Let’s have an aria di sorbetto!

Sounds like something yummy that Gregory Peck might buy for Audrey Hepburn on a Roman holiday, doesn’t it?

The “aria di sorbetto” is one of those fun operatic insider terms. It gets its name from the days when vendors sold sorbetti (sorbets) in Italian opera houses while one of the comprimario singers (the secondary characters) had a brief solo. If you were buying your frosty treat or offering one to your lady friend, you wouldn’t miss anything important.

Sounds pretty good, right? Going to the opera was a much more social affair in the days before Things Got Really Serious with Wagner in the 1870s. People could talk, get something to eat, and go in and out of the theater. In the boxes, wealthy patrons gambled, dined, and canoodled.

Besides giving the concessionaires one last chance to get rid of their inventory before closing up for the night, the “sherbet arias” had practical functions. They gave a minor singer a chance to shine--especially if she was the impresario’s mistress--and let the star singers rest or change costumes. Sometimes the arias were sung in front of a backdrop near the front of the stage, giving the crew time to change the scenery.

Since these arias weren’t vehicles for the big stars or essential to the plot, they were usually written by a lesser composer who didn’t get program credit. In Rossini’s La cenerentola (Cinderella), the sherbet aria goes to Clorinda, one of the nasty stepsisters. “Sventurata mi credea” was composed by Luca Agolini. Never heard of him before? Me either.

Here’s an insanely virtuosic rendition by Gianna Rolandi with New York City Opera (in English; 1980). Notice that she sings it in front of the curtain, as was the 19th century practice.


 A funny story from Rossini

If you’ve seen Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, you might remember the housekeeper’s lament in the 2nd act about being an old maid. It’s sort of silly and repetitive, but a good character singer can make a success with it.

Someone once asked Rossini if, as rumored, somebody else had written this aria. Rossini responded,

“The aria di sorbetto? I do boast of having composed that, and it reminds me of another aria di sorbetto which was funny enough.

“I had an awful seconda donna [second lady] for my opera, Ciro in Babilonia. Besides being hideously ugly, she had the most wretched voice. After trying it with the utmost care I discovered that she possessed one single good note, the B-flat above the staff. So I wrote an aria for her in which she had nothing but this note to sing. All the rest I put into the orchestra, and as it was liked and applauded, my singer of the one note was delighted with her triumph.”

As the 19th century progressed, operas gained dramatic cohesion by having fewer free-standing arias. The aria di sorbetto became obsolete. These days they’re often cut because they don’t advance the plot and might send the performance into union overtime.

Here’s a performance by Claudia Waite of Berta’s aria “Il vechiotto cerca moglie” from The Barber of Seville (Metropolitan Opera, 2007).



Here's a yummy sorbet recipe!

Hey Wagner, thanks for Xena and She-Ra

When our daughter Carrie was little she was obsessed with "She-Ra: Princess of Power," a cartoon series from the early 1980's developed by Mattel. So in addition to watching the show EVERY DAY, we had to have the action figures, Happy Meals, and the Halloween costume including a silver plastic "Sword of Power." Carrie even recognized the name "She-Ra" when we drove by a well-know hotel chain (I'll let you figure that one out...)

It seems that She-Ra was the twin sister of He-Man. Because of a prophecy about their importance in the future, She-Ra was kidnapped and raised by the Horde, while He-Man grew up to lead the rebellion against the Horde and their evil lord, Skeletor. It turns out they both had a Sword of Power, and eventually they reunited to defeat the forces of evil. Sounds like the plot of "Star Wars," right?

Well, it also reminds this opera fan of Siegmund and Sieglinde, Wagner's twins in "Die Walküre" who had been separated at birth. (You knew there had to be something about opera in here, right?) They also had a special destiny: to produce a hero who would bring about a new age. Siegmund and Sieglinde were reunited when a ferocious storm drove Siegmund to take shelter at the home of Sieglinde, whose interior decorator thought that an ash tree with a sword stuck in it would look really cool. The sword of power belonged to daddy Wotan, king of the gods.

Shortly after figuring out that they were twins, Siegmund produced his own sword of power *ahem* and Siegfried was conceived. To make two long operas short, Brünnhilde, Wotan's favorite valkyrie daughter, got involved when she tried to shield the incestuous twins from the death sentence decreed by Wotan's wife. Wotan put Brünnhilde to sleep as punishment for her defiance, and eventually it was the teenage Siegfried who braved the mystic fire surrounding her rock and awakened his auntie with a kiss. This lead to more complications including the death of the gods and a mighty fine flying horse, but hey, it was good while it lasted.

Damn! I guess I just "pulled a Wagner" by telling you the whole history of the universe before moving on to the meat of the story.

According to a story in the “Chicago Tribune,” we have Wagner to thank for the parade of superheroes in comic books, movies, and cartoons. Not that Wagner invented the characters--he took them from Norse sagas--but the astounding notoriety of his operas meant that even people who had never seen an opera got the jokes in "What's Opera, Doc" starring Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.

"The Mighty Thor" (Marvel Comics)

Mom never allowed us to have comic books, but my cousins had them by the dozens. A particular favorite was "The Mighty Thor." Thor appears in "Das Rheingold," along with a pretty extensive cast of Norse gods.

It turns out that P. Craig Russell, a well-known graphic novelist, sees the Ring characters and storylines as the source of most modern comic book superhero imagery. He even travels around the country to talk to groups of "Ring Nuts." He and Roy Thomas, the author of "The Mighty Thor," have both written graphic novels based on the plots of the Ring.

Painted by Swedish artist Peter Nicolai Arbo in 1865, five years before Wagner's "The Valkyrie" premiered

Brünnhilde herself is the original warrior maiden. In Norse lore, the valkyries were the daughters of Wotan and Erda, the earth goddess. "I'd give my right eye for a one night in the sack," was the line he used on her. (That's why he wears an eye patch in the operas.) It was the valkyries' job to fly down from Valhalla. They would swoop over the battlefield and collect the bodies of the most valiant warriors and take them back to Valhalla, where they would live in celebrated eternity.

In early lore, the valkyries flew down as swans. This is why the "swan maidens" wear swans' wings on their helmets--not horns!! They never wear horns! Don't get me started on how this stereotype got going...

In later Norse legend, valkyries were depicted riding flying horses, so that's why in the operas Brünnhilde has a magnificent steed named Grane. When she kills herself on Siegfried's funeral pyre, Grane carries her into the flames.

As Wagner directed, our blonde goddess wears armor and carries a shield and spear. This gender bending leads to one of the funniest lines in all of opera. Siegfried, who has never seen a woman before, having been raised by a dwarf in the woods (you gotta love this story!), finds Brünnhilde sleeping on her fire-rimmed rock. He lifts up her breastplate, sees the evidence, and gasps, "Das ist kein man!" (That's not a man!) Hilarious.

Hence She-Ra, Wonder Woman, and Xena: Warrior Princess. If you're a fan of "Xena," you'll know that in the final season, she was revealed to be--you guessed it--a reformed evil valkyrie. We rest our case.

Read the article--it's fun!

Some Horny Moments

As my horn-playing sister's birthday approaches, I've been thinking about some of my favorite horn moments in the operatic repertoire. It's a good thing now and then to remember that opera ain't just about the singing! I think everybody must know the beautiful (and difficult) horn parts in Bach's Brandenburg concertos, so you're aware that composers have been asking a lot of horn virtuosi for a long time.

A horn Mozart might have recognized--without all the valves and tubing of the modern double horn. In order to play in different keys, you'd plug in different crooks. From Stanford University's collection.

Early orchestras had a basic wind component of two oboes, two horns, and two bassoons. Flutes were less common, and clarinets didn't start showing up as "standard equipment" until Mozart's heyday. The symphony itself derived from the early three-part Italian opera overture (called "sinfonia"). Horns have often figured prominently in operas. However, until the "hand stopping" technique was developed in the Classical period, allowing for smoothly connected melodies, the horns could only play the notes of the natural harmonic series, as bugles do.

A simple way to think of it is that until Mozart's time, you could expect to hear horns in fanfares for gods and royalty or for rousing hunting music. In the Romantic period (after 1815), horn makers developed valves that allowed horns to play in different keys (without plugging in tubing called "crooks"). By the end of the 19th century, horns could be played pretty well in tune on any note of the scale, allowing composers to write music of great complexity for the instrument. Wagner, of course, developed his "Wagner tubas" to supplement his horn section. With Wagner and Strauss, the horn section grew from the four of Weber's Romantic orchestra to as many as 12 instruments!

So going chronologically:

Most Melting. Mozart's Così fan tutte: "Per pietà," Fiordiligi's achingly exquisite aria in which she agonizes over whether to remain faithful to Guglielmo or transfer her affection to the dashing newcomer (Ferrando disguised as an Albanian). The horn echoes and multiplies Fiordiligi's tender sentiments and questionings. (Act II; the horn part starts at 4:00) Soile Isokoski sings "Per pieta"

Most Determined. Beethoven's Fidelio: "Abscheulicher, wo eilst du hin" is Leonora's call to battle as she vows to rescue her husband Florestan from certain death as a political prisoner. Horns are great throughout but the end is fun starting at 6:58 (Act III). Karita Mattila sings "Abscheulicher" Karita Mattila (dressed as "Fidelio," a man)

Most German. Weber's Der Freischütz is chock full of fab horn music. Two places stand out: the joyous hunter's chorus in Act III and the magical moment in the "Wolf's Glen" scene when the Black Hunter's ghostly hunt is summoned up from the fires of Hell at the casting of the 5th magic bullet (Act II finale about 8 minutes in). Weber writes a dissonant parody of the hunting music to let us know that something evil is happening!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHFzg9WGot4

Most Suicidal. In "Fra poco a me ricovero" from Lucia di Lammermoor, Donizetti features the horns in the introduction to set the mood of arch-Romantic self-pity as Edgardo prepares to kill himself in the graveyard of his ancestors. A lot of audience members miss this aria because they think the show's over with the "Mad Scene," but I think this is the best music in the opera. The aria proper begins at 4:40 with more of them beautiful horns. Pavarotti at the top of his form in 1982!

Most Naughty. Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier: the opening orchestral prelude depicts a passionate bout of lovemaking between young Octavian and his older married lover, the Marschallin. The music bounds forth with panting, ever-increasing energy until three tremendous horn "rips" alert us to the climax at about 45 seconds in. And I mean "climax" literally! Wagner's musical climax in the "Liebestod" (Love-Death) at the end of Tristan und Isolde is significantly multi-orgasmic but we'll discuss that another time. Carlos Kleiber leads a stunning performance.

By the way, even though we Americans learned to call the instrument a "French horn" in music appreciation class, to the rest of the world it's just a horn. "Cor" in French, "corno" in Italian, "Horn" in German. Ironically, the American "French" horn is based on a German model! Anyway, Happy Birthday, Deb, and a tip of the spit valve to all the great horn playing in opera!

A cool video of a woman playing Siegfried's horn call in a beautiful European palace.

Make Mine a Puccini Sunrise

How do you make a Puccini Sunrise? Not with tequila! Try sake, cherry blossoms, and a dash of delusion. Yesterday as I was moving smartly to catch a train, the morning was brilliant and cool. It was the first sunny morning in years—or so it seemed. My brain radio responded by matching the rhythm of my steps with the sunrise music from the third and final act of Madama Butterfly.

Act II ended with the splendid “Humming chorus” during which Butterfly, her toddler, and her devoted servant Suzuki poke holes in the rice paper wall of their house, peering out for the first glimpse of Lt. B. F. Pinkerton’s return. Butterfly had seen his ship arrive in the harbor, and she and Suzuki despoiled the garden of every flower to decorate in joyful anticipation of his longed-for return. Night has fallen as Act II ends. Only Butterfly remains awake.

The prelude to Act III opens brutally with the stern and foreboding Japanese melody associated with Butterfly’s alienation from her people. Tender but anxious phrases lead to a new section of passionate music describing Butterfly’s fervent delusions, climaxing in a phrase that reminds us of her rapturous wedding night. (There are even some upward-yearning phrases that remind me of the famous Tristan & Isolde music.) All this we imagine running through the poor girl’s mind as she struggles to stay awake through the long night.

Now we hear the sound of work chants ("Oe, oe") coming from Nagasaki harbor. Puccini calls for the metallic clanking of chains and other sounds to let us know that the sea farers are setting off in the gray dawn. The first intimation of joyous day comes as Puccini combines a number of sprightly Japanese tunes, repeating them a little louder and with greater orchestral depth each time in the same way Rossini built his famous crescendos.

While the volume is still soft, Puccini calls for bird calls (made with a fun little instrument called a nightingale that burbles when you blow air into a cylinder filled with water). Ever increasing the excitement, Puccini adds bright instruments, like trumpets, the perky piccolo, and cymbals until the whole orchestra is dancing to the sparkle of the sun on the bay, and Butterfly’s home is filled with light. It’s a stunning piece of orchestral description!

Alas, it’s a cruel trick. Pretty soon Butterfly’s world will be destroyed. Other composers did it, too—they temporarily lighten a somber mood and give the audience some relief. There’s a more important function for these outbursts of joy: they heighten the contrast between the protagonist’s private sorrow and the seemingly carefree outer world. In Verdi’s La traviata, for example, the dying Violetta closes her window against the sound of mad Carnival rejoicing. In Werther, Massenet uses the sound of children singing Christmas carols as a counterpoint to the Werther’s death by suicide.

Geez, this is some heavy stuff. And all brought up by a brisk walk on a beautiful morning!

There’s a really interesting video that marries this prelude to Act III with scenes from a fascinating Madama Butterfly movie directed by Frédéric Mitterand. Be aware that the video you’re seeing is a montage of scenes from the film, but after seeing the beautiful images you’ll be tempted to rent the movie. It’s a heartbreaker.

Celebrating the first black man to star at the Metropolitan Opera

A reader reminds me that Black History Month is drawing to a close, so here’s a tribute to the first African-American male soloist to sing at the Met: Robert McFerrin. Like many African-Americans, his entrée to the Met was through the safe route of Verdi’s Aida. He made his debut as Aida’s manipulative father, Amonasro, on January 27, 1955.

Why do I say "safe"? Because Amonasro and Aida are Ethiopians, not Europeans. Clearly, the easiest way to get white audiences to accept black singers was to introduce them in African roles. It’s still difficult for some American audiences to accept black men in tenor roles where they play the lovers, not fathers, devils, or kings. But that’s a rant for another day.

McFerrin began his singing career as a boy in a gospel trio with his brothers. Their father, a Baptist preacher, wasn’t thrilled when his son aspired to a career in the New York opera scene. After service in WWII, McFerrin followed the operatic path available to him: a minor role in Kurt Weill’s African musical Lost in the Stars on Broadway, a role in William Grant Still's Haitian opera, Troubled Island, and Valentin in Faust and Amonasro with the National Negro Opera Company. The pioneering impresario Boris Goldovsky gave him a chance with color-blind casting as Rigoletto at Tanglewood in 1949 and later in Goldovsky’s own company as Valentin and in Iphigenie en Tauride.

In 1953 McFerrin won the Met’s "Auditions of the Air." Although he received more than a year of training, he was never awarded the contract that traditionally came with the award. Finally, Sir Rudolf Bing integrated the Met’s roster with Marion Anderson's famous debut as the black sorceress Ulrica in Verdi's Un ballo in maschera (A Masked Ball) on January 1, 1955. That's another safe role for an African-American! McFerrin followed her into the history books a few weeks later.

Want to hear Robert McFerrin sing? Then rent Porgy and Bess (1959) starring Sidney Poitier as Porgy. Yup, that’s McFerrin supplying Poitier's voice!

Robert McFerrin…McFerrin…why does that name sound familiar? He was the father of another amazing American singer, 10-time Grammy winner Bobby McFerrin (Robert McFerrin, Jr.) Bobby’s sister Brenda became a Motown artist. The fact that their mother Sara was also a singer and pianist had something to do with their success, I'll bet!

Interesting detail: it was six years to the day after McFerrin’s Met debut that Leontyne Price first conquered the Met as Leonora in Verdi’s Il trovatore. And she played a white chick! Here she is with Franco Corelli as Manrico.

But who was the first African-American soloist to appear at La Scala in Milan? Find out here: http://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/nge/Article.jsp?id=h-1670

Check out this fabulous opera app!

Today I'm sulla lista dei malati (on the sick list) with una febbre leggera (a low fever) and un mal di testa (headache). Must have caught the virus from my computer at work! Anyway, it was a good day to visit the App Store. Guess what I found? An app called "Opera" that gives you the story, characters, synopsis, and libretto to 22 operatic masterpieces plus Orff's Carmina burana and Mozart's Requiem.

Sheer genius! The libretto is scrollable, so you can read it while you listen. You can choose either the original language alone OR the original with an excellent English translation that appears right under the original language. You can adjust the font size, too. Perfettissimo!

Each opera is $2.99 or you can get the whole set for $23.99.
Here's what they have:
Bellini: Norma
Bizet: Carmen
Donizetti: Lucia di Lammermoor
Leoncavallo: Pagliacci
Mascagni: Cavalleria rusticana
Mozart: Così fan tutte, Don Giovanni, Le nozze di Figaro
Puccini: La bohème, Madama Butterfly, Tosca, Turandot
Rossini: Il barbiere di Siviglia, L'italiana in Algeri
Verdi: Aida, Il trovatore, La forza del destino, La traviata, Macbeth, Otello, Nabucco, Rigoletto

This is so cool for us opera fans at any level of expertise. I'm thinking it would be a really good aid for the singers who have to memorize (and understand) 3-4 hours of Mozart. Pity the poor sopranos who have to memorize the role of Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro. It's the longest role I can think of. It certainly must have the most words per square minute!

Have you found any other opera or classical music apps you like? Let me know and I'll check them out!

If you don't have your iPhone or iPod Touch handy, you can visit http://www.intermundia.it/iphone/opera/inglese/opera_eng.html

Why was Renée Fleming saying "Toy, toy, toy" to everybody on the Simon Boccanegra theater broadcast?

The nice lady sitting next to me in the movie theater asked me this. Renée was spitting on them! Symbolically, that is. It's spelled "toi, toi, toi," and it's something you say to wish performers good luck.  It's the European equivalent of "Break a leg." The theory is that if you say something nice about a person, it brings them bad luck. The reverse is therefore true, so if you wish them covered with spittle, they should do well. Charming!

Another similar thing you might hear performers say is, "In boca al lupo." That's Italian for "May you be in the wolf's mouth."  The companion phrase is, "Crepa il lupo," meaning "May the wolf die." I learned this from an Italian singer, but I've never heard anyone actually say the second part.  Americans seem to shorten it to "Bocalupo." Top it off with a couple of air kisses—or even three if you're feeling particularly French—and everybody's happy!

Dio mio! What if I jinxed my first blog entry by writing about luck? I'd better touch my red coral horn to ward off the Evil Eye! And spit. We can't live without the spitting.