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Because I've barely unpacked one bag and am packing another for a weekend in Nantucket, where Easter will be celebrated with family...
An abbreviated version of FNF appears below.
(It's not what you think.)
Including (and limited to):
(a) A confession;
(b) A hustler, charlatan and genius; and,
(c) Fabulous music, of course.
As follows...
Poof.
(a) Opera. Oh, don't say it. I never liked it either. Until 1984. Then, I fell under a spell. Mostly a Puccini, Verdi and Bizet kind of spell. Mostly with arias. Mostly in the shower;
(b) Malcolm McLaren: the hustler, charlatan and genius who sold clothing on Kings Road, a costumer and stylist who managed the Sex Pistols, and the New York Dolls, dabbled in advertising, TV, film and a musical career of his own, a prompter and maybe even a bit of a Prima Donna, who died a year ago this month; and,
(c) Fans, 1984. McLaren's symphonic production—a version of opera—a tantalizing fusion of musical genres, was the spit and flare, that in my young mind, like a toasted coconut marshmallow moment, quick and thick, fired all things operatic.
Madame Butterfly:
Carmen:
Turandot:
Gianni Schicchi:
An artful new meaning to bel canto. Arias drained of vibrato, absorbed by fire. Oddly haunting and beautiful.
