Don Giovanni Weather with Ghosts

http://amzn.to/1TDh07s  My Mozart  ISBN:  1927476364

What we’ve had here today has been sun, clouds, and a sort of golden light falling through autumnal trees that I call Don Giovanni weather. And what, you ask, makes me call it that? Well, it’s the end of October now and we are approaching Halloween, the time of year, when, in 1787, to thunderous applause, this opera first debuted. The city was Prague, not Vienna, because, by that time the arbiters of taste in the latter city had decided that Mozart was NOT cool anymore. The infamous con man, Casanova, may have sat in with Lorenzo DaPonte, while the libretto was written. (Back then, the  guy who wrote the words was called “the poet.”) 

When I entered one of those demented OCD states of mind to which I am prone, in the mid-eighties, it was All Mozart All The Time at our house. I began to write two Mozart novels, “Mozart’s Wife” and “My Mozart.” Wouldn’t want anyone reading the titles to wonder what the subject was.

http://amzn.to/1Vy47lm  Mozart’s Wife  ISBN:  1461109612

It happened on a Saturday. Outside, it was doing the classic autumn change over. The silver maples were a staggering yellow that year. The azure sky ( I’m not exaggerating) had been clear all morning, but suddenly, the wind rose and a fleet of puffy, gray-bottomed clouds began to put  a lid on the clear as a bell part of the day. I was doing housework, still attempting the working woman’s bit where you try to do double time and do lots of housework and cooking over weekends. Of course, I was blasting Don Giovanni, absolutely saturating my cells with every note—just as I used to do all through the '60's and ‘70’s with rock’n’roll.     

Husband was off somewhere, and the house was empty of teenage sons, too, so the only nerves I was exercising were my own. In those days I had a fabulous pair of pink high top sneakers that looked killer good with jeans. Jeepers, this was a long time ago--back in the last century...

What happened in my kitchen that afternoon is the only supernatural encounter I’ve had in this house. I’d been making a stromboli for the family, starting with making dough.  I think there genuinely are no ghosts in the structure; this house was built in 1948. There has been anger and grief, but no death. So, in this case the "supernatural" experience focused on me.

To say plain, I'd overdosed on Mozart. And, on this day, too much Don Giovanni, too much dwelling in and on the stories of the past in which I had been immersed, imagining and then writing. This led the strong personality of that singular, charismatic personality, drawn by hero-worship as well as the sound of his music, to pass the gate.

I heard a loud creak, and spun around--dough laid out and ready to receive the layer of meat, cheese, tomato and sweet pepper. There he stood, standing on my 1948-era brick pattern linoleum. Needless to say, after all those long dead years he looked terrible—the “great nosed Mozart” as a contemporary called him. He was gaunt, frail, and his face was lined with suffering, but he was undeniably present.

.

From "The Mozart Brothers" 

Saw him clear as day, I did. He had been heralded by a loud creak followed by an unearthly groan, that old movie sound of the hinges of hell—or, of heaven--swinging wide. It was so loud it overcame the Don, pouring from the kitchen speakers. I jumped backwards, all the way across the kitchen in those pink high top sneakers. By the time the time my feet hit the vinyl once again, Mozart was gone.  

~~Juliet Waldron

And, please, if you've got a moment, check out these talented

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NIGHTINGALE ~ Friday Freebit

 

 

To Klara's delight, her musician sweetheart is also a cat lover.

 

 

 

 

“My grandfather is a keeper of cats,” Akos spoke into the silence. “Ever since I was small, I’ve always had one of my own. Actually,” he said with a smile, “as you perhaps know, a better description of the situation might be that I belong to the cat.”

Klara smiled. His interest in Satz was not feigned.

“And what is your cat like?”

“In my case, I am owned by a queen cat, a lady of many colors. Her name is Zuzanna. She is a good mother and a fine mouser.”

“What happens to all the kittens?” Klara knew that was another thing Max hated about cats, their fertility.

“Zuzanna is populating the Prince’s palace thoroughly, but her kittens are beautiful and find homes.”

“Fortunate for them,” said Klara. She knew that surplus kittens were generally given to servants to drown. She’d be hard pressed to give such an order herself.

“Cats are discriminating about whose life they enter. If a cat trusts you, it is a great compliment.”

 

 

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~Juliet Waldron ~

 

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MY MOZART / Excerpt for MAY DAY

#frifreebits

She was moth to his flame...

...The forest was a living cathedral, the great columns bearing a roof of green. All the time we gradually ascended, following a path. In one place we forded a lively stream, balancing on mossy rocks that barely kept us above the chattering water.

Topping a final rise, we came at last upon the Waldhut. It sat in a small clearing, dwarfed by the biggest pine trees I had ever seen. Smoke trailed from the chimney and a fire also crackled out front, snapping sparks. From the greasy cloud rising from a blackened, steaming rock pile, I knew that a pig had already gone into the pit. There was another smell, too, the welcome fragrance of coffee.

Among the musicians and dancers were handymen and servants, all sharing in the cheerful equality of the day. As Barbara and I laid blankets at the edge of the clearing atop a thick blanket of pine needles, I spied, further back in the woods, a green tent. Stage shrieks emanated from it.

"Gott! The usual bawdy house atmosphere." Barbara took me by the arm and pulled me toward the fire. "You, Blumechen, are to stay far, far away from that tent."

The clearing had the look of an impromptu marketplace, with stacks of rugs and laden baskets. Three children suddenly bounded out the door of the summerhouse, pushing past like unruly dogs. Two boys and a girl, they wore bright lumpy peasant’s clothing.

Who did they remind me of, with their broad laughing faces and thick wild hair?

"Schikaneder's." Barbara answered my unspoken question. "Three different mothers, but look at them, alike as peas in a pod. He keeps a regular herd at some farm near Josephplatz."

Turks, I thought, weren't the only men to keep harems.

Going into the Waldhut with Barbara, we found a trestle table set with breads, butter, cheese and those expensive luxuries, coffee and sugar. With cups in hand we stood around the table with the Schacks, who were already inside eating. At last, in spite of the strong, sugary coffee and so many gay companions, I was sleepier than ever. Barbara and I, after looking at each other and yawning, agreed we couldn't keep our eyes open much longer.

Going into the yard, we collected our things and carried them to an area screened from the clearing by flowering trees. Here, close to the prone form of an ancient pine, we spread our blankets. Ferns and clusters of tiny white and lavender flowers dotted the ground. Barbara fussed at me to hurry and settle, but I spent time carefully finding a spot where the blanket wouldn't crush them.

"Shall I sing my little girl a lullaby?" Barbara leaned back against the fallen tree and kicked off her shoes.

"Yes if you please, Frau Gerl."

Behind us, the clearing grew quiet. There seemed to be a unanimous decision that it was time for a nap. While Barbara softly serenaded me with an old nursery song, I bunched up my shawl for a pillow. A root that felt like a big toe stuck into my side, so I moved my hips. The last conscious thought I had was that I'd never be able to fall asleep here...

 

 

~~~

 

 

I stood with a group of women among the pines. I could hear a bright tune, perfect for a romp, but my companions were still as statues. In their midst was a man, an angel of a man, a man I almost recognized.

Golden curls haloed his face and he wore a crown of laurel leaves, like Apollo. When he beckoned, one of my companions would rise and walk like a sleepwalker into his arms, where she would be embraced and kissed. Melting, the woman would crumple to the ground at his feet and remain there, eyes raised toward his shining face, apparently quite stricken with love..."

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

MY MOZART:

http://amzn.com/B00895X3C

 

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NIGHTINGALE ~~ Excerpts

 

 

Klara sings at an afternoon salon filled with aristocrats, although she doesn't feel well. She is accompanied by Akos Almassy, a pianist and servant to one of the titled guests. She feels strangely drawn to him. 

 

 

Whenever there was pain in Klara's life, she ran to Music, let it carry her to a world of calm, grace and balance.

 

Music could heal any wound, dry any tear. Music was her tender Mother, the only one Klara had ever known.

She filled her lungs, felt the muscular pleasure of response in throat and diaphragm, heard the rich glory of her voice. As Almassy's strong fingers moved upon the black keys, his amber eyes stayed upon her. He was utterly focused on her every move, her every breath.

When the first song was done, Klara curtsied and smiled at the heart-felt applause. On the walls of this elegant reception room, ornamental details flowed up supporting columns and from these, onto the vaulted, painted ceilings, where angels and cherubs flew into clouds. She turned to include Akos in the applause, but she didn't quite dare to look into his eyes now that there was no music between them. Her heart raced, and not entirely from the exertion of song.

Perhaps if I translate this sensation into something recognizable, I can dismiss these queer, disturbing feelings...

Klara was accustomed to the games men played, either because they imagined it politic to feed her vanity, or for the very masculine reason that they had to feed their own. She had learned to flirt lightly, meaning nothing.

After all, who would dare to challenge Maximilian, the man who owned her, the man whose perverse desire had pierced her, a butterfly struggling on the jeweled pin of his passion?

~~~~Juliet Waldron

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MY MOZART

 

 

 

It was said of the enigmatic Mozart that "...'tis unfortunately all too well known that fast living in ill-chosen company shortened his precious days."  My Mozart is the story of Nanina Gottlieb, who begins her narrative as a musiker brat.                                                                                                       

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."

"Come here, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."

My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.

Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.

He had once been boyishly agile, doing handsprings over chairs, turning cartwheels of joy at a prima donna’s kiss or a perfect performance of his own celestial music. He was never tall, and was, like most men of his age, working on a bit of a belly. Still, he kept more or less in shape by a daily regimen which included running from bailiffs, dashing out the back doors of taverns to avoid payment, and climbing in and out of the bedroom windows of adventurous (and talented) musical gentlewomen.

I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year.

His jacket, now spotted and stained, must have been fine enough to wear in the presence of the Emperor. Bright blue, it perfectly matched his eyes. I can still feel the fabric sliding under my fingers as my arms passed over his shoulders and around his neck.

I can still see him‑‑a woolly frizz of blonde hair, long, aquiline nose--a ram that had once been an angel. Sometimes, when he was loving me in some exquisitely naughty way and joyfully smiling as he did it, I could almost see horns…

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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My Mozart by Juliet Waldron from Books We Love

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Reviews:

 This really knocked my socks off, and so you don't have to know the opera or Mozart's music to love this book. ” Kay Cochran

“The brilliance of the plot is that it is timeless ... The characters are as real as today, once again underscoring the fact that people, after all, never change in motives or behavior ... only in time.”  Patricia A. Martin

Of Castratos and Countertenors

 

“Not often they give us Handel!”  I spoke with enthusiasm to the older gentleman seated nearby as we waited for Met @ the Movies to start. I was excited about hearing this nearly 300 year old piece, but as all he said was “Thank God - no!” I understood he wasn’t as jacked as I was about this afternoon's broadcast.

Giulio Cesare was first performed in 1724. It was a hit in its day and has again acquired traction among fans of Baroque opera.  I was familiar with the music because during the 80’s, when I’d been researching Mozart, I’d acquired a Handel CD called “Arias for Senesimo,” featuring Drew Minter, a countertenor. I knew that in the 1770’s, the young Mozart had written for castratos, who were still a feature of the operatic world. (In case you're wondering: the Italians castrated young male singers in order to preserve their soprano/mezzo range.)   These days, we make do with women dressed as men for such roles, or, more recently, with countertenors, men who are able to sing into a higher range, by using “head voice,” a.k.a.,  falsetto.

 As was usual at the Met @ The Movies, I was the youngest person present, a phenomenon which saddens me.  I sincerely hope that opera, this glorious, arcane slice of Western Civ. is not on its way to the cultural junkyard.  I have to admit that Giulio Cesare is definitely not the kind of opera you’d take a neophyte to hear/see. Not everyone can handle a middle aged man with a beard singing in a beautiful soprano voice. Dramatically, too, this kind of Opera Seria was already considered “old-fashioned” in Mozart’s time, fifty years later. There isn’t a lot of character development or action. The structure of the arias is not complex, either—a statement and a restatement, varied only by the addition of increasingly florid vocal embellishments. (An “Aria of Love,” an “Aria of Rage,” an “Aria of Sorrow.”)  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUnohSWwIh0

 

I admit I spent the next 4 ½ hours watching two fabulous male leads who acrobatically sang, soprano and mezzo, and a marvelous female soprano playing the part of a boy in what is called a “trouser role.” (As I’ve said before, this is not everyone’s scene. ) The multi-talented Natalie Dessay, who sang Cleopatra, performed some astonishing “song and dance” numbers which showed that not only could she sing Handel, but she could dance to him, too, deft as any Broadway hoofer.   

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kz7bM2DBd7Y

~~

Juliet Waldron

http://www.mozartswife.com

Yet Another Reason to Thank the Canadians

(This is a post, a day late, for dear Mozart's Birthday.)

 

My local Public Radio station has stopped offering the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday afternoons in favor of cheaper and doubtless more popular talk show programs.  I’m sure to be in the minority here—what else is new?—but this, to me, feels like yet more evidence of the decline and fall of western civilization in these United States. I’m probably over-reacting, but I’ve been listening to the Met on Saturday afternoons ever since I can remember. At first, of course, not intentionally listening, but my mother loved the opera, and if she could find a radio station which carried it, winter afternoons, that was the music which soared through our house. I would sit on the floor beside her bed, where she was ensconced with a half-read murder mystery, the ever present cigarettes and a blonde cocker-spaniel , listening to the radio. Here I’d invent my own games and stories, moving toys across the woolen rugs. Opera seeped through my skin, I guess, and I learned composers and famous singers and opera lore simply by being present.  Long winter afternoons, gray and snowy—we lived in upstate New York—it was a perfect way to hide out from the endless inclement weather. The Met came to us in all its high culture glory across Lake Eire from civilized Toronto, the path of least resistance for radio waves.

 

So now, in a way, I’ve returned full circle to that childhood. I spend hours daily in front of my computer, and, blessedly, at this point, internet radio stations are plentiful. I’ve settled on the CBC for my Saturday afternoon fix of Donizetti, Verdi, Wagner, Mozart, Puccini et al, and it just occurred to me that in a way, I’m right back where I started from, listening to this beloved, hallowed, and increasingly hoary art form, courtesy of the kindly Canadian Broadcasting system.   

 ~~Juliet

 

http://www.julietwaldron.com

 

Afternoon at the Opera

Just attended one of those wonderful HD transmissions in my local Regal theater. These originate at the Saturday matinee of the Metropolitan Opera’s "Aida."

“Met at the Movies” is a godsend to lots of us: elderly fans and to those who’d like to introduce kids to this peculiar Western art form, and folks like me who don’t have a zillion dollars for Trip to NYC + A Good Seat. I hope it raises some money for the Met, too, during this economic fall over the cliff we’ve just passed through.

It’s not only a real treat to see/hear the opera through the privileged eyes of cameras, but to get the commentary from the elegant Diva Renee Fleming. This week, she took us backstage to see fascinating things we’d never get a look at otherwise, like the formidable machinery that moves huge sets and multi-level stages in a few minutes, while stage hands, focused as any pit crew, swarm everywhere.

As the performance is broadcast live, all the glitches are there, too, like this week’s incident where the Prima Donna had to leap across a rapidly opening gap between two stages. Verdi Prima Donnas are not generally made for jumping, so her stumble when she landed elicited a gasp of real fear from the audience who really wanted her to survive to sing the last two acts.

When I was a kid, my mother spent her winter Saturday afternoons stretched on her bed with a cocker spaniel and a murder mystery. She chain-smoked and listened to the Metropolitan Opera’s radio broadcast. We managed to pick it up in the Finger Lakes, although the nearest station that carried it was in Toronto.

Grand Opera became the sonic background to many a snowy, freezing afternoon of childhood. I know this makes me a little strange, but the emotional depth and absolute beauty of operatic music became imprinted on my brain.

Yesterday, I sat in the theater, listening to the familiar score of "Aida" and remembered all sorts of things, like me and my best friend, Gay, dressing up and dancing to this music. A melancholy rush through time into a dark, cold Skaneateles afternoon...

Snow piled up outside, and the two of us, all of ten or eleven, played at ballet and make-believe, putting the needle back on the "Aida Highlights" record again and again. We danced in tights and undershirts, wearing junk jewelry we imagined was exotic, long polyester scarves and odds and ends from the costume box her clever seamstress mother maintained. For a few hours, we were Temple Priestesses or the Princess Amneris' dancing girls, not just kids in a small upstate town.