Lemon juice out of stock: replacement, jif lemon cleaner

In the manner of an online supermarket failing to fill an order, I find that I am sadly fresh out of things to say about Der Rosenkavelier, despite having previously promised/threatened to post about it. However, I did come home from Turandot the following night and write screeds and screeds about it, so have that instead.

The Opera Gods are very clear on the matter. If you have a chance to go see live opera, whatever your misgivings, you should go. I nearly disobeyed this immutable law this evening- I was comfy in my hotel room, there were a few movies I fancied seeing, I wasn't keen on the idea of standing room and I wasn't panting to see, or especially to hear, Guleghina. But even a bad night at the opera is illuminating; and this wasn't one.

I should start with a few disclaimers. Firstly, every time I go to the Met this particular Brit's heart starts thumping before I even leave the subway at Columbus Circle. I have very fond memories of learning about opera at Covent Garden, but the Met is something else. The building, the atmosphere, the historical significance- I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's my favourite place on earth. This may lead to a rose-tinted view of things. Also, given that I earn some of my modest crust as an actor, I'm naturally predisposed to be on Team Performer. God knows I have heard some singers perform roles they had no business attempting, but if someone is wholeheartedly giving their all in the service of their art, even if the results are underwhelming there's a kind of honesty there I respond to. Finally, I don't get to see live opera as much as I'd like, for reasons of simple economics. A seat in the Covent Garden equivalent of Family Circle costs about as much as a Dress Circle seat at the Met and alas, I don't have that kind of monetary clout. So going to the opera is rare enough to make me determined to enjoy myself. All this means that I may be a little more lenient on some of the drawbacks of tonight's performance than others might. Was it a golden age performance? Well, no. But Nilsson and Bjorling and Corelli and Tebaldi are dead, alas- and we still want to be able to see Turandot, don't we?

See is the operative word. Most of you will know that the Met's Turandot is a triumph for Zeffirelli the designer. It looks wonderful, and the reveal in the second act is a genuine coup de theatre. Zeffirelli the director fares less well. I had to surpress a giggle during 'Gira la Cote' because the production's intentions were so clear. 'Look! Tumblers! A dragon! I know it's only the chorus but DON'T BE BORED'! Even allowing for the fact that this production is on its umpteenth revival, there were some real clunkers in the staging of the first act. 'Lasciatemi passare' sang Calaf, to three people who were in no way blocking his path, and with his back to them. The poor old Prince of Persia took a pointlessly long back-and-forth route to his death (admittedly, this kind of illogicality had been present in Act 3 of the previous night's Rosenkavelier- is Sophie in the damn room or isn't she? And if she is, why does everyone insist on going the long way round and using the door?). What was frustrating is that all this extraneous stuff was so unnecessary, as the dramatic structure of that first act is so tight. The storytelling is brisk- the curtain rises, the chorus sets the scene, Timur falls, reunion, Prince of Persia, Signore Ascolta, gong. Jenufa is just about the only opera I can think of which gets through its exposition with so little fuss.

Musically this was probably the most successful act. There may be a better opera house chorus in the world than the Met's; if so I should like to hear it. As far as the principals go, Maija Kovalevska did a grand job on 'Signore, Ascolta' but it was pretty rather than moving. Interestingly, she was much, much more successful in Act 3. This was a Liu who was much more comfortable in defiance and action than in passive pleading. The voice is better suited to the heavier stuff late on, as well. Where the first aria was professional, technically strong, and all those other underwhelming words, the voice became more interesting the more was asked of it. 'Tu che di gel' had precisely the right mix of steel and melt, and reminded me of Gallardo-Domas back when she was, you know, still good. She brought the best out of Hao Jiang Tian's Timur, as well. In the first act he had been acceptable, workmanlike; after Liu's death he was genuinely moving.

I've been unlucky with tenors at the Met. The first time I went, in 2006, I saw Walter Fraccaro as an instantly forgettable Cavaradossi. Then, back in April, Mario Berti oscillated so wildly between the brilliant and the filthy that it seemed he was cramming the ups and downs of an entire career into one Trovatore. What I got tonight from Salvatore Licitra was my first Met taste of tenorial vocal glamour- something in the tone which excites and relaxes simultaneously. He doesn't use the voice with as much artistry as is ideal- nothing much happens below mezzo forte, and his phrasing can be a little rustic. Actually, the one time he dipped the volume below 7 something rather interesting happened. His challenge to Turandot on 'Il mio nome non sai' felt intimate, something for her ears only, a seduction. I've not seen that before, and it works. 'Nessun Dorma' was delivered with a swagger- this is the aria you're here for, he was saying, and listen to how well I pull it off. Relatively well, is the answer- came off that C pretty darn quick, didn't we, Sal? Still, on tonight's evidence, if he's not a great singer, he's nonetheless a good one. If I could offer him one word of advice, however, it would be to be less wimpish about his gong-work. The music isn't really asking for a careful underarm tap.

He wasn't the only tenor on display, of course (although Bernard Fitch as Altoum wasn't on display to me- his throne isn't visible from Fam Circ standing, and neither, annoyingly, is Turandot's first appearance), since we also have two thirds of the Ping Pongs. Zef the designer has a lot of fun with these three, and their bold colour scheme in among the pastels is another of the design elements that really works. Vocally, the highest praise I can give Joshua Hopkins, Tony Stevenson and Eduardo Valdes is that they bore comparison to the dream team on that odd Karajan recording- Araiza, Hornik and Zednik (yeah, the Niks rule). For once I could see the point of their scene at the top of act two, a section which reminds us that this opera was written a quarter of the way through the twentieth century. It almost feels more like a musical theatre number than an operatic trio- Sondheimish, even, and I mean that as a compliment to both composers.

That's the whole cast, isn't it? Oh no, I missed one. The uncharitable would say that Maria Guleghina has no business singing Turandot at this point; the overly generous would point to the fact that she got through it with no glaring mishaps. On the positive side the voice, although nobody could claim it to be in anything near its prime, has retained its impressive size. But then, 'never mind the rest, it's so BIG' is a credo that has got better men than I am in trouble, in, ah, all sorts of contexts, so we can't just leave it at that. There are some parts where, if not ideal, a little vocal insecurity can at least be dramatic. Tosca, say, or Norma are in extremis, so we can excuse a wobble or a shriek as a character point. But Turandot when we first meet her is powerful, triumphant, impermeable, and the singing of 'In questa reggia' and the riddles should reflect that. Guleghina sounded like what she was, which was a soprano carefully navigating her way through a role which isn't in her voice any more. There's little point in the climax of 'In questa reggia' if the top C arrives late, squalls, and then is abandoned as soon as is respectable. In Act Two she was cranking out the decibels, but the tone was centreless; and when she tried something more caressing, it was touch and go as to whether it would work. At the top of the register, the vibrato has widened and spread into what is undeniably a wobble, and a big one at that- one of those 'which note, precisely, are you singing?' wobbles which always spells trouble. On the plus side, she fared a great deal better in the less demanding music that makes up most of Act 3, especially an almost gorgeous 'Del Primo Pianto', and she made some interesting dramatic choices, at least from the far distance of standing room. In the 'figlia del cielo' section - where that mp3 clip of the other night's performance had revealed her to be drowning- she evinced a real, believable vulnerability. By the way, Andris Nelsons had seemingly learned his lesson there, and he hurried it along at a significantly faster tempo than before; in fact, he didn't put much of a foot wrong all night. But to return to Guleghina, between the generous and the uncharitable lies a middle ground, summed up in a couple of questions. Can she sing Turandot? Yes, just about. Should she? Probably not.

See? There's always plenty to say about a night, any night, at the opera. I'm glad I listened to the Opera Gods- I'd have missed, ooh, about two-thirds of a treat, otherwise.

I've never been to Brooklyn and I'd like to see what's good*

It strikes me that what I usually do when in This New York is write long, rambling blog posts about it. Well, I'm a creature of tradition, so here goes.

I have said before that there is no real point in describing flights, since you've been on one (unless you're *you* or *you*) and you know what it's like. But there were a couple of distinguishing features to this one. The first is that I was sitting in front of a real life sitcom character. Not an actor, one of those stock comic types who only appears in 25 minute segments with an ad break. She had an accent which made your average Miss Adelaide sound subtly underplayed, and she moaned about literally everything. We were a little late taking off and- having kvetched about everything from the location of her seat to the size of those little red blankets to the fact she had to stow her hand luggage in the overhead locker- she announced to the plane at large 'an extra hour I could have stayed in bed this morning. It's a scandal. A SCANDAL'. At this point her husband uttered the only word I heard him speak the entire time which was- I swear- 'Oy'. Just before we took off, the stewardess announced that there were a few seats available in Premium Economy on a first come, first served basis. The moment the seatbelt light was switched off Sitcomella got up and ran, actually ran, down the aisle in order to have first pick. This was impressive, given the hip troubles she has been undergoing and which we had already heard about in forensic detail.

The other aspect of the flight which bears repetition is the film 'Bandslam'. I chose it because I couldn't handle anything heavier, and it's adorable- smart, sweet and funny. It struck me as the kind of film Juno was intending to be, if less ambitious. The gags were easy and witty, without that Juno tendency to broadcast 'you didn't expect me to use THAT word, did you? I am clever and witty and ironic you see'. It also has LIsa Kudrow in it, and there is a rule round these parts that anything with Lisa Kudrow in it is good. It made me cry, but you won't because you're not as much of a wuss as I am.

So I got to JFK, and I got to my hotel which is cheap but unremarkable, in a cheap, unremarkable neighbourhood between Chelsea and Midtown. Johnnie, a university friend who lives a few blocks away, had very kindly agreed to meet up for a welcome drink, which became a welcome (in both senses) Cuban food blowout. She and I gassed for a couple of hours, ate a metric fuckton of food, and then I rolled home.

Yesterday was, as is now traditional, big walk time- this time along the High Line, through to Union Square, and then meandering around the Village before heading to Lower Broadway and the idology office for lunch and remedial computer help. A quick breather at the hotel and then into the sleazy gay underworld. Well, not really. Actually a rather nice russian-themed bar on 51st where Greg drank vodka and I drank beer. The website claimed that, since the bar was in the theater district (which it isn't quite) one might see Alan Cumming or Cyndi Lauper popping in for a drink, or Liza or Chaka dropping by to play the piano. Astonishingly, none of these things came to pass. After a couple of drinks and stuff the 'Jon eats far too much food' aspect of all my holidays took a Mexican turn with some Mole enchilladas (chocolatey sauce rather than adorably blind vermin). We topped off the evening by meandering down to Lincoln Center, where we watched a little of the night's performance of 'Stiffelio' on the foyer screens and since we didn't know the story (despite Greg having seen it just three nights before- early Verdi is like that) decided to make it up, a heady concoction involving priests in fancy dress, a burning cathedral, a Halloween party, and Sibelius.

Today was Brooklyn. Brooklyn without a map. Brooklyn without a map is lostmaking. I got off at a subway stop, walked down some nice treelined streets (I have since worked out that I was most likely in Prospect Heights) to a large arch, which subsequent research tells me is the Soldiers and Sailors arch. So, you know, well done soldiers and sailors.

Prospect Park is gorgeous, all undulating and Capability Brownish. And smaller than Central Park, which for someone who is both lazy and mapless is something of a blessing. I eventually navigated myself to a Subway stop and headed to the Bridge for some pizza (Grimaldi's, which I can announce makes the second best pizzas in New York) and then a nice high up walk back into Manhattan, during which I composed much of this post in my head, like some kind of latter-day blogging Wordsworth.

And tonight it's off to the Met, for the best Rosenkavalier cast that the year 2000 had to offer (I shouldn't be snarky- I'm expecting them to be pretty damn good ten years on). Needless to say, I shall be reporting on this in full. Whether you like it or not.

Favourite overheard comments so far:

(Man on phone, outside St Paul's Church, Fulton Street) 'All I'm saying is you gotta bring some of that fuckin' Macadamia Nut Brandy, man'

(Man in overalls outside my hotel, talking to other man in overalls) 'So he like humped my dog, and since then my dog is all, like, y'know?'


*If you read my previous NY blog posts back in April you'll know the drill by now. If you didn't, well, that isn't my fault, is it?

An Annual Audit

And other things which begin with a letter A. This is going to be tremendously self-indulgent so look away now.

Things which have been good about 2009:

1- How unexpected everything was. This applies to suddenly writing a play, randomly visiting a lot of the world without ever intending to, doing well with some jokes, Scott Mills The Musical, Edelpanto, starting a blog, people actually reading it, usw. I would have expected a lot of same old for this year, and it threw a lot of excitement my way. And, of course, Fulham being wonderfully unuseless all year.

2- Pals. Pals getting married, pals having kids (well, I am in my earlymidtolate30s, so I guess that would been inevitable) but also, and almost mainly, the new pals. There's the one in Ameriky, there's the one who came to London with mud on his boots drinking Malibu, there's the semi-Scottish bass, there's the one who does writing who I've known for a couple of years but who became more of a pal, there's his excellent award-winning missus, there's the SMTM pals... I have done well for pals (overusing the word now, but it's one I like) this year. Plus the old faithfuls, of course, who should feel in no way denigrated by that description. I am unusually lucky when it comes to friendship.

3- Sky Plus. I am one of those hypocrites who despises the Murdoch Empire, but nonetheless adores coming home from the pub to find that the magic box made of science has recorded 30 Rock without my even remembering it was on. NB: if James Murdoch and David Cameron plot between them to take away the BBC, as seems likely, I will belatedly discover some principles and throw it away, possibly in some kind of ceremony.

4- The discovery that in amongst all the random numptyness on the internet there is still a lot of wit, honesty and righteous decency . I discovered SYB this year, and Enemies of Reason, and all manner of good things said by sensible people. It just goes to show you can't be too careful (ooh, thanks too to David, for taking a good pub idea and making an unexpected number of people spread the word).

5- The fact that I had four things which were good. I bet I could think of more, too, but it's late and I'm tired.

Bad things about 2009:

1- Let's not. It's Christmas, still, nearly. What with bombings and executions and Horne and Corden's sketch show and climate change and climate change deniers and expenses and banking and and and and it's probably depressing enough. And come the spring, George Osborne is going to be the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Now I'm really depressed.

On the plus side, though, I have been bought a food processor. So, whatever happens, 2010 will be a bonanza of soups and stews.

Happy New Year, kids. May this last year of a weird decade bring you everything you dream of, unless you dream of rubbish things.

I did a pome.

This is a poem I wrote for my sister, about my niece.

"My Niece, September

Today is Hope’s birthday. A pleasing phrase;
One of many which will show up over the years.
‘Can you see Hope?’ ‘Hope makes me smile’
How can hope be gone, or one lose hope

When Hope is in the world? Now we know
What’s in a name. In the darkest corner
Of Pandora’s Box, after the darkest times
There lurked the solution, the happiness-hit.

‘Hope, ta-da!’ as the man said. From the first
That sparky little girl made herself known,
Her personality felt. A birth canal? Don’t be wet.
Coming through the hipbone, that’s a challenge.

And so she entered the world in a manner
Perhaps more complicated (I can use euphemisms:
I’m not her mother) than most, and yet
Utterly characteristic. ‘This is how I do things

And if something seems difficult, that’s the cue
To keep hammering away until crowned
With glorious, hard-won success’. Some Ratcliffe granite
Seaming through the languid Taylorness.

Months earlier, three had become four, and now
Four and a bump became four and a bit, then
Slowly, quickly, wonderfully, five. A person
Grown from scratch, as a dock-leaf for grief-

Not to take it away, but to soothe it, assuage,
And with her newness to make the old less raw.
We laugh with someone discovering laughter
We dress a cut knee with a promise the pain will end.

There is another noun, my beautiful girl,
That folk have turned into a name; like yours
It is a sound to describe something to feel, and you
Possess and exude its name as utterly as your own;

The embodiment, not just of Hope,
But of Joy."

December 2009

Esprit d'escalier

What he (sharp suit, university education) said:

'I don't mind immigration if it's people who want to contribute, what bothers me are all these asylum seekers sitting around on benefits not even trying to work'

What I said:

'Well, asylum seekers aren't allowed to work'

What I should have said:

'Why not get even the vaguest bit informed before you presume to hold forth on something so important, you greedy, complacent, willfully ignorant fucking moron?'

Don Taylor, 30 June 1936- 11 November 2003

My dad died six years ago today. If you click on this link, or this one or this one you can find out a bit more about him.

I wanted to write something a bit more personal at this point, but now I come to it I'd much rather let him speak for himself. When Dad was dying, he wrote a series of poems for my mum to read after he was dead- aimed, I suppose, at consolation, or as a continuation of their forty-seven year conversation and delight in each others' minds. Indeed, one of the poems encouraged her not to visit his grave after he was dead, but instead to read his work, so she could 'look into his living imagination'.

That imagination still lives, and dad would be delighted to know how much of his work is still being performed around the world. Every few months or so I meet someone who performed in 'The Roses of Eyam' at school or with their local amateur group; and Katie Mitchell's championing of his translations of Greek plays have led to more productions of those translations than he, or we, could ever have dreamed of.

When I want to look into his living imagination, I come back time and time again to one of those poems he wrote after the oncologist's sentence had been pronounced. It's called Roses.

'There is a rose garden at the end of the world.
The Old English roses are marvellously scented.
I shall sit there on long summer evenings,
Drinking white wine, and breathing in the perfume,
Marvellously contented.

When the shadows close on you too,
I shall be waiting, if anywhere, in the Rose Garden
Drinking good white burgundy,
At peace with what I have been and done.'


As I said at the funeral six short, long years ago- enjoy your peace, lovely daddy. You have deserved it.

Silence broken, by a bloody great plug.

Well, why not?

You have a week to listen to this lovely programme on the iplayer- Robert Webb talking about his favourite pieces of poetry and prose. He's a great companion in this kind of thing and his choices are fascinating.

In the name of full disclosure, I might mention that I did some of the reading out.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00npwhj