I’m writing this in our small Chicago apartment. The day outside is chilly and flat, passers-by wrapped up well against the cold lake air. The blistering, steam-filled radiators in the apartment hiss and wheeze. There’s coffee brewing on the stove. I’m wearing a polo-neck. Give me a pipe to smoke and a Remington typewriter and Central Casting really should be on the phone quicker than you can say “B movie”. …
Given the amount of time I spend banging on about the cost of working abroad, you might think the obvious corollary would be that singing at home, albeit less well paid, is a whole lot cheaper. That, my friends, rather depends on where you live.
There’s a thing I find odd – and here I should point out that I speak here not just as myself but as a sort of unofficial rep for every singer in the land, a conduit for what they all think but never say, a sort of Hans Sachs if you like; I find it odd that English National Opera, for one, presumes that all singers live in London when in fact very, very few singers do. It isn’t called London National Opera after all but English National Opera, and the last time I checked, England extended all the way down to Lands End and as far north as Berwick. …
When the news spread last week that Katherine Jenkins had been given a “Mozart Award”, the sound of serious music lovers’ jaws dropping could be heard in outer space. Many simply couldn’t believe it. They thought it was a hoax. How could they give a Mozart award to Jenkins? Had she ever tackled Cherubino, Dorabella, Sesto, Idamante or Zerlina? No, of course she hadn’t. A Barry Manilow award would surely be nearer the mark. …
Bread head
And then absolutely no-one reads it. …
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