BWW Review: Diva Netrebko Casts Spell at Metropolitan Opera Recital, Anna Netrebko came out on date in a ablaze white and argent clothes with analogous headband, searching like an Art Deco goddess in a affiche by Alfonso Mucha. It's a attending that ill-fitted her--not alone because the Russian acute has Bellini's NORMA on her Met agenda in the not-too-distant future, but because she's about as abutting to a goddess as the Met can adjure up these canicule (with maybe one or two competitors). And the admirers ate it up.
The articulate allure was there, too, in the all-Russian affairs of (mostly) songs that she acutely relished, by turns emotional, anxious and intense. While she has fabricated her mark at the Met in operas by Donizetti and Verdi as able-bodied (particularly as Lady Macbeth, for me), there has been annihilation absolutely like her efforts in Russian, with Tchaikovsky's IOLANTA an complete standout. In this comedy fairytale, Netrebko was at her best, as an extra and a singer. Great artists like Jonas Kauffmann, Susan Graham or Stephanie Blythe accomplish no basic about how allusive it is for them to sing in their built-in tongues. Netrebko in Russian proves the adjustment to this madness.
In theory, the Met should be too admirable in calibration for an accident like this-after all, this isn't Billy Joel on tour--but it wasn't. Netrebko managed to accompany it down to size, with the date continued over the orchestra pit and a awning abaft her and her admirable accompanist, Malcolm Martineau. But it was absolutely her appearance that did it: She angry every song--in Russian "romance," the agnate of German lieder--into a mini-drama, extensive below the admirable music for the accuracy within.
She began with 5 songs by Sergei Rachmaninoff, beginning on date with "Before my window" and aural absolutely glorious. She was so absolutely acceptable that even if she caressed the blossoms on the appropriate ancillary of the date as she sang about "Lilacs," we believed her, even admitting it was bright that some added beginning timberline was on stage. I decidedly admired the endure of the Rachmaninoff pieces, "Ne poj, krasavica, pri mne (Sing not to me, admirable maiden)" with its argument by Pushkin, with her big articulation acid through the music as she aerated herself into a frenzy. Pianist Martineau was like an addendum of the singer's psyche.
The articulate allure was there, too, in the all-Russian affairs of (mostly) songs that she acutely relished, by turns emotional, anxious and intense. While she has fabricated her mark at the Met in operas by Donizetti and Verdi as able-bodied (particularly as Lady Macbeth, for me), there has been annihilation absolutely like her efforts in Russian, with Tchaikovsky's IOLANTA an complete standout. In this comedy fairytale, Netrebko was at her best, as an extra and a singer. Great artists like Jonas Kauffmann, Susan Graham or Stephanie Blythe accomplish no basic about how allusive it is for them to sing in their built-in tongues. Netrebko in Russian proves the adjustment to this madness.
In theory, the Met should be too admirable in calibration for an accident like this-after all, this isn't Billy Joel on tour--but it wasn't. Netrebko managed to accompany it down to size, with the date continued over the orchestra pit and a awning abaft her and her admirable accompanist, Malcolm Martineau. But it was absolutely her appearance that did it: She angry every song--in Russian "romance," the agnate of German lieder--into a mini-drama, extensive below the admirable music for the accuracy within.
She began with 5 songs by Sergei Rachmaninoff, beginning on date with "Before my window" and aural absolutely glorious. She was so absolutely acceptable that even if she caressed the blossoms on the appropriate ancillary of the date as she sang about "Lilacs," we believed her, even admitting it was bright that some added beginning timberline was on stage. I decidedly admired the endure of the Rachmaninoff pieces, "Ne poj, krasavica, pri mne (Sing not to me, admirable maiden)" with its argument by Pushkin, with her big articulation acid through the music as she aerated herself into a frenzy. Pianist Martineau was like an addendum of the singer's psyche.
Blogger Comment
Facebook Comment