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The sun is buried and the stars weep
Gian Carlo Menotti has died.
He wrote some of the strangest and eeriest music I have ever heard or sung. Steal me, sweet thief, for time's flight is stealing my youth. Yes, I know a child the color of earth, the color of thorn. If you're not shy, pin up my hair with your star and buckle my shoe. Horizons! Horizons! There's no guard to kiss or kill. Death's frontiers are free. "The Black Swan" was my standard audition aria for years, a murder ballad with a drowned lover and a bloodied sun and a sleepless, weed-mouthed ghost. Its source opera, The Medium (1946), is a shivery film noir in which the boundaries between childish pantomime and bereaved, believing grief and a charlatan's drunken delusions all blur together into the brush of a cold hand in the dark; The Consul (1950) is a Kafkaesque fever dream of a bureacracy, where a husband can disappear into a paper trail without a trace and the same hopeless figures have inhabited the waiting room for years and even a magician can produce anything out of his pockets—doves, cards, flowers—but the papers he needs to escape. The Old Maid and the Thief (1941) is a self-described "grotesque opera," in which rich old women and ambitious young ones project onto an unassuming traveler every guise from a dashing convict to a kept lover to a stand-in for Death, and Amahl and the Night Visitors (1951) is a miracle play, the night the Three Magi stopped by the home of a lame beggar-child and his mother, following their star toward the east. These aren't even all Menotti's operas, only the ones I know best: and there will be no more. But I am glad of them.
Choose your partner! The dance is on!
He wrote some of the strangest and eeriest music I have ever heard or sung. Steal me, sweet thief, for time's flight is stealing my youth. Yes, I know a child the color of earth, the color of thorn. If you're not shy, pin up my hair with your star and buckle my shoe. Horizons! Horizons! There's no guard to kiss or kill. Death's frontiers are free. "The Black Swan" was my standard audition aria for years, a murder ballad with a drowned lover and a bloodied sun and a sleepless, weed-mouthed ghost. Its source opera, The Medium (1946), is a shivery film noir in which the boundaries between childish pantomime and bereaved, believing grief and a charlatan's drunken delusions all blur together into the brush of a cold hand in the dark; The Consul (1950) is a Kafkaesque fever dream of a bureacracy, where a husband can disappear into a paper trail without a trace and the same hopeless figures have inhabited the waiting room for years and even a magician can produce anything out of his pockets—doves, cards, flowers—but the papers he needs to escape. The Old Maid and the Thief (1941) is a self-described "grotesque opera," in which rich old women and ambitious young ones project onto an unassuming traveler every guise from a dashing convict to a kept lover to a stand-in for Death, and Amahl and the Night Visitors (1951) is a miracle play, the night the Three Magi stopped by the home of a lame beggar-child and his mother, following their star toward the east. These aren't even all Menotti's operas, only the ones I know best: and there will be no more. But I am glad of them.
Choose your partner! The dance is on!
no subject
Does it trouble you (personally) not to sing, or is it a nice change not to sing?
And a performable g -!!- that's up there!
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I mind it intensely. Singing has always been one of the things around which my life centers. (There's a story that when I was two years old in the back seat of the car, my grandmother was trying to teach my mother a song as they drove somewhere, and I picked it up instead.) By default, I chose academics over music when I went to grad school, but I need to start again soon or I won't have a voice worth speaking of.
And a performable g -!!- that's up there!
Heh. Thanks. When I'm in good health and voice . . .