Technically he’s clever – the double-tracked vocal of Ultra-Mega is like overlapping dialogue in a screwball comedy – and Collapse and Murs
Posted in General on 02. Sep, 2010
Technically, he’s clever – the double-tracked vocal of “Ultra-Mega” is like overlapping dialogue in a screwball comedy – and “Collapse” and “Murs Iz My Manager” offer sharp, witty commentaries on the hip-hop business. But there’s an underlying pessimism to Lif’s art, best realised in “For You”, a parody of all those R&B/hip-hop tracks written for the artist’s children. In Lif’s case, it’s written to his unconceived child: “You’re not here/ Because I fear/ What’s in the future”. DOWNLOAD THIS: ‘The Fries’, ‘Brothaz’, ‘Collapse’, ‘Murs Iz My Manager’. Fedora is a role most notable for the attentions of famous sopranos in, let’s just say, the twilight of their careers. The fabulously wealthy Russian princess is a presence throughout Giordano’s almost perversely cheesy but furtively enjoyable opera. She’s grand, glamorous, flirtatious; she falls in love – twice; she wears vengeance like haute couture; and she certainly knows how to make an entrance.
So I’m not entirely sure that it was wise of director John Lloyd Davies to pre-empt it with the spectral arrival and departure of his star, Yvonne Kenny, during the opera’s brief orchestral prelude. In any event, she was a nice idea for the role, graciously carrying off Bob Bailey’s ostentatious frocks, while deflecting our attentions from the rather less ostentatious set.
Fedora is without peer in its extremes of pathos and bathos. Its web of intrigue unfolds from way beyond the drawing rooms of its rich and famous. Never was so much plot relayed in so much detail and in such comfort. We are asked to believe in nihilists the way Peter Pan asks us to believe in fairies, and when Fedora reveals that her crucifix contains the remedy for all ills, we might rightly assume she will at some point demonstrate its effectiveness. Add a celebrity pianist who parodies Chopin and you know for sure that you have arrived in the operatic equivalent of la-la land.That pianist provides one of Giordano’s more innovative musical devices, in that he alone underscores the crucial scene in act two where Fedora extracts a confession of guilt from her lover’s alleged murderer.
For the rest, dramatic incredulity is tempered with some surprisingly subtle orchestral colorations, efficiently pointed up by conductor Brad Cohen, and two stonkingly unsubtle (and much-loved) duets for our heroine and the object of her hatred and heart’s desire – the tenor. Aldo Di Toro has a wonderfully natural, open sound throughout the range – a name to watch.Yvonne Kenny is a name we have watched and a talent we have savoured over the years. The distinctive sound has grown a little grainier, the top of the voice now closes more than it opens to the big moments. But Fedora is a role well-anchored in the middle and bottom of the vocal compass. Kenny still makes valiant attempts at difficult dynamic nuancing and goes for the climaxes with somewhat more determination than the voice can muster.After one such climax – the foreplay to a night of love – she lets slip the words “in my arms you shall find another mother”. Not, perhaps, what the tenor wanted to hear, but a line entirely in keeping with the spirit of the evening.To 23 June; festival to 5 August (0845 230 9769). Despite recent noises about the imminent arrival of Guns N’ Roses’ farcically overdue comeback album, Chinese Democracy, you suspect that nobody would be surprised if it failed to materialise.
The same can be said of the band’s sole remaining original member, W Axl Rose, a man whose diary entries are only ever in pencil. Earlier this week, the 44-year-old singer was a no-show at the Mojo awards, even though he was due to present a gong to his musical hero, Elton John. Unsurprising, then, that, right up until showtime tonight, people are anxious about his whereabouts. To complicate matters, the gig is subject to a trial of new-fangled mobile ticketing technology.
Instead of using traditional paper tickets, punters gain admittance with barcodes sent to their mobile phones. Some are questioning the logic of such an experiment at Guns’ first British show in four years, but the trial goes swimmingly. Somewhat inevitably, it is Rose and co who hold things up.
By 10pm, they are already more than an hour late. Massed boos ring out loudly between the pre-recorded rock songs that blast from the Apollo’s PA system. By 10.30pm, Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” is taking on a new resonance, the still absent Rose clearly toying with us marionettes. A particularly disgruntled faction behind me begins to chant, “We want Slash!”, and another 20 minutes trundle by in the stifling heat. Chinese democracy? This is Chinese torture.Suddenly, the lights dim and flash-bomb explosions greet the opening notes of “Welcome to the Jungle.” The old “tension, then release” trick works its magic, and Rose is instantly forgiven.