Bitter old limey

A very famous pianist once said to me of an incredibly famous singer “The trouble with Incredibly Famous-Singer is that she actually believes her own publicity.”

A man from North Carolina recently bought a copy of my book Who’s My Bottom? and it caused him great offence. He said so on the online opera forum he runs. That’s his prerogative. After all he paid good money for it and he can say what he likes. I’d give him back the one dollar I earned from his purchase if it would calm his rage.

Pole dance

In the early 90s I was working at the Vlaamse Opera, based in Antwerp, singing Pisandro, one of the three suitors in Il Ritorno d’Ulisse in Patria by Monteverdi. I can’t remember who the counter-tenor was. The first one was fired after three weeks of rehearsals. I can remember that. And as for his replacement, all I can recall is that he was busy doing something else at the same time, so for a few of the main rehearsals on stage there were just two suitors, which is quite a problem when you’re trying to sing lots and lots of trios.
I have absolutely no idea who directed it – a German I think, or was he Greek? – or who conducted. Not a clue.

No Sachs please, we’re British!

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.

Woman gets an award no-one has ever heard of

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.