.e. masquerading as a man, up against a paranoid tyrant, etc.). Is it easy for you to relate to what she’s going through?
I have never been in Leonore's situation but I can relate to her emotions because Beethoven gives me the music to "feel" her joy, her pain, her love, her life.

What is distinctly Beethoven, couldn’t have been any other composer, about this aria?
The way this aria transforms the principle of hope into a reality and makes the moment very alive.

Does Leonore change or grow in this scene?
Very much. Leonore finds self assurance and this gives her the freedom and energy to act.

Has your interpretation of this aria changed in the time that you’ve been singing it?
Yes, over many performances it has evolved from a dramatic approach to an intellectual one.

What are you usually thinking or feeling when you get to the end?
At the end of the opera, I am always thinking about "freedom" and what this idea means for the character, for the story, and the audience, as experienced through the music of Beethoven.

Here is a recording of Christiane Libor singing “Abscheulicher!” in Berlin, a couple of years ago:

ARIA READY: Leonore's "Abscheulicher!"

Lotte Lehmann as Leonore.

Fidelio, Beethoven's only opera and the most powerful political opera in our repertoire, will follow this summer’s Turandot as Seattle Opera’s 2012/13 season moves into the fall. This week, let’s focus on the big aria sung at the center of Fidelio by the main character, Leonore a.k.a. Fidelio, “Abscheulicher!” A woman living in a police state, Leonore has disguised herself as a man (with the name ‘Fidelio,’ i.e. “the faithful one”) and taken a job at a prison in the hopes of figuring out what has happened to her husband Florestan, an outspoken journalist who disappeared two years previously after daring to criticize the government. Sure enough, he’s languishing away, near death, in the deepest and darkest cell in Don Pizarro’s dungeon. When she sings “Abscheulicher,” Leonore has just overheard a villainous duet (is there any such thing as a duet for bass and bass-baritone where they aren’t extremely evil?) between her boss, Rocco, the warden of the prison, and his boss, the paranoid tyrant Don Pizarro, who has decided that Florestan must die. When they exit, she is alone for the first time in the opera, and Leonore releases her thoughts and feelings in a tremendous explosion. “Abscheulicher!” follows the grand eighteenth-century aria format, which is a) accompanied recitative, in which the character works themselves up into a lather and prepares to sing their aria, b) slow movement, in which the emotion is steady, followed by c) fast movement, in which the emotion has more wild energy. For other big soprano arias from this period that follow this pattern, look up Donna Anna’s “Non mi dir” from Don Giovanni or Fiordiligi’s “Come scoglio” from Così fan tutte. For the politics of this “rescue opera,” look to the American or French Revolutions of Beethoven’s childhood—or to today’s Arab Spring.

RECITATIVE
Hateful coward! What new crime are you plotting? The voice of mercy, of humanity...can nothing appease your lust for blood? Fear and hatred battle in your heart like a storm at sea. But a rainbow beckons to me, bright above the dark clouds. Its arc, so quiet, so peaceful...mirroring old times, old joys, it brings peace to my heart.
SLOW MOVEMENT
Come, hope, shine on this weary woman like a star. May your light illumine my goal, no matter how far. Love will see it through.
FAST MOVEMENT
A wife’s love for her husband drives me on and makes me strong! If only I could get to your side, where a monster has bound you with chains, and relieve your suffering. I will not falter. My love for him makes me strong.

It’s often said that Beethoven tended to write for voices the way he wrote for instruments; that is, he expected singers to be able to do anything a violin can do. They can’t. (Perhaps that’s why he wrote only one opera!) Musical instruments can play louder and softer, higher and lower, can sustain long notes longer and play a million quick notes more quickly than voices. Violins, to take just one example, can vary their sound enormously by playing pizzicato, sul ponto, col legno, or by putting on a mute. Voices don’t have that kind of expressive range; and it isn’t easy for voices to do many things that are child’s play for an instrumentalist. The long, sustained slow notes in the slow section of this aria (“Komm, Hoffnung”), for example, demand enormous reserves of breath and strength from the singer. And the wild leaps of the fast part (“Ich folg' dem innern Triebe”) might be easy for a string player, but for a singer they’re fiendish and exhausting.

But singers have two things that no musical instrument has: words, and a direct, instantaneous connection to the human spirit who’s doing the singing. That’s the power of “Abscheulicher!” With this aria, a soprano shows us not just everything she can do, technically; she shows us who she is. The most important, and most difficult, lesson for any aspiring opera singer to learn is, “Sing it like you mean it!” To sing “Abscheulicher” like you mean it, you have to believe (for at least six minutes) in absolute evil and complete, all-conquering good; you have find the necessary humility and tranquility to ask for help from that all-conquering good, to pray in a way that works—and, having received a blessing of strength, you have to use that strength to go out and achieve all that is humanly possible. Those are the stakes. Nothing less could merit the intensity of the amazing music Beethoven wrote.

As with last week, I’d like to share two renditions of this great aria with you. Christa Ludwig was a mezzo who occasionally sang soprano roles, and in this extreme aria she shows off the beautiful consistency throughout her range. The camerawork here, mostly close up on her face, does a good job of showing us how she acts these words and music with her very soul:

For an alternative “Abscheulicher,” check out Anja Silja singing the aria, at 39:25 in this video of the complete opera. Silja achieved a great deal of notoriety because of her relationship with Wieland Wagner, and it’s often said that she took on roles that were too much for her. But it’s an interesting video and she’s reasonably credible as a boy:

What other renditions of this aria do you know and love? Does anyone have any special “Abscheulicher” memories they’d care to share?

ARIA READY: Q&A with Lori Phillips, our Turandot

Lori Phillips in Nashville Opera's 2006 production of Turandot.

© Marianne Leach photo

A couple days ago, we started to look at “In questa reggia," the great entrance aria in which the murderous Princess Turandot, star of our next opera, explains the origins of her vendetta against men. Today we hear from Lori Phillips, the wonderful soprano who will be taking on this role at Seattle Opera this summer (along with former Seattle Opera Young Artist Marcy Stonikas, who sings Turandot on August 5). Lori made her Seattle Opera debut 10 years ago, in the role of Amelia in Un ballo in maschera. Her twin sister Mary, a mezzo, has also sung at Seattle Opera several times. (Alas, they haven't yet sung Fiordiligi and Dorabella together for us!) Lori has previously performed the role of Turandot in cities including New York, Atlanta, Portland, Nashville, Birmingham, and Ottawa. You can hear a recording of her singing "In questa reggia" at her website.

Why is this aria an important moment for your character?
Turandot tells Calaf that thousands of years ago, in this kingdom (the same one she is reigning over), her ancestor, Princess Lou-Ling, cried out—and that cry has taken refuge in Turandot's soul. Lou-Ling was raped and conquered by a man seeking power.

If this aria were the only thing an audience member knew about Turandot, what might they think?
I hope that they'd think she has good reason for what she is doing, acting in this intense self-protective way. They may also think that she is possesed by the spirit of her ancestor.

Does Turandot always explain herself this way, each time a prince undertakes her riddle test?
Yes, I think that Turandot explains herself this way each time and furthermore, that she is disappointed each time the suitor chooses to ignore her story.

Which emotions does Turandot feel when she sings this aria?
Turandot appears to be strong and confident but she is really experiencing intense fear and deep sadness.

Does your character change over the course of this scene? Does your voice have to change as she changes?
When Calaf talks back to Turandot, which I play as happening for the very first time, she begins to feel something for him--he is different than all the others who have come before. Certainly, later in the story,she tells Calaf that from the very first moment she saw him she loved him. Puccini writes in such a way that helps the voice change in color to reflect this.

Is Calaf intimidated by your aria?
No, Calaf is not intimidated. This is what makes him special.

How could Calaf back down, at the end of the aria, when you suggest he give up? You tell him, “Straniero, non tentar la fortuna” (Foreigner, do not tempt fate!)...but can you really imagine him just walking away?
I don't believe that Calaf can back down at that moment. He must remain strong. But he does "back down" in Act 3 when he tells Turandot his real name and therefore proves his true love for Turandot.

If you could advise an operagoer to listen for one thing during this aria, what would that one thing be?
Try to listen to the regal quality of it—the beautiful serenity at the beginning which builds to a more intense, declamatory conclusion.

What’s the most challenging aspect of this aria?
The tessitura and the breath support needed to maintain the serenity.

Are we supposed to sympathize with Turandot or are we supposed to be scared of her?
I like the audience to sympathize with Turandot. This is difficult, however, because of everything that has been said about her before she appears, and also because the story has a very sympathetic character in the other soprano role of Liù. But I've heard that people have been able to sympathize with my interpretation of Turandot!

Why do you love this aria?
I love the way Puccini built "In questa reggia.” He starts it securely, serenely, with consistent, lyrical lines and leads the soprano into intense leaps (middle C#'s to high A's) in the middle and through to the end of the aria, culminating in a dueling high C with Calaf.

ARIA READY: Turandot’s “In questa reggia”

For the next few weeks on this blog, we’ll be gearing up for Seattle Opera’s 2012/13 season by looking in depth at one aria each from our upcoming operas. Arias, after all, are the basic building block of opera—those crucial scenes in which the entire audience focuses in on what one singer can do with his or her voice, those moments in the story when a character, in a tense, dramatic situation, confronts his or her destiny.

Let’s start today with “In questa reggia,” Turandot’s mind-blowing entrance aria. (Yes, the prince's beautiful “Nessun dorma” has been the most famous aria in all opera for the last thirty years...but there's a little more to think and talk about with "In questa reggia.") Turandot first appears, silently, in the middle of Act One, when she gives the signal for her executioner to kill the Prince of Persia, who (before the curtain went up) attempted to woo her, failed her test of three riddles, and thus earned death. She makes her first vocal appearance with this aria, midway through Act Two. The situation is this: the Unknown Prince, having glimpsed her when she condemned the Prince of Persia, fell madly in love (after all, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world) and determined to take her test himself. But before asking him her three riddles, she sings “In questa reggia,” explaining why she instituted this riddle game ceremony in the first place:

TURANDOT: In this palace, thousands of years ago, a desperate cry rang out. That cry echoed through the generations, and still resounds within my soul. Princess Lou-Ling, my sweet, serene ancestor...once her quiet land prospered in joy and chastity. She defied the brutal rule of man, and today she is reborn in me.

CHORUS: This was when the King of Tartary unfurled his seven banners.

TURANDOT: Yet in that time, which everyone remembers, war brought terror and the clash of arms. Her kingdom was conquered, her kingdom was conquered. And Lou-Ling was dragged away, by a man like you, foreigner! In that terrible night her young voice was silenced forever.

CHORUS: She slept for centuries in her vast tomb...

TURANDOT: O princes, you journey here in endless caravans; from all over the world you come to try your fate. And I avenge on you her purity, I avenge her cry and her death! No man shall ever possess me! Horror of the one who killed her still lives in my heart. No man shall ever possess me! Her purity and her pride are reborn in me. Foreigner, do not tempt fate. There are three riddles, but only one death.

UNKNOWN PRINCE: There are three riddles, but only one life.

At the conclusion of the aria, Puccini ratchets up the excitement as the tenor and soprano repeat their final lines, coming together on a thrilling double high C. (Nilsson and Corelli, who sang this opera together often in the ‘60s, used to compete for who could outshout the other on that high note. According to theatrical legend, once, on a Met Tour, Corelli was pouting during the 2nd intermission because he had clearly lost the competition that night. Rudolf Bing, the Met’s General Director, talked him out of cancelling the rest of the performance and advised him to take revenge by biting Nilsson, gently, during their big kiss at the end of Act Three. The performance was salvaged, although the next morning a message from Nilsson was brought to Bing's hotel room: “Cannot continue tour. Have rabies.”)

Later this week, we’ll hear from our Turandot, Lori Phillips, who shared with us some thoughts about this aria. For now, here are two video clips of “In questa reggia” which we found interesting. First, from Operavox, a series of six 30-minute animated operas created by the BBC in 1995, if you go to 7:04 in this video you’ll hear “In questa reggia” as sung by Jane Eaglen (Seattle Opera’s last Turandot, in 1996) and envisioned by Gary Hurst:

And here’s the most famous Turandot of the 20th century, Birgit Nilsson, with her favorite Unknown Prince, Franco Corelli. The uploader of this video has apparently stitched together a video of Nilsson singing the aria in a studio with bits of her and Corelli from a telecast performance. We particularly love Corelli’s costume here as the Unknown Prince!

Puccini wrote Turandot in the first flush of worldwide excitement about Freud and the new windows into the human mind opened by psychoanalysis. You don’t need a degree in psychotherapy to understand that Turandot is talking about herself when she tells the story of her faraway ancestor “Princess Lou-Ling.” This aria is a thrilling, terrifying meditation on the cycle of violence.

Over the many years I’ve worked at Seattle Opera, I’ve had plenty of amazing experiences watching audiences experience opera. I’ll never forget the day I was given the opportunity to bring a soprano to a prison for children, where opera was used in the therapy for young sex offenders, children who had raped or molested other children. The goal of the therapy was to give these inarticulate young offenders, all of them male (most were 10-14) the skills to talk about their feelings, before they acted upon them; opera, in which people SING their feelings for all to share, helped many reach breakthroughs. Turandot was a favorite opera among this group, all of whom had in fact been victimized before becoming perpetrators. They understood “In questa reggia” perfectly, since it was their own experience. Several knew it well enough to sing along. The soprano I brought to sing for the group had to fight to control her tears as she sang, before reaching the defiant “M’ai nessun m’avra” (No man will ever have me)—she was surprised and nearly overwhelmed by the intensity with which this audience devoured each note she sang.

We’d love to hear about your experience with this aria. Do you find Turandot sympathetic or not? Do you find this aria beautiful, terrifying, sad, or inspiring? Have you ever known a Turandot (or been one)? Who was the greatest singer you ever heard in this role? If you have links to favorite versions of the piece, send them our way!