Ballet de Arañero a Libertador pic.twitter.com/8QLH0KSMB9
— Andreína Márquez (@mintina) November 29, 2014
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Mao's Beijing on the Güaire: the Grand Chavez ballet company
It looks like chavismo will never run out of idiotic ideas. Yesterday we saw how we paid for them with oil prices plummeting. Today journalist Andreina Marquez (@mintina) attended a ballet performance. Words fail common sense.... Here are some of her tweets.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Dudamel versus Serenata Guyanesa
A very nasty comment by "anonymous" in my post on Xmas music make me take the unusual step or publicly replying as an excellent opportunity to measure the survival of artists in fascist regimes like our own today.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
South Colombia, the musical
This newest really off-off-Broadway musical takes us into the strange lives of people lost into the small islands of the South Colombian jungle. A terrible war opposes the Farcoca Archipelago with the islanders of the Paisa group. The show opens when the super rich palm oil planter, Emile Le Chavec fumbles around the area trying to fish for pavon in troubled waters.
Act 1
In the opening scene Nurse Alvarie ForBush receives Emile in a Paisa plantation on Bogota Island. There, in her first tune “I am a cockeyed Optimist” she tells Emile that the war against Farcoca is going OK, but that she would like him to help in some secret mission to try to release a few hundred prisoners that are held for ransom. They really seem to like each other as they discuss Captain Santander and the wreck of the Bolivarian ship on the Grand Colombia atoll long ago.
Returning on board his fishing boat, the “XXI-ner”, a speedy social cruiser, Emile gives us the first show stopper when he refers to that “Enchanted Evening” where across the crowded room he saw the possibilities offered by Alvarie to improve his glory. But unfortunately he does mistake Alvarie request for help as her hitting on him, seeing her as yet another one of his future conquests.
Ashore a few people are getting bored with the war going on and are missing their friends prisoner on other islands. A European madam that drifted to these shores looking for ways to improve her polls at home, “Bloody Nicole”, has decided to make one of these prisoners as her putative daughter and she stirs anyone into action to rescue her, no matter how silly it might look. She sings of “Cali High”, an island clouded in burning drugs smoke as an idyllic place where breathing is enough to make you 'feel good' and where love can be found by whomever rescues Ingriat, the most beloved icon du jour. She eventually convinces some of the men on the beach to go to Cali High, among them Seabee De Villipillis and Lieutenant Luther Kouchner. They use some Swiss cheese as a token bargain with the natives of Cali High.
Back at the plantation Alvarie has seen through the games of Le Chavec, realizing he might actually be working for the Farcocas. In addition she discovers that Emile has ethnic set prejudices and only likes people who agree with him and who do not look too white. Pissed off she decides to “Wash That Man Out Of Her Hair”.
Act 2
Weeks have passed and the rift between Alvarie and Emile got much worse. In fact, things come to a break point when Lieutenant Joe Belt is found hiding a Farcocan, Lewis Kings and a few iPods loaded with rap and hip hop, Broadways no-no.
Meanwhile Bloody Nicole and Emile have been having all sorts of “Happy Talk” pretending to free some of the Cali High ‘retained’. These words do not satisfy Seabee De Villipillis who, along a whole bunch of people who never heard of South Colombia and cared even less for until Ingriat was made prisoner, keeps desperately trying to find Ingriat .
Trying to smooth things up, Emile hosts a thanksgiving show on the beach which turns as a drunken party of sorts where among helicopters flying around, movie directors and a confusion between ‘retained’ and hostages, security and bandits we can hear a security high ranking officer calling “Honey Bun” one of the terrorist. But the party of Emile turns to a bust quickly when suddenly Alvarie appears with Ingriat at her hands. People are shocked at her looking “Younger Than Spring Time” in spite of her days captive at Cali High. Everybody goes away glued to Ingriat words asking her “Dîtes Moi, Dîtes Moi”. Le Chavec left far behind is heard wondering mournfully aloud “This Nearly Was Mine”.
Ingriat thinks that everybody “Got to be Carefully Taught” but her confusing reprise of “Dîtes-Moi” one thing early in her act and “Dîtes-Moi” another later into it when Bloody Nicole welcomes her back, worries most folks. Emile and Alvarie start suspecting that Ingriat cannot be relied upon and they decide to meet again next week to see if they can work out a deal and rekindle their old flame. Anything is better than having Ingriat or the frenchy Bloody Nicole tell them how to behave.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
With my deep apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein for plagiarizing so badly what is in my opinion the best Broadway musical ever. Then again, if I did not love South Pacific so much I would not have even been able to try my heavy hand at spoofing it.
-The end-
Act 1
In the opening scene Nurse Alvarie ForBush receives Emile in a Paisa plantation on Bogota Island. There, in her first tune “I am a cockeyed Optimist” she tells Emile that the war against Farcoca is going OK, but that she would like him to help in some secret mission to try to release a few hundred prisoners that are held for ransom. They really seem to like each other as they discuss Captain Santander and the wreck of the Bolivarian ship on the Grand Colombia atoll long ago.
Returning on board his fishing boat, the “XXI-ner”, a speedy social cruiser, Emile gives us the first show stopper when he refers to that “Enchanted Evening” where across the crowded room he saw the possibilities offered by Alvarie to improve his glory. But unfortunately he does mistake Alvarie request for help as her hitting on him, seeing her as yet another one of his future conquests.
Ashore a few people are getting bored with the war going on and are missing their friends prisoner on other islands. A European madam that drifted to these shores looking for ways to improve her polls at home, “Bloody Nicole”, has decided to make one of these prisoners as her putative daughter and she stirs anyone into action to rescue her, no matter how silly it might look. She sings of “Cali High”, an island clouded in burning drugs smoke as an idyllic place where breathing is enough to make you 'feel good' and where love can be found by whomever rescues Ingriat, the most beloved icon du jour. She eventually convinces some of the men on the beach to go to Cali High, among them Seabee De Villipillis and Lieutenant Luther Kouchner. They use some Swiss cheese as a token bargain with the natives of Cali High.
Back at the plantation Alvarie has seen through the games of Le Chavec, realizing he might actually be working for the Farcocas. In addition she discovers that Emile has ethnic set prejudices and only likes people who agree with him and who do not look too white. Pissed off she decides to “Wash That Man Out Of Her Hair”.
Act 2
Weeks have passed and the rift between Alvarie and Emile got much worse. In fact, things come to a break point when Lieutenant Joe Belt is found hiding a Farcocan, Lewis Kings and a few iPods loaded with rap and hip hop, Broadways no-no.
Meanwhile Bloody Nicole and Emile have been having all sorts of “Happy Talk” pretending to free some of the Cali High ‘retained’. These words do not satisfy Seabee De Villipillis who, along a whole bunch of people who never heard of South Colombia and cared even less for until Ingriat was made prisoner, keeps desperately trying to find Ingriat .
Trying to smooth things up, Emile hosts a thanksgiving show on the beach which turns as a drunken party of sorts where among helicopters flying around, movie directors and a confusion between ‘retained’ and hostages, security and bandits we can hear a security high ranking officer calling “Honey Bun” one of the terrorist. But the party of Emile turns to a bust quickly when suddenly Alvarie appears with Ingriat at her hands. People are shocked at her looking “Younger Than Spring Time” in spite of her days captive at Cali High. Everybody goes away glued to Ingriat words asking her “Dîtes Moi, Dîtes Moi”. Le Chavec left far behind is heard wondering mournfully aloud “This Nearly Was Mine”.
Ingriat thinks that everybody “Got to be Carefully Taught” but her confusing reprise of “Dîtes-Moi” one thing early in her act and “Dîtes-Moi” another later into it when Bloody Nicole welcomes her back, worries most folks. Emile and Alvarie start suspecting that Ingriat cannot be relied upon and they decide to meet again next week to see if they can work out a deal and rekindle their old flame. Anything is better than having Ingriat or the frenchy Bloody Nicole tell them how to behave.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
With my deep apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein for plagiarizing so badly what is in my opinion the best Broadway musical ever. Then again, if I did not love South Pacific so much I would not have even been able to try my heavy hand at spoofing it.
-The end-
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Eugenio Montejo
He died yesterday of stomach cancer at 69, still full of verses in him.
I leave the eulogy to Guillermo Parra who knows much more about poetry and verses than I do.
Venezuela has lost big time today as Montejo can be argued to be the most important literature persona in Venezuela today.
-The end-
I leave the eulogy to Guillermo Parra who knows much more about poetry and verses than I do.
Venezuela has lost big time today as Montejo can be argued to be the most important literature persona in Venezuela today.
-The end-
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The best homage to Aldemaro Romero and Pavarotti
Weil does it again. If you do not get it, read recent posts.
-The end-
-The end-
Sunday, September 16, 2007
"De Repente", Aldemaro Romero is no more
Saturdays are the days where I allow myself only the briefest of newspapers reading in the late afternoon, where TV is off all day, the days where the news barely exists. I had to wait until 7 PM to learn that Aldemaro Romero had died this morning. It was a good thing as I would have been in a foul mood for the rest of the day. In fact, I should perhaps acknowledge that as I was writing this modest tribute listening to some of the music of Aldemaro made my eyes filled with tears only too often.
I am not sure what Aldemaro Romero means to Venezuelans who are less than 30 year old. For those of us who are older, and even lucky to be old enough to have been raised with his music in the radio, Aldemaro Romero was that mix of sugary pop, folk, and tropical rhythm, the stuff we loved but that we would never be caught dead listening to. It did not work out too good with the Beatles or Disco. Yet his infectious rhythms, his musical resurrections were irresistible and when he went to create his “onda nueva” movement there was no escaping him for a few years. He was everywhere, and had even a music festival sponsored for a few years.
Aldemaro’s career was well launched when I was old enough for my fist musical memories.
As a child I was even somewhat afraid of him. I will always remember the cover of his first famous LP, Dinner in Caracas, that my parents must still have in some box somewhere. As a kid I was perturbed by the dark shade of the cover, sensing some mysterious ritual that I confusedly sensed dangerous as much as desirable. My prudish self then thought that the music was somewhat sinful. It took me quite a while to realize that with that simple LP Aldemaro had single handedly reclaimed our folk music heritage and that music in Venezuela would never be the same after him. The sin was of course the excessive pleasure felt when rediscovering (or discovering in my case) the beauties in a tune such as Dama Antañona.
Years went by. Last time I saw Aldemaro Romero was in 1999, before the Teresa Carreño became the hall of the revolution, recovered by the red shirts as their own Nuremberg setting. It was a Sunday AM concert which program I cannot recall. But someone pointed to me Aldemaro, attending because one of his students? pieces? was featured. He was sitting in the third row, but on the instant right side, alone, as usually the Teresa Carreño concerts rarely had more than half the seats filled. I suppose that someone in the orchestra noticed him and he received an ovation. The audience might had been scarce that day but it was not for lack of trying by Aldemaro Romero.
Our dear departed has spent his life trying to reinvigorate music in Venezuela. Perhaps he tried too much to impose his own taste with “onda nueva”. Perhaps he was too pretentious when he managed to be given a philharmonic orchestra to direct (I did attend several of his presentations in the late 70ies). But that he tried to lure the public to the concert halls, he did. Aldemaro Romero is of that generation of great musicians that was also totally dedicated to form new musicians, to sponsor new creations, to attract people to the art. He is the contemporary of the creation of that astonishing youth orchestra movement that chavismo is now trying to pretend it created (not to mention how much in bad taste is Abreu accepting to play the political game even as we all know that what he wants is to protect what he has been working at all of his life).
With the passing of Aldemaro closes a great chapter of Venezuelan art. Today there is no great musician in Venezuela, at least in the way that Aldemaro was. The youth program will yield to us eventually new great musicians but so far we only have Dudamel that is shining in the classical music, and who tries clumsily not to be too used by chavismo propaganda. Chavismo is too primitive, too uncouth to appreciate, and even less understand how people like Romero have been able to shape musically two whole generations of Venezuelans.
But perhaps Romero was too much a man of his time, a time where Venezuela was still full of illusions, where development was a given, where our streets were not clogged with buhoneros nor our hillsides crumbling under ranchos to the obscene levels the migration has reached today. Venezuela in the 60ies and 70ies was country where a cheerful musical movement like the “onda nueva” could flourish and influence all Venezuelan artists until the late 90ies. A country where going downtown to attend a performance was not a risky business at any time of day or night. Today we are a country fit for angry rock or particularly inane rap where the only escape is melodramatic vallenato from Colombia or the downright boring and vulgar reggaeton that tries to cover the city noise in public transportation. Musical elegance and lightness cannot find a niche today as it would be crushed by our everyday hardships.
Of all tunes of Aldemaro Romero my favorite one was always Quinta Anauco. Some might think it did not have the punch of Carretera, that it might have been too Hollywood like. I do not care. But during my long years of US exile Quinta Anauco was always a tune that I had a hard time listening to, the one that brought me instantly to a nostalgic home in a way that only Alma Llanera could also do.
Just for Quinta Anauco I will always remember Aldemaro Romero, perhaps the man who best understood Venezuelan music when this genre had still a meaning. But he should be remembered from much more. Only Aldemaro Romero could get away with doing to Alma Llanera what he did during his Onda Nueva period. Only when you feel and you know so well you can twist and reshape. What better way to say good bye to Aldemaro than sending him off with his Alma Llanera version?
PS: YouTube has many videos but I will recommend this one, not because it is particularly good (the sound sucks) but because you will see Aldemaro Romero directing one of his pieces. By the way, if Quinta Anauco is a fabulous tune, the lyrics are awful.
-The end-
I am not sure what Aldemaro Romero means to Venezuelans who are less than 30 year old. For those of us who are older, and even lucky to be old enough to have been raised with his music in the radio, Aldemaro Romero was that mix of sugary pop, folk, and tropical rhythm, the stuff we loved but that we would never be caught dead listening to. It did not work out too good with the Beatles or Disco. Yet his infectious rhythms, his musical resurrections were irresistible and when he went to create his “onda nueva” movement there was no escaping him for a few years. He was everywhere, and had even a music festival sponsored for a few years.
Aldemaro’s career was well launched when I was old enough for my fist musical memories.
As a child I was even somewhat afraid of him. I will always remember the cover of his first famous LP, Dinner in Caracas, that my parents must still have in some box somewhere. As a kid I was perturbed by the dark shade of the cover, sensing some mysterious ritual that I confusedly sensed dangerous as much as desirable. My prudish self then thought that the music was somewhat sinful. It took me quite a while to realize that with that simple LP Aldemaro had single handedly reclaimed our folk music heritage and that music in Venezuela would never be the same after him. The sin was of course the excessive pleasure felt when rediscovering (or discovering in my case) the beauties in a tune such as Dama Antañona.Years went by. Last time I saw Aldemaro Romero was in 1999, before the Teresa Carreño became the hall of the revolution, recovered by the red shirts as their own Nuremberg setting. It was a Sunday AM concert which program I cannot recall. But someone pointed to me Aldemaro, attending because one of his students? pieces? was featured. He was sitting in the third row, but on the instant right side, alone, as usually the Teresa Carreño concerts rarely had more than half the seats filled. I suppose that someone in the orchestra noticed him and he received an ovation. The audience might had been scarce that day but it was not for lack of trying by Aldemaro Romero.
Our dear departed has spent his life trying to reinvigorate music in Venezuela. Perhaps he tried too much to impose his own taste with “onda nueva”. Perhaps he was too pretentious when he managed to be given a philharmonic orchestra to direct (I did attend several of his presentations in the late 70ies). But that he tried to lure the public to the concert halls, he did. Aldemaro Romero is of that generation of great musicians that was also totally dedicated to form new musicians, to sponsor new creations, to attract people to the art. He is the contemporary of the creation of that astonishing youth orchestra movement that chavismo is now trying to pretend it created (not to mention how much in bad taste is Abreu accepting to play the political game even as we all know that what he wants is to protect what he has been working at all of his life).
With the passing of Aldemaro closes a great chapter of Venezuelan art. Today there is no great musician in Venezuela, at least in the way that Aldemaro was. The youth program will yield to us eventually new great musicians but so far we only have Dudamel that is shining in the classical music, and who tries clumsily not to be too used by chavismo propaganda. Chavismo is too primitive, too uncouth to appreciate, and even less understand how people like Romero have been able to shape musically two whole generations of Venezuelans.
But perhaps Romero was too much a man of his time, a time where Venezuela was still full of illusions, where development was a given, where our streets were not clogged with buhoneros nor our hillsides crumbling under ranchos to the obscene levels the migration has reached today. Venezuela in the 60ies and 70ies was country where a cheerful musical movement like the “onda nueva” could flourish and influence all Venezuelan artists until the late 90ies. A country where going downtown to attend a performance was not a risky business at any time of day or night. Today we are a country fit for angry rock or particularly inane rap where the only escape is melodramatic vallenato from Colombia or the downright boring and vulgar reggaeton that tries to cover the city noise in public transportation. Musical elegance and lightness cannot find a niche today as it would be crushed by our everyday hardships.
Of all tunes of Aldemaro Romero my favorite one was always Quinta Anauco. Some might think it did not have the punch of Carretera, that it might have been too Hollywood like. I do not care. But during my long years of US exile Quinta Anauco was always a tune that I had a hard time listening to, the one that brought me instantly to a nostalgic home in a way that only Alma Llanera could also do.
Just for Quinta Anauco I will always remember Aldemaro Romero, perhaps the man who best understood Venezuelan music when this genre had still a meaning. But he should be remembered from much more. Only Aldemaro Romero could get away with doing to Alma Llanera what he did during his Onda Nueva period. Only when you feel and you know so well you can twist and reshape. What better way to say good bye to Aldemaro than sending him off with his Alma Llanera version?
PS: YouTube has many videos but I will recommend this one, not because it is particularly good (the sound sucks) but because you will see Aldemaro Romero directing one of his pieces. By the way, if Quinta Anauco is a fabulous tune, the lyrics are awful.
-The end-
Friday, September 07, 2007
Addio Pavarotti
Pavarotti was not my tenor. In fact from him I only have La Boheme and a rather cheap compilation that I got because no one has done a better "Mattinata"(1). Oh, he certainly was good but he never clicked for me, too Italian (he could only sing in Italian), too commercial, too much of a static clown.
But he deserves my full admiration and sincere farewell because one can argue that he kept up Opera as a living art almost single handedly. It is because Pavarotti came to the Met to sing the repetitive staples that the hoi poloi wanted, and paid for, that the Met could earn the needed revenues for the Operas that snobs like me wanted to see. And even in my student years near New York where my meager budget melted in a single trip to the nose bleeds of the Met, as I watched Peleas et Melisande, or Lulu, I knew that I had to give thanks to Pavarotti.
My Tenor is Domingo and I have stopped counting the CDs with his name on my shelves. But Domingo was right tonight in L.A.: he said that Pavarotti career would not have been the same without Pavarotti, as Pavarotti would not have been the same without Domingo. A perhaps unusual but fabulous send off that perhaps only opera lovers truly could understand. Pavarotti gave to the masses the sensual and sexual stirring of Italian Opera, in all its artificial splendor, while Domingo, who can sing in French and German in addition to his native Spanish gave his fans that intellectual thrill while he left the Verdian hero ravish you in a way that only Domingo can do. When Domingo sings to you di quella pira you know he is about to rescue you from your life of misery. And let's not even talk about Domingo as the Puccini hero! Straight or gay it does not matter: when Domingo sings to you Nessun dorma you now why that damned sadistic princess will yield. You are about to do the same.
I saw Pavarotti once. When I lived in Baltimore and my income had become barely better than starving graduate student, I went to the Met to see Un ballo in Maschera. Pavarotti was singing and I had my doubts. But I also thought that well, I should watch him at least once. Thus, with whom was the great love disaster of my life (who did not care much for Pavarotti either but was a total Opera freak) we took a room in Manhattan and for fun, dressed to kill, we went for a night at the opera (we had been lucky to get very decent side seats). For the record, our relationship started going South that very night when we went for drinks at some sleazy but fashionable Soho bar.
The Met staging was a disaster. It included gyrating potted plants whose possible symbolism was totally lost in our painfully repressed laughter. And Pavarotti, already overweight and with great mobility problems was sitting through the whole presentation while everyone else circled around. Making the mental break from the vigorous and young and dashing King of Sweden to this differently abled Tenor was, well, quite a feat. And yet... Pavarotti talent was big enough that after a while I started forgetting about his chair, about the gyrating potted pants, about the lost in space chorus. Pavarotti became the opera and the rest was accessory. Not that I really liked him, but there was something in his voice, something in his style that slowly but surely managed to force you to let the music take over. I suppose that this was the strength of Pavarotti: suddenly you thought that you understood opera.
As I say goodbye to Pavarotti and thank him for the gift of opera until the XXI century I cannot help but also note that Pavarotti was all that chavismo is not, could never be. Besides rekindling the glamor of opera, a snobbish and intellectual and elite activity if any, an art form so far from the huddled and cattle driven chavista masses, an art which is now frowned upon in the bolivarian conception of art where any stick and drum hitting together are termed great art of the people, Pavarotti was also a sponsor of all sorts of other talents. And Pavarotti, even as a divo extraordinaire, was not above sharing, really sharing, the stage. Can anyone conceive of a situation where, say, the three tenors of Evo, Correa and Chavez will have equal billing when Chavez attends? Can anyone imagine Chavez nurturing young political talents with the sincere hope that one day they will be better, brighter, smarter, more educated than the teacher, allowing the teacher to retire? The comparison is not an idle one: Chavez is much more of an entertainment artist than a ruler. Politics for him are a continuous vaudeville, a permanent "Sabado Sensacional"; he is a Don Francisco that read Chomsky during an insomnia bout.
So good night sweet pasta lover prince of Opera. After all, maybe I was not mature enough, not sensual enough to understand your art. Maybe one day I will "get" you and I will finally relent and buy the three Tenor DVD.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
1) I could not find a free Pavarotti recording of Mattinata. But I found better, in a way. One of his proteges, Andrea Bocelli singing it. With Pavarotti introducing him. I never cared for Bocelli either, but he certainly is a show case of what Pavarotti could do to help people out. It would have been tacky tonight to have a video of Pavarotti singing, so we will have to do with Bocelli.
-The end-
But he deserves my full admiration and sincere farewell because one can argue that he kept up Opera as a living art almost single handedly. It is because Pavarotti came to the Met to sing the repetitive staples that the hoi poloi wanted, and paid for, that the Met could earn the needed revenues for the Operas that snobs like me wanted to see. And even in my student years near New York where my meager budget melted in a single trip to the nose bleeds of the Met, as I watched Peleas et Melisande, or Lulu, I knew that I had to give thanks to Pavarotti.
My Tenor is Domingo and I have stopped counting the CDs with his name on my shelves. But Domingo was right tonight in L.A.: he said that Pavarotti career would not have been the same without Pavarotti, as Pavarotti would not have been the same without Domingo. A perhaps unusual but fabulous send off that perhaps only opera lovers truly could understand. Pavarotti gave to the masses the sensual and sexual stirring of Italian Opera, in all its artificial splendor, while Domingo, who can sing in French and German in addition to his native Spanish gave his fans that intellectual thrill while he left the Verdian hero ravish you in a way that only Domingo can do. When Domingo sings to you di quella pira you know he is about to rescue you from your life of misery. And let's not even talk about Domingo as the Puccini hero! Straight or gay it does not matter: when Domingo sings to you Nessun dorma you now why that damned sadistic princess will yield. You are about to do the same.
I saw Pavarotti once. When I lived in Baltimore and my income had become barely better than starving graduate student, I went to the Met to see Un ballo in Maschera. Pavarotti was singing and I had my doubts. But I also thought that well, I should watch him at least once. Thus, with whom was the great love disaster of my life (who did not care much for Pavarotti either but was a total Opera freak) we took a room in Manhattan and for fun, dressed to kill, we went for a night at the opera (we had been lucky to get very decent side seats). For the record, our relationship started going South that very night when we went for drinks at some sleazy but fashionable Soho bar.
The Met staging was a disaster. It included gyrating potted plants whose possible symbolism was totally lost in our painfully repressed laughter. And Pavarotti, already overweight and with great mobility problems was sitting through the whole presentation while everyone else circled around. Making the mental break from the vigorous and young and dashing King of Sweden to this differently abled Tenor was, well, quite a feat. And yet... Pavarotti talent was big enough that after a while I started forgetting about his chair, about the gyrating potted pants, about the lost in space chorus. Pavarotti became the opera and the rest was accessory. Not that I really liked him, but there was something in his voice, something in his style that slowly but surely managed to force you to let the music take over. I suppose that this was the strength of Pavarotti: suddenly you thought that you understood opera.
As I say goodbye to Pavarotti and thank him for the gift of opera until the XXI century I cannot help but also note that Pavarotti was all that chavismo is not, could never be. Besides rekindling the glamor of opera, a snobbish and intellectual and elite activity if any, an art form so far from the huddled and cattle driven chavista masses, an art which is now frowned upon in the bolivarian conception of art where any stick and drum hitting together are termed great art of the people, Pavarotti was also a sponsor of all sorts of other talents. And Pavarotti, even as a divo extraordinaire, was not above sharing, really sharing, the stage. Can anyone conceive of a situation where, say, the three tenors of Evo, Correa and Chavez will have equal billing when Chavez attends? Can anyone imagine Chavez nurturing young political talents with the sincere hope that one day they will be better, brighter, smarter, more educated than the teacher, allowing the teacher to retire? The comparison is not an idle one: Chavez is much more of an entertainment artist than a ruler. Politics for him are a continuous vaudeville, a permanent "Sabado Sensacional"; he is a Don Francisco that read Chomsky during an insomnia bout.
So good night sweet pasta lover prince of Opera. After all, maybe I was not mature enough, not sensual enough to understand your art. Maybe one day I will "get" you and I will finally relent and buy the three Tenor DVD.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
1) I could not find a free Pavarotti recording of Mattinata. But I found better, in a way. One of his proteges, Andrea Bocelli singing it. With Pavarotti introducing him. I never cared for Bocelli either, but he certainly is a show case of what Pavarotti could do to help people out. It would have been tacky tonight to have a video of Pavarotti singing, so we will have to do with Bocelli.
-The end-
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