ZiBlog is ingesting Staycation culture this week at such a dizzying clip that it’s hard
to find time to process. Day 2 saw
a failure to join the throng making pop pilgrimage to the House of Blues to see Lily Allen.
A little dispassionate research, ahem, finds Ms. Allen appearing of the cover of Q The Music magazine with panthers, and a listen to her combo of throwback sweet 50s tone, and nasty anguish suggests the flip side of the Amy Winehouse coin. And somewhere in Chicago Liz Phair is waiing, "I invented this, where's my check!"
Meanwhile, back In the real-world, ZiSpouse and I did attend perhaps the polar opposite in the world of vocal
art/entertainment: Renee Fleming, the friendly, approachable diva, at ancient but acoustically gorgeous Boston Symphony Hall.
At high-aht events like these, I always feel a little apart, an observer from another world, that gets let in on a secret. I try to minimize the cynicism of “Oh, God, the man in the tweed jacket is ordering two tiny bottles of Veuve Cliquot” at intermission, and enjoy.
Compare and contrast to Ballet Jazz de Montreal: there we were in the comfy second row,
Symphony Hall we were all the way at the back on hard 
seats. BJM was loud, joyous, sweaty, breathy,
bodily, and of the moment. Fleming was quiet,
ethereal, the voice in the wind, aiming to raise a delicate spirit within… ah,
I see, Veuve Cliquot is the perfect accompaniment.
The program was all 20th century. The first piece announced the agenda: those hearing amelodic, “pling – plong – BLEHHH!” when they think 20th century music would have their prejudices confirmed by Andre Previn’s opener. Yet, God, what a voice. The program quoted the phrase “liquid gold” and I’m not going to do much better.
Then there was lots of German stuff. Richard Strauss, her favorite, occasioned anecdotes/information, about the Great Man in his Bayern aerie, composing while looking out on the German mountains and mist. It’s a very different kind of beauty/aesthetic pleasure, that High German thing. It was good to experience it a little better, but it’s the cheap, Italian stuff that still gets my vote.
Springsteen-like, Fleming gave 5 encores, communed with the audience, was a fan as much as a star, got a sing-along going on “I Could Have Danced All Night,” sang a “Summertime,” that messed with the melody and rhythm like Rickie Lee Jones, and then, when she had us firmly in her lap, gave us one more Richard Strauss (“The music that is closest to my heart,”) an art song called “Morgen” so beautiful it seemed like it came from another, better world. ( I realize now that this is like saying to a Dylan fan, "he played this song called, "Visions of Johanna," that was really pretty good, but what can I say?)
No panthers, no heavy mascara, no nasty lyrics. Just a thin high wire of beauty to carry along through the week.
Next up: Red Sox Patriots Day game, and an in-store reading my current rave/fave author, Geoff Dyer, an event that is to me, what a U2 concert is to others.