Our noses have begun to rust

Note to self: when out of sorts or violently depressed, remember that opera can be an effective remedy, particularly when the story is by Gogol, the music by Shostakovich, and Zamyatin has had a hand in the libretto. The presence of Frank Kelley is a plus, as is a conductor unflustered by electrical mishaps. A third-act walk-on by the composer himself, glasses in place, score under his arm, regarding with mild deadpan the nasal craziness around him, is not compulsory, but is extremely entertaining (and much more effective than the Boston Lyric Opera's similar juxtaposition of Offenbach into Les contes d'Hoffmann). A well-dressed nose is a must. Note to Stalin: yes, I love the Suite for Variety Stage Orchestra, too, but thanks ever so much for destroying what could have been a career of the zaniest opera to hit the international stage till Peter Sellars mashed up Figaro with Donald Trump. Seriously, the bit with the pretzel seller? And the policemen? And was that a parody of The Queen of Spades with the playing cards there? Otherwise known as, I just got back from Opera Boston's final performance of The Nose (нос, 1930) and it was fabulous. All the grotesquerie, surrealism, and satire Gogol could have wished for, so much in the music that the action could not be otherwise—catchily atonal, spliced with anything from a church service to a folksong (now with random balalaika!) to a solemn canon of personal ads; if one character verges on an aria, another is likely to break into recitative pushed as far up the vocal scale as the singer can go. It's gorgeous. It is also batshit. On beyond buffa. If anyone has a recording of this opera to recommend, please do so; what I want, of course, is one by the cast I just heard, but I have come to accept that the world does not gratify my every whim. At least it contains weird opera. Did I mention the flexatone? Yeah.