The Write Thing

It was on September 16, 1996 when I first approached the iron gates that separated the boulevard-like Avenue from the majestic building where she spent her last years, away from crowds, away from the stage, in remembrance, alone. I made it a ritual to go there every year, at least as long as I lived in Paris. Every September 16, the flowers that decorated the railings would be accompanied by a note with moving words of memory. Some of her admirers would probably have memorable evenings to replay in their minds, whereas others, like me, would only have her most famous recordings and a couple of video performances to watch and see how a true artist lives in the skin of a character.
I would sit on the small bench opposite her house, staring at the window on top, in a delusional wish that her face would play hide and seek with the white curtain, as a mocking Butterfly nascosta, per non morire al primo incontro. Her Pinkerton was long dead when she let herself go down the road of the final suffering, and somehow that building seemed to me to preserve her pain. I would imagine it recorded in the walls. Perhaps if I dared to touch them, they would bring back something of her, the mourning soul, the pathos. No, the sound of my footsteps on the gravel path that preceded the entrance to the building was all I heard. Another bouquet of flowers, a picture and the gratitude of someone who could not forget her. Who could?
One year ago, on September 16, I was there, at that door, sitting on that bench for the last time in a long stretch of years before I would make it to Paris again. I went there to say goodbye, and stayed for a while recapping those years of my youth when I was just discovering the world and myself.
One year later, I am in a different kind of goodbye mood, although with an operatic flavor. Carmen was seeking to preserve her freedom when it was never challenged. In my opera, Don José does not kill her in his final act of impotence and possession. He simply leaves, and Carmen is left to enjoy her freedom, as only she can understand it.

I have always thought that music other than classical or opera sounds better in studio recordings. In fact, it has often been incredibly annoying to me to be forced to witness a totally different version of a song — where sharp Cs suddenly go flat or lower. It is the closest experience to fraud. Another factor that goes against live sessions in pop or rock music, for example, is that singers’ voices tend to be a disappointment. Phil Collins’ voice is one case that comes to mind. The velvet-like substance of his sound in studio albums of the 1990s or later cannot compare at all with the scratchy, sometimes flat metallic ring that he has when he’s performing live.
As a matter of fact, very few people can boast a really good and rich voice when they go live, and avoid undermining their own studio reputations. Paul McCartney is an example of those who can in the world of male singers, and Barbra Streisand is his counterpart among women.
However, in the realm of opera, the live-studio conundrum can only be resolved in favor of the live performance. Live is where the passion is. Opera is one of the most complete forms of artistic expression. Music, acting and dancing converge in a unique synthesis of perfection — when it is done well, of course. Live in opera might mean Callas singing the E flat to close the Triumphal scene at the end of the second act of Aida in the Mexico 1951 version (yes, a magnificent moment of ecstasy for the ear, soul and mind), or Caballé extending her pianissimo beyond the humanly possible at the end of “Signore ascolta”. It can mean standing ovations that would beat the delirious paroxysm of the hooligans in a regular World Cup Final. These are but a few of the examples of why opera should, above all, be live…Centuries later, it breathes as much passion in as it lets out.