Rafael R. Villalobos' interpretation of Gluck's “Iphigénie enTauride” unfolds against the haunting remains of the bombed-out theatre of Mariupol in Ukraine. There, the audience is immersed in a grim scene where ancient myths meet contemporary horror. This production, created by Villalobos in 2022, is a co-production between Opera Ballet Vlaanderen and Montpellier, where the work premiered in 2023. This season it has its premier in Belgium.  © Annemie Augustijns / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen Director Rafael R. Villalobos presents Iphigénie en Tauride against the devastated backdrop of the theater in Mariupol, which was destroyed by bombings during the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022. This is the setting where ancient myths intertwine with the harsh realities of our time. Once a beacon of culture and civilization, the theater now stands as a symbol of wartime destruction, a grave for hundreds of civilians who lost their lives there due to Russian aggression (the word "Children," chalked into the ground at the main entrance in Russian, was mainly an incitement to throw another bomb on it for the invaders). The production begins with a piece of “traditional” theater by Euripides. Agamemnon attempts to console his wife, Clytemnestra, reminding her that their daughter, Iphigenia, now dwells among the gods. Yet Clytemnestra is inconsolable—furious and vengeful, as will become evident. This is the final scene from Iphigénie en Aulide. The opera cast looks on, they are the audience of a performance whose sequel, Iphigénie en Tauride, they themselves will perform. In this meta-theatrical setting, the orchestral storm Gluck evokes in the overture is interrupted by a bombardment, we see smoke and the roof collapses. Survivors seek refuge. Iphigénie appeals to the gods for help against the avenging lightning, to spare the innocent and stop the violence. These are lyrics that fit well with an opening that is set against the backdrop of war crimes. Placing ancient operatic repertoire in the modern era often has an alienating effect, with certainly not always satisfying results but here, coupled with a present whose future we do not yet know, it deprives us of the comfort of hindsight. And that gives Gluck's 18th-century opera a heartbreaking and uncomfortable immediacy.  © Annemie Augustijns / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen The opera's story, rooted in the aftermath of the Trojan War, is itself a tale of survival and suffering. Iphigénie, long thought to be dead, is rescued from the sacrificial block by the goddess Diana and now finds herself stranded in Tauride (located in the Crimea, the linkage of war-then with war-now is not far-fetched) where she serves as a priestess. King Thoas, who has been told by an oracle that it is a foreigner who will endanger his life, has decreed that all foreigners who set foot on Tauride should be executed. And it is Iphigénie who is entrusted with that task. Fate brings her brother, Orestes, to these shores, though neither recognises the other at first. The drama that unfolds between them -confusion, grief and eventual reunion- culminates in the intervention of, again, the goddess Diana who will eventually grant them both safety and a return to Greece. The ancient story of Iphigénie, who narrowly escapes death and to find herself in exile in a world of endless violence, feels terrifyingly contemporary. Here the myth becomes a mirror for a world still in a state of conflict. At the beginning of the third act, just after the interval, there is another piece of theatre (this time to Sophocles' text) in which Clytemnestra lashes out against Elektra and explains why she killed her husband, Agememnon (Richard Strauss would later go all out on the house of Atreus in his own Screaming for vengeance-opera Elektra). The idea behind those inserted bits of stage play is better than the execution. The acting is stiff and awkward, the stage acting contrasting in a blunt way with the sophistication of the opera - that sublime interplay of text, song and music.  © Annemie Augustijns / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen Iphigénie en Tauride is Gluck's last so-called ‘reform opera’. In it, he says farewell to the Da-Capo-Aria, sacrifices (baroque) form to dramatic progress, and provides a mature accompaniment of the recitatives by the orchestra. In these ways, he makes the dividing line between aria and recitative more diffuse (Wagner would willingly be inspired by it). With his reforms, Gluck thus presents himself as the best of both worlds: the delicacy and melodiousness of 18th-century opera with the pulsating progress of a through-composed 19th-century musical drama. In Michèle Losier 's performance as Iphigénie, we see and hear a mezzo-soprano who embodies drama and artistry in a role often sung by a soprano. With emotional power and exquisite technical subtlety, she navigates the turbulent waters of her character's inner world. In doing so, she is both musically astute and heartbreakingly sensitive. Reinoud of Mechelen is a Pyladus of ardent, passionate loyalty. A friend -a lover- who is willing to sacrifice his life for Orestes, his cousin. His tenor is warm and bright, conveying the fervour of his character with verve. Kartal Karagedik is Orestes, a brave and raw character whose baritone is richly and aptly matched to Van Mechelen's lyric tenor. Their singing together is the voicing of a deep entanglement, as harmonious as it is tragic and fateful. Lucy Gibbs appears briefly as Diana, yet leaves a lasting impression. Her portrayal of the goddess emerges with ethereal beauty and deliberate authority, supported by a voice that resounds like an unyielding celestial decree. In his portrayal of Thoas, Wolfgang Stefan Schwaiger brings to life a man whose gestures and vocal expressions exude a ruthless menace. In him, the disturbances of war and lust for power find an impressive theatrical representation. He violates women, an illustration of a king's brutality that echoes an extremely bleak, harsh reality (Tens of thousands women and children are reported to have been victims of (sexual) violence since the Russian invasion of Ukraine). As Thoas, Schwaiger is a sinister stage personality (that's a recommendation) who embodies the devastating power of human cruelty.  © Annemie Augustijns / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen The choir conducted by Jori Klomp is of an almost unearthly beauty. Witnessing tragic fate, the choir carries a timeless wisdom. Its words - poetic, rhythmic, often solemn - express what individuals cannot: the universal and eternal suffering of humanity, our shared fears, doubts, and questions. Very beautiful is the resurrection of the Furiae who throw themselves at Orestes like tormentors, hauntingly imposing themselves on his conscience (after all, he killed his mother). The orchestra led by Benjamin Bayl plays with a fiery intensity that feels both dramatic and nuanced, in which each musical phrase is carefully constructed as a story in itself. The strength and depth of the orchestral sound evokes emotions ranging from passion to stillness, while remaining surprisingly transparent throughout. Every detail, from the velvety strings to the fiery brass, is heard crystal clear, like a web of sounds in which everything falls harmoniously into place. When the final notes of the opera die away in the silence of the ruined theatre, we are left, not with the catharsis of a myth, but with the uneasy realisation that, unlike Iphigénie and Orestes, we cannot count on gods to come to our rescue. It is impossible to watch this production, the world of Tauride set in a theatre violated by war, without reflecting on the state of the world and the fragility of the European project - the dream of a continent united by shared values of peace, democracy and human rights. The more a drama we witness in a theatre is palpable, the better, overall, the theatre experience. I spoke to a few people from Mariupol who attended the premiere. From them, I wanted to know whether a theatrical representation of a drama so close to home, a drama that is still ongoing, can still be experienced as theatre, whether there is anything left to ‘enjoy’. More important than any objections from the (sensitive) audience was the urgency and importance that the story was told and re-told. And that theatre, with the resources at its disposal, had to be used above all to tell (also) stories that were not mere entertainment.  © Annemie Augustijns / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen At that reception afterwards, I stood among people from different parts of Europe; besides Belgians and Dutch, people from Italy, France, Poland and Ukraine. People from different backgrounds, with shared interests, coming from different places. It was a look at the present with a promise of a future in which we live together peacefully, want to solve problems and not use them as an excuse to play scapegoat politics. I could hardly shake off the feeling that we might later look back on this time as ‘The World of Yesterday’. Stefan Zweig's 1942 requiem for a Europe that had been crushed by turbo-nationalism and fascism. It was like looking back from the past to the present in which the cold reality of Russian imperialism and the imminent rise of fascism (on the eve of the US presidential election!), was too pregnant to be considered comfortable. Perhaps therein lay the real drama of the evening. That this poignant production of Iphigénie en Tauride from Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck, the man who loved to look across borders, who thought the national differences between Italian, French and German opera were just nonsense, was a catalyst for the realisation that the Europe looked to from Ukraine (but also from Georgia) as a promise of freedom may soon no longer exist. It is a final note in which melancholic wistfulness extends like a silent, compelling recommendation to experience this opera in the theatre. For that is preferably the place to enjoy art, and it is desirable, necessary even perhaps, that there the stories that most deeply confront us with our own fragility and the raw reality of things also find their voice. And you get beautiful music to go with it. Iphigénie en Tauride, Christoph Willibald von Gluck / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen, Antwerp, 25 October 2024 (Belgian premiere) Benjamin Bayl Conductor Symfonisch Orkest Opera Ballet Vlaanderen Rafael R. Villalobos Director, Costume Designer Jori Klomp Conductor choir Koor Opera Vlaanderen Michèle Losier Iphigénie Kartal Karagedik Oreste Reinoud van Mechelen Pyladus Wolfgang Stefan Schwaiger Thoas, King of Scythia Lucy Gibbs Diana Hugo Kampschreur Scythian Dagmara Dobrowolska First priestess Bea Desmet Second priestess - Wouter de Moor
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This year, we celebrate Anton Bruckner's 200th birthday. Composer of massive, timeless and time-consuming symphonies. Ever since I was introduced to Bruckner's music (via a recording of the 7th symphony, in a performance by the Wiener Philharmoniker conducted by Karl Böhm), Bruckner's music has never failed to move me. Whereas Bruckner was initially still a kind of symphonic Richard Wagner to me, his music has since increased my awareness of him and I grant him, unconditionally, his well-deserved place in the Pantheon of Greats on his own merits. I kept and keep discovering new layers, new meaning, in the symphonies - so often referred to as cathedrals of sound - of dear Anton.  But before we embark upon our journey through the music of the composer and organist from Ansfelden, we pause briefly and lend an ear to the brooding, dark sounds of heavy metal. Up the Irony! There is a peculiar irony in the modern mind's pursuit of comfort through what is, ostensibly, discomforting music. The scream that rends the air, the violent cacophony of guitars and drums, the suffocating symphonic blackness of gothic metal – these elements, one would assume, are designed to unsettle, to disturb the soul, to plunge it into an abyss of existential terror. And yet, it is precisely here, amidst the frenetic intensity of symphonic deathcore or the baroque theatrics of gothic metal, that we find a curious solace, a strange and disturbing sense of comfort. For all the ostensible chaos and violence, the listener is, in fact, ensconced in a realm of safety, shielded from true peril by the very structure of the music itself. The roaring abyss, it seems, is neatly framed. I spent some time with Cradle of Filth's latest studio album, Existence is Futile, a hallucinatory metal masterpiece where ideas and execution find each other in stunning, edifying ways. Darkness be praised. But I noticed, with all the carefully curated darkness and immaculate brutality, that everything remains in place, that the form and content are kept neatly delineated. There is talk of death, there are invocations of the void, thrilling in their artifice, but ultimately rendered as mere entertainment. There is no terror here that can linger in the heart, no shadow that truly threatens to consume the soul. The violence is contained, the darkness tempered by its own predictability. In this respect, such music – for all its intensity – is as comforting as any pastoral symphony (ha!), offering not a glimpse into the void, but a carefully controlled masquerade of dread. If we really want to hear something grand that alienates and disconcerts us, we have to turn to something else, to the modern, avant-garde composers of the 19th and 20th centuries for example. To music that questions form as well as content. Enter: Anton Bruckner (1824-1896) My affinity for metal, without question, rendered Bruckner's music, much like Wagner's, more accessible. In Bruckner, as in metal, I discovered a profound resonance between grand, sweeping gestures and the intimate stirrings of the soul—a connection imbued with a depth of feeling not unfamiliar to those who journey through life with a certain melancholy and reflective mind. And it was, in turn, through listening to heavy metal—that "other music" to which this very website owes its name—that the surprising and innovative nature of Bruckner’s work became so vividly clear to me. It is not the loudness or the violence of music that disconcerts us most. It is when it dares to question the very nature of sound, when it peels back the thin veneer of order to reveal the chaos beneath, that we are truly alienated. Especially after listening to a few hours of metal, the music of Anton Bruckner can sound unusually unsettling and nervous. Like in metal, Bruckner comes with grandness and evocative power but here the music trembles on the precipice of revelation, unable to find comfort in its own beauty. Beautiful things, indeed, happen within his symphonies, but they are not an end in themselves. There is a sense, as one listens, of something deeper at work – something that cannot be safely contained within the formal bounds of composition. The music is seeking, striving towards a form that, in turn, must define its content, and yet there remains an uncertainty, a nervousness, as if the composer himself is unsure of the end towards which he gropes. Anton Bruckner, often associated with the grandiose and spiritual symphonic traditions of the 19th century, is perhaps paradoxically one of the most forward-thinking composers of his era. While his symphonies may evoke the majesty of classical forms, they also possess qualities that align him with modernist and avant-garde composers who would come decades later. His music, characterized by unconventional structures, complex harmonic language, and a defiance of traditional compositional norms, challenges the boundaries between tradition and innovation. Bruckner's Radical Use of Form At first glance, Bruckner’s symphonies seem to adhere to the grand Austro-Germanic tradition established by Beethoven with expansive symphonic structures and a reverence for spiritual expression. However, beneath the surface, Bruckner’s approach to musical form was far more radical than his predecessors or contemporaries. Unlike Brahms, who worked meticulously within the constraints of classical forms, Bruckner took an entirely different approach. His symphonies are vast, architectural works, often spanning over an hour, but they do not conform to traditional expectations of symphonic development. Bruckner’s music builds through massive, almost static blocks of sound, interspersed with long periods of quiet contemplation, creating an architecture that feels suspended in time. As if time becomes space. The scale and pacing of these blocks reject the conventional dynamic flow and linear progression expected in symphonic movements. His use of repetition and cyclical patterns, rather than continuous development, draws the listener into a more meditative and abstract sound world. This technique foreshadows the “block” structures of 20th-century composers like Igor Stravinsky and György Ligeti, who similarly fragmented and reorganized the linearity of music. In Bruckner, there is a essential unease – a tension that arises not from the mere imitation of achieving an effect, be it dark, solemn or grandiose, but from the composer’s very struggle to grasp at something ineffable. The music does not simply seek to please or to titillate; it seeks to offer an experience that may, in some shadowy, uncertain way, illuminate the mysteries of life and perhaps even that which lies beyond. The Adagios of his last three symphonies are expanses of magnificent, sublime vastness. Spaces in which time stands still and expands. Yet, as with the works of his great predecessor, Richard Wagner, the staggering beauty of Bruckner's music does not reveal itself through conventional harmony or easily discerned melodies. Instead, it is a strange, elusive beauty, distinguished by an uncanny abrasion—a wearing away of familiar forms—against a backdrop of enigmatic chord progressions. His music quivers on the edge of dissolution, as if the composer himself is lost in the very darkness or eternity he seeks to comprehend. The nervousness of his symphonies is the nervousness of a man who peers into the void and does not know what he will find there.  Gothic imagery. The tomb of Anton Bruckner in St. Florian. In a crypt where the symphonist lies beneath his organ and opposite a wall of skulls. The Greatness of Music Thus, we return to the notion of music as a conduit to something greater – something that transcends the mere performance of discomfort and instead confronts the listener with the raw, unmediated essence of existence. In metal, form and content are safely entwined but in Bruckner there is no such safety. Against the grandeur and triumph of the hard-rocking finale of the 8th symphony stands for example the finale of the 5th symphony in which the music seems to strain against its own form. Searching for a way to express that which cannot be contained, and in doing so, it forces us to confront the most essential questions of our lives. What are we? Where are we going? What, if anything, lies beyond the darkness that awaits us all? In this light, the true power of music lies not in its ability to entertain or to comfort, but in its capacity to unsettle, to disrupt our complacency, and to force us to grapple with the mystery of existence itself. For those willing enough to listen, Bruckner’s monumental symphonies offer not only the comfort of unadultered beauty in well-worn forms, but also the disquieting promise of something far more profound – an experience that, like life itself, refuses to be safely contained. - Wouter de Moor
The Mahler Academy Orchestra, conducted by Philipp von Steinaecker, gave a special performance of Mahler's 5th Symphony at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. With instruments from Mahler's time they brought the composer’s sound world to life, where tradition and innovation came together in an immersive performance.  Photo: Marco Caselli Nirmal/Ferrara Musica Mahler on period instruments—how does that sound? The Mahler Academy Orchestra, conducted by Philipp von Steinaecker, gave us the opportunity to explore this question. Amsterdam is well-acquainted with Mahler and while debates occasionally arise here about whether his extensive presence in the concerthalls keeps new composers away from their well-needed time of exposure, his symphonies remain a singular phenomenon in the annals of classical music. On September 12th at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, the Austrian maestro once again ensnared a fresh audience in his spectral allure, hinting at his timeless charm. (At least the average age of the audience, which was a lot lower than that of Der Fliegende Holländer almost a week earlier in this hall, suggested something like that.) The inexorable pull of the past continues to mesmerize us, and performances on period instruments offer a striking glimpse into this mystic voyage. Far more profound than a mere visit to the museum, the quest to reawaken a symphony as it might have sounded a century and two decades ago seeks to dispel the cobwebs spun by an age-old musical tradition. Does it unlock our senses anew? Do we rediscover a composition that we have delved into through innumerable versions and interpretations? Philipp von Steinaecker was once a cellist and assistant conductor to the illustrious Claudio Abbado, who founded the Mahler Academy in Bolzano in 1999. Here, youthful musicians from the far reaches of Europe immerse themselves in chamber music and historical Viennese instruments. This endeavor culminated in the Originalklang Project, where students and seasoned musicians from top European orchestras strive to capture the sound that Mahler himself might have envisioned. What stands out about the historical instruments is their transparent sound. Additionally, the orchestral balance is different (and perhaps better); modern brass instruments are much louder than their predecessors that have a greater emphasis on color rather than volume.  Bust of Gustav Mahler in the Concertgebouw Along with the sound of period instruments, Von Steinaecker gave us an interpretation that referred to Willem Mengelberg, the founding father of the Mahler tradition in the Netherlands. Rich in portamento in the strings and a rather free, almost capricious use of rubato. The efficacy of this approach was variable. At times, the deliberate delays intended to heighten tension seemed burdensome. The Adagietto unfurled with an intense, fiery fragility that I found profoundly moving, though my partner deemed it excessively languorous. The nature of perceived slowness is intrinsically subjective. The appropriateness of tempi is a matter of context. Von Steinaecker allowed the orchestra to blaze with fervor and the fin-de-siècle ambiance resounded with formidable power and grandeur, yet in evoking tension through contrast—a domain where Mengelberg reigned supreme—Von Steinaecker fell short of the Dutch maestro. The strings, warm and resonant, performed beautifully as the orchestra's beating heart. They excelled in expressive pizzicato, almost as if dancing a Sirtaki, and were glowing pillars of support for the brass and woodwinds that were revealing a delicate, almost trembling vulnerability. With the period instruments, it was as if you could hear the building blocks of Mahler's 5th Symphony finding their place. The result was refreshing and by times perspective-altering (for instance in the 3rd movement where the horn was given a solo spot, as if in a concerto). Though as a whole, it was not a drastically daring departure from what might be expected. Next year, on the occasion of the Mahler Festival in Amsterdam, which was previously cancelled due to Covid, orchestra and conductor (they previously recorded Mahler's 9th using period instruments) will return for a revival of the 5th.  Before the intermission, Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto served as a warm-up, with the excellent soloist Leif Ove Andsnes returning for a well-received encore. While Andsnes's pianistic skills were unquestionable, I couldn't shake the feeling, as often with Rachmaninoff, that his music is most compelling when performed by Rachmaninoff himself. When the virtuoso aspect of his music does not unfold too explicitly before our ears and eyes but remains more hidden, like a potential that can be unlocked. In compositions that resonate deeply, the notes appear where you don't expect them but where you definitely want them. With Rachmaninoff, the notes often fall where you expect, which can make them seem somewhat redundant. The imposing sequences can become complacent, with the moments of excitement and transcendence proving too infrequent to deliver a wholly satisfying listening experience. But this, I concede, may be a solitary perspective given the fervent reception of the audience (my partner was ecstatic). Mahler & Rachmaninoff, Concertgebouw Amsterdam, 12 September 2024 Mahler Academy Orchestra Philipp von Steinaecker (conductor) Leif Ove Andsnes (piano) Rachmaninoff - Piano concerto nr. 3 in d, op. 30 Mahler - Symphonie nr. 5 in cis - Wouter de Moor
Once more, Jaap van Zweden has raised his baton to deliver us a Wagner opera to remember, casting a spell over the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam with a haunted interpretation of Der Fliegende Holländer. After masterfully handling Lohengrin, Meistersinger, Die Walküre, and Parsifal on earlier occassions in this venue Van Zweden plunged into the supernatural depths of the Flying Dutchman, and it was nothing short of electrifying.  Wagner is a master of turning sound into narrative, and that’s precisely why his operas thrive in concert form. Here, the orchestra isn’t just accompanying the drama—it is the drama. With the orchestra laid bare before us, the music rises like a tempest, a vast, churning sea that threatens to engulf all in its path. The storm is the manifestation of eternal unrest, of passions so intense they border on madness. The wind howls, the waves crash—an allegory for a soul adrift, seeking redemption in a world where only the most harrowing sacrifice can bring meaning. And in the hands of Jaap van Zweden this tumultuous force is masterfully controlled. He grasps Wagner’s complex score with grim determination, guiding us in moderate tempi through a musical landscape that allows every haunting moment to breathe, every sinister whisper to be heard. In this world, so vividly brought to life, the fate of both men and women is far from enviable. Yet, it is particularly the fate of women that offers little to no hope. Wagner's vision of womanhood is one fraught with peril, for in his universe, the woman holds the key to the man’s salvation. This burden is a cruel one. Wagner’s reverence for the feminine form is a double-edged sword, exalting women only to bind them to a role of servitude. Independence, in this desolate realm, is but an illusion. The woman is supposed to do what the man requires, bring redemption for need or desire. It’s a dynamic that’s still alive and kicking in many of today’s love songs and power ballads—a painful reminder of how far we haven’t come. A power ballad of sorts in Wagner’s opera is Senta's ballad. An aria that's supposed to be a gut-wrenching confession of longing, a dream spun from the darkest corners of her soul. Yet Ricarda Merbeth, stepping in at the eleventh hour, lacked the spectral quality required to summon Senta’s vision of the pale, cursed man of her dreams. Instead, she belted it out like Brünnhilde torching Valhalla, or Venus unleashing her wrath on Tannhäuser. The vulnerability, the quiet desperation that should have drawn you into Senta’s world was absent. Merbeth did better later on when Senta’s passion tipped into bordeline insanity, but by then, the spell had already broken. Merbeth, also when taken into account that she was a last-minute substitute, was the weak link of the cast. With Brian Mulligan as the Dutchman there was a man with a tortured soul whose every note was steeped in doom. His bariton was dark, resonant, and filled with the weight of centuries spent drifting on a ghost ship, cursed and haunted. You could feel his torment. Andreas Bauer Kanabas as Daland—the man willing to sell off his own daughter's future for fortune—had a bass voice that rumbled like thunder, matching his character’s moral decay. And Benjamin Bruns as Erik, the hapless lover who watches Senta slip away into the abyss, gave a solid performance that was laced with desperation and sorrow, a portrayal that lingered like the final echo of a dying storm. The roles of the men were well covered with the Helmsman of Matthew Swensen as possible exception. His nasal tenor didn’t exactly steer us into safer waters. But the real stars of the afternoon were the Radio Philharmonic Orchestra, Van Zweden leading them like a man possessed, and the voices of the Groot Omroepkoor and Cappella Amsterdam. Together, they created this tidal wave of sound, this massive, overwhelming force that swept over everything in its path. It was pure, unfiltered Wagner—no pretense.
It was an adrenaline-inducing listening experience, something that blows you away and gets under your skin. On this afternoon, the ghost ship sailed again in all its gothic grandeur, a vessel of dark passion that made hearts race and souls tremble. May we not have to wait another seven years to once again be drawn into its cursed embrace. DER BLEICHE MANN (the pale man)
In 1901, Der Fliegende Holländer was performed for the first time at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth (the opera had premiered in Dresden in 1843, the Bayreuther premier was posthumous, Wagner did not find Der Holländer worthy for his own Festspielhaus). In the audience of 1901 was an Irish writer who had made a name for himself a few years earlier, in 1897, with a novel: Dracula, the name that has since become almost synonymous with the word 'vampire'. Bram Stoker was friends with Bayreuther house conductor Hans Richter, discussed with Richter theatrical matters such as stage lighting. Because next to being a writer, Stoker was also a man of the theatre. As a friend, admirer and manager of the famous English actor Henry Irving, he had made acquaintance with the Holländer-myth through Irvings' interpretation of Vanderdecken, a play about the Flying Dutchman. It was one Joseph Harker (a set designer from the environment of Irving, who designed the stage sets for productions of Lohengrin & Parsifal for Convent Garden in London) that gave Jonathan Harker, main character in Dracula, his name. The fate of the Dutchman (the pale man) shows striking similarities with that of a vampire. Infamous for wandering the earth for eternity.
Der Fliegende Holländer - Concertgebouw Amsterdam, 7 September 2024 Radio Filharmonisch Orkest Groot Omroepkamerkoor Cappella Amsterdam Jaap van Zweden conductor Benjamin Goodson chorus master Brian Mulligan bariton (Holländer) Ricarda Merbeth soprano (Senta) Benjamin Bruns tenor (Erik) Andreas Bauer Kanabas bass (Daland) Matthew Swensen tenor (Der Steurmann Dalands) Iris van Wijnen mezzo soprano (Mary) - Wouter de Moor
The Philharmonie de Paris is host to an exhibition that whispers of power chords and guttural growls, of twisted riffs and thunderous drums. The event, Diabolus in Musica, lays bare Heavy Metal in all its monstrous glory.  The air was thick with expectation as I approached the Philharmonie de Paris, its jagged modern facade looming against the sky like some unearthly temple of a forgotten, diabolical cult. I had long anticipated this pilgrimage, lured not by the strains of classical masterpieces, but by something far darker—an exhibition that whispered of power chords and guttural growls, of twisted riffs and thunderous drums. The very name of the event, Diabolus in Musica, had an eerie resonance, as though the devil himself had inscribed it in the ancient tomes of damnation. Here, Heavy Metal would be laid bare in all its monstrous glory. THE GODFATHERS As I crossed the threshold into the exhibition, a blast of sound engulfed me—Black Sabbath's primal, doom-laden tones, the very genesis of the genre. The air vibrated with a palpable energy, thick with the weight of decades of rebellion and unbridled passion. On a screen there was next to the mighty Sabbath, concert footage of Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple. Epitomes of hardrock and metal. Sources of inspiration for many bands that were to follow. Metal comes with imaginings and images and since we were in France, a country where they know how to honour their cultural heritage we saw, as part of Black Sabbath’s illustrious back catalogue, an authentic sculpture by Auguste Rodin: 'Idole éternelle' from 1889. In 1986, Black Sabbath had sought to immortalize this very sculpture on the cover of their album, The 'Eternal Idol'. The intention was to fuse the esoteric with the eternal, an homage to both the dark arts of music and the immortalized flesh of Rodin's creation. Yet, they were denied permission to do so. For the cover photo, they therefore used a re-enactment of that sculpture, by two models covered in bronze paint. That did not end well. Due to the toxicity of the paint, both man and woman were hospitalized after the shoot. HAUNTING THE CHAPEL The exhibit was structured around Seven Chapels of Metal. In these chapels several musicians were commemorated. Icons of metal, representing several subgenres: Cliff Burton (trash), Bon Scott (hardrock), Chuck Schuldiner (death), Per 'Dead' Ohlin (black), Riley Gale (hardcore), Chester Bennington (nu) & Nicole Bogner (prog). Their lives celebrated, their demises mourned. Their images flickered in the dim light of stained glass, spectral and solemn.  © Joachim Bertrand Each chapel, in its own way, evoked a sense of reverence, not unlike the gothic splendor of Sainte-Chapelle, where I had earlier stood awestruck by the stained glass that recounted stories of divine suffering. But here, in this modern shrine, the tales were of human suffering, human rebellion and human transcendence. (That visit to Sainte-Chapelle was combined with a visit to the Conciergerie, because of Marie-Antoinette and Gojira - of course.) But it was at the shrine of Lemmy Kilmister where I felt the full weight of the exhibition's power. At the moment I laid eyes on his bass guitar, enshrined in glass like a holy relic, the haunting strains of Motörhead’s "God Was Never on Your Side" filled the room. The world outside ceased to exist. Time itself seemed to unravel, and I found myself lost in a vortex of sound and emotion, where only the music mattered. I was both here and elsewhere—in the crowded halls of a live concert, in the solitary refuge of my room where music had been my only companion in endless, lonely hours. In this realm, sound was not merely heard but *seen*—images of horror and beauty intertwined, like the serpentine curves of a Giger monster, or the sinister grin of a killer clown. The exhibition reveled in metal’s affinity for the macabre—guillotines and demons and "Frankenstein" (Eddie Van Halen’s guitar, a creation more alive than any mere instrument, its jagged body invoking rites that liberate and expand the mind). METAL EXPANSION And heavy metal, with its roots so embedded in the West, is spreading its tendrils towards other continents. To Africa for instance, as shown on a wall full of photos with African metalheads. A continent steeped in its own rich traditions, rhythms, and struggles—a place where the music of the land had always been powerful, alive with both pain and joy. A place where metal, a genre that has always thrived on rebellion and the exploration of darkness, found new furtile soil to flourish and grow (Botswana has some deliciously death metal bands with Overthrust being the most well-known). METAL REDEMPTION Few buildings, I mused, could so aptly contain the dark, wild energy of heavy metal as the Philharmonie. Its vast, angular roof seemed to stretch toward the heavens like the spires of some infernal cathedral. As I stood on the rooftop, the view of Paris below seemed distant and almost unreal. This, I thought, could be the setting for a staging of Wagner's Parsifal. Backdrop for the story of a hero seeking redemption in a world that had long since forgotten what it meant. And when I was listening to the silence on that spacious rooftop, with the distant rumble of drums and the faintest wail of a guitar echoing in my brain, Heavy Metal, I realized again, was not merely a genre of music. It was a big toy in the hands of a kid, a gateway to liberation, a way to your place in the world. It was a key to a door that, once opened, could never be closed.  And as I walked downstairs I was already looking forward to my next visit. The Grande Salle de Pierre Boulez, with its modular design, the concert hall where Behemoth performed in April, as part of the Philharmonie's focus on heavy metal until the end of September, is something I must definitely experience in concert. - Wouter de Moor
From the chronicles of the Rhine comes the story of Wotan and the cursed gold. A Gothic tale of madness, betrayal, and eternal lament, whispered in hushed tones by those who dared to remember. The moon hung low over the jagged peaks of the forested mountains, casting an eerie silver glow on the mist-shrouded Rhine. Deep within its inky waters lay the Rhinegold, a treasure of unimaginable power and malevolence. For centuries, it had remained hidden, guarded by the ethereal Rhine Maidens, whose haunting beauty was matched only by their mysterious nature. In a decrepit castle perched atop a cliff, Wotan, the Vampire Lord, brooded over his decaying domain. His once-glorious reign was threatened by the relentless spread of death and decay. Beside him, his wife Fricka, a vampiress of unrivaled beauty and cunning, whispered dark prophecies of doom.  Wotan and Fricka "We must act, Wotan," she urged, her eyes glowing with an unholy light. "The power of the Rhinegold can restore our dominion over the night." But to seize the Rhinegold, Wotan needed the cunning of Loge, a shape-shifting trickster, a fire starter, whose allegiance was as fluid as the mists of the river. Loge had whispered to Wotan of a vile creature, Alberich, who had stolen the Rhinegold and renounced love in order to forge a ring of immense power.  Alberich chases a Rhine Maiden In the depths of Nibelheim, Alberich, now a monstrous, rotting lich, commanded a legion of his fellow Nibelungen. The ring had twisted his soul, turning him into a necromancer of terrifying might. His army of the enslaved, animated by the dark magic of the ring, spread terror throughout the land. Wotan and Loge descended into the bowels of the earth, where the air was thick with the stench of death. They found Alberich in a cavern lit by the sickly glow of the cursed gold. His eyes, sunken and lifeless, gleamed with malice as he caressed the ring.  The ring has turned Alberich into a necromancer of terrifying might With a serpentine grin, Loge whispered into Alberich's ear, promising him eternal dominion over the living and the dead if he joined forces with Wotan. Blinded by his lust for power, Alberich agreed, not knowing he was ensnared in a web of deceit. Back at the castle, Wotan, with the ring in his grasp, felt its dark power coursing through him. But as he donned the ring, a terrible curse was unleashed. The skies darkened, and the once-vibrant forests withered into a wasteland of twisted trees and skeletal remains. The ring's malevolent influence began to consume Wotan, turning him into a being of pure darkness. Fricka watched in horror as her husband transformed, his vampire essence corrupted by the ring's insidious magic. Desperate, she sought the counsel of Erda, the ancient earth goddess, who revealed the ring's ultimate doom. "Only by returning the Rhinegold to its rightful place can the curse be broken," she intoned, her voice echoing like the whispers of the dead. In terror, Freia watches Fafner take possession over her. Before Wotan could respond, a terrifying crash echoed through the castle. The giant Fafner, a colossal undead beast with hollow, glowing eyes, had come to collect a debt. Years ago, Wotan had promised Fafner the lovely Freia, the goddess of youth and beauty, in exchange for building the fortress Valhalla. Now Fafner had come to claim his prize. With a roar that shook the very foundations of the castle, Fafner seized Freia in his massive, decaying hands. Her screams of terror echoed through the halls as Wotan and Fricka watched helplessly. The giant's strength was too great, even for Wotan in his corrupted state. "We must save her!" Fricka cried, her eyes blazing with desperation. "Without Freia's apples of youth, we are doomed to wither and die." Loge, ever the schemer, saw an opportunity. "We can trade the Rhinegold for Freia," he suggested. "Fafner's greed is boundless; he will accept the gold in her stead."  Wotan's army of darkness But Wotan, now a shadowy wraith, refused to relinquish the Ring's Power. Consumed by madness, he unleashed his fury upon the world, commanding legions of the undead in a reign of terror. The Rhine Maidens, sensing the growing darkness, rose from the depths to reclaim the Rhinegold. Their voices, haunting and mournful, echoed through the desolate lands, calling forth the spirits of the fallen. In a climactic battle beneath the blood-red moon, the Maidens confronted Wotan, their ethereal forms shimmering with a ghostly light.  Loge betrays the Rhine Maidens But the battle turned against them. Wotan's newfound power proved too great, and one by one, the Maidens were driven back into the shadows. Loge, true to his duplicitous nature, betrayed them, ensuring Wotan's victory. As the final Maiden was cast down, the ring's malevolent power surged, binding the Rhinegold irreversibly to Wotan's dark soul.  The world goes to rot. The Rhine Maidens turn to creatures of the night In the aftermath, the mournful lament of the Rhine Maidens echoed through the lifeless forests and desolate lands as the daughters of the Rhine, once epitomes of all good and grace, themselves turned into creatures of the night. The Rhine River, once a symbol of life and beauty, flowed black and corrupted, its waters a testament to the darkness that now reigned. Software: DALL-E, Adobe Photoshop & Adobe Firefly
- Wouter de Moor The music, too, was of ineffable inspiration. Insensible as I am to music in general, I cannot escape the magic of Wagner, whose genius caught the deepest spirit of those ancestral yellow-bearded gods of war & dominion before whom my own soul bows as before no others --  H.P. Lovecraft, the master of cosmic horror and the creator of an intricate mythos was known for his complex relationship with art and music. In his letters, Lovecraft often expressed a rather limited appreciation for music, noting that his enjoyment was largely through associative memory rather than intrinsic appreciation. Yet, amidst his general indifference, he showed, at least on one occasion (see quote above) his admiration for Richard Wagner. Lovecraft’s sporadic admiration for Wagner provides a fascinating insight into how the operatic grandeur and mythological depth of Wagner's works could resonate with Lovecraft's own literary cosmos. (Lovecraft is not known to have ever attended a Wagner opera in full production. Note that what follows is a toying with ideas, this article by no means tries to prove something.) LOVECRAFT’S MUSICAL INDIFFERENCE AND WAGNERIAN EXCEPTION Lovecraft's self-professed indifference to most music is well-documented. He confessed to deriving more emotional appeal from simple, patriotic tunes like It's a Long Way to Tipperary or Rule, Britannia than from the complex compositions of, let's say, Liszt, Beethoven and (also) Wagner. Lovecraft acknowledged his limitations in enjoying music but avoided the common pitfall of deriding what he did not comprehend. Instead, he expressed a form of reverence for those who could appreciate the musical intricacies.  THE MYTHOLOGICAL DEPTH OF WAGNER AND LOVECRAFT One of the most compelling reasons Wagner's operas might resonate with Lovecraft lies in their shared affinity for mythological and ancestral themes. Wagner's operas, particularly his monumental cycle Der Ring des Nibelungen, draw heavily on Germanic and Norse mythology. These narratives evoke a sense of ancient grandeur and cosmic struggle, elements that are central to Lovecraft's mythos. Lovecraft's writing often delves into the ancient and the cosmic, exploring themes of forbidden knowledge, ancient gods, and the insignificance of humanity in the face of the universe's vastness. The grandeur and complexity of Wagner’s mythological narratives could easily mirror the vast, eerie cosmos that Lovecraft constructed in his stories. Wagner’s ability to evoke a deep sense of the primeval and the sublime through music might have provided Lovecraft with a rare artistic resonance, bridging his literary worlds with the operatic grandeur of ancestral myths. EMOTIONAL AND AESTHETIC PARALLELS Emotionally, both Wagner and Lovecraft create works that transcend their mediums to evoke profound, often unsettling emotions. Wagner’s music is known for its ability to convey intense emotions, from (temporarily) triumph to the (inevitable) tragic downfall of heroes. Lovecraft, through his prose, elicits a different emotional response—fear, awe, and a sense of the unknown. The emotional depth in Wagner’s compositions might have spoken to Lovecraft’s appreciation for the dramatic and the otherworldly, offering him a glimpse into the emotional potential of art that he otherwise found elusive. Aesthetically, Wagner’s innovative use of leitmotifs—recurring musical themes associated with particular characters, places, or ideas—parallels Lovecraft’s own use of recurring motifs and themes throughout his works. Just as Wagner's leitmotifs build a complex, interwoven narrative structure, Lovecraft’s recurring references to his pantheon of eldritch beings and forbidden tomes create a rich, interconnected mythos. This structural similarity might have further enhanced Lovecraft's appreciation for Wagner, recognizing a kindred complexity in the narrative techniques they employed. OPERA & CTHULHU To the Wagnerian universe, we add a monster. Because good stories, even those already rich in drama and conflict, can always use a monster (see the movie Godzilla Minus One). So what if Cthulhu, Lovecraft's most famous creation, pops up in a few of Wagner's operas? DIE WALKÜRE  From the inky depths, a monstrous shadow began to emerge. The sea swelled and churned violently, as if recoiling from the dark presence rising from its heart. Tentacles, each the size of ancient oaks, broke the surface, writhing and twisting as they reached for the sky. The water around them frothed and bubbled, releasing a noxious mist that spread across the coastline. The Valkyries gasped in unison, their courage momentarily shaken by the sight before them. SIEGFRIED  Wotan meets Cthulhu: Wotan, in his guise as the Wanderer, enters the scene. He is on a quest to observe the unfolding fate of his grandson, Siegfried, who is destined to forge a new future. As Wotan approaches the place where he wants to summon Erda, the goddess of the Earth, the atmosphere grows oppressive. The air itself seems to thrum with a dark energy. Wotan: What dark power stirs in this ancient wood? A force beyond the ken of gods and men. My spear, once mighty, quivers in my grasp, As shadows deepen and the light grows dim. (The mist thickens, and from the depths of the forest, Cthulhu’s massive form begins to emerge. The creature’s sheer size and otherworldly nature defy comprehension.) Cthulhu (communicating telepathically, his voice a deep, resonant echo that reverberates in Wotan's mind): Wotan, king of gods, your time has come, The age of man and gods alike shall end. I rise from depths where madness dwells, To claim this world as mine, beyond your ken. Wotan (struggling to maintain his composure, confronts the cosmic horror before him): Great Old One, from realms unknown, you tread, But this is not your time, nor your domain. The Norns have woven fate’s unyielding thread, And Siegfried’s hand shall forge a new refrain. (Cthulhu’s presence warps the very fabric of reality around him, the forest seeming to bend and twist.) Cthulhu (with an aura of ancient, incomprehensible power): The fate you speak of matters not to me, For I am eternal, beyond time’s frail chains. Your world shall crumble, your Valhalla fall, As chaos reigns and madness stains. Wotan (steeling himself and raises his spear): Then let us clash, titans of different spheres, For the sake of man and gods, I’ll stand my ground. Though doom may follow, and Valhalla fade, In this twilight hour, our fates are bound.  TANNHÄUSER  The Pilgrims’ Chorus As the pilgrims sing, their hopeful hymn is interrupted by an unnatural silence. The air grows thick with an oppressive force. Emerging from the lake, Cthulhu's form casts a shadow over the procession. The pilgrims’ song becomes frantic, their hymns morphing into desperate pleas for salvation. The lush, redemptive melody of their song twists into something darker, reflecting the terror of encountering a being beyond mortal comprehension. TRISTAN UND ISOLDE  Emerging from the darkness, towering over the trees, was a grotesque, monstrous figure. Its eyes, glowing with an otherworldly light, fixed on Isolde. As she faced the eldritch horror, Cthulhu’s deep, resonant voice filled her mind. "The monster is within," it seemed to say, "for your deepest fears and desires have summoned me." In that moment, Isolde realized that their forbidden love, their yearning to escape the confines of their mortal lives, had conjured this manifestation of their innermost darkness. The monster was not merely an external force but a reflection of her own tortured soul, an embodiment of the fears and desires that drove her into his arms.  AND IN CONCLUSION ...
Software: DALL-E, Adobe Photoshop & After Effects
- Wouter de Moor 2024:
BEYOND SPACE AND SOUND: BLOOD INCANTATION, PARSIFAL AND PHILIP K. DICK IPHIGÉNIE IN MARIUPOL (Iphigénie en Tauride) BRUCKNER'S BICENTENARY MAHLER'S 5TH ON PERIOD INSTRUMENTS DER FLIEGENDE HOLLÄNDER DIABOLUS IN MUSICA THE RHINE GOTHIC WAGNER & H.P. LOVECRAFT WAGNER & COMIC BOOKS DIE WALKURE (HIP) 2023: GOING TO LEGOLAND LIVING COLOUR SIEGFRIED IN A GLORIOUS WALL OF SOUND LOHENGRIN IN THE FACTORY CASSANDRA: VOICES UNHEARD THE MERCILESS TITO OF MILOU RAU AUFSTIEG UND FALL DER STADT MAHAGONY BAYREUTH (TANNHAUSER AND PARSIFAL) THE STEAMPUNK RING THE DAY OF THE DEATH MAHLER AND THE RESURRECTION TIME (DER ROSENKAVALIER & METALLICA) 2022: KONIGSKINDER (A TRIUMPH IN TRISTESSE) DER FREISCHUTZ DAS RHEINGOLD (HIP) UPLOAD (LIVING IN A DATA STREAM) 2021: DER SILBERSEE A (POST?) COVID PARSIFAL THE WRITE OF SPRING 2020: A DESCENT INTO THE NIBELHEIM OF THE MIND EDDIE VAN HALEN WAGNER AT THE MOVIES WITH MAHLER AND STRAVINSKY INTO THE NEW YEAR 2019: THE RETURN OF DIE WALKÜRE PAGLIACCI / CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA: A GAME WITH REALITY IN ITALIAN VERISMO (NO) BAYREUTH (SUMMER BLOG) TANNHAUSER: WHAT'S ON A MAN'S MIND ABOUT EXTREME MUSIC DIE TOTE STADT HELMUT LACHENMANN IN THE MOZART SANDWICH 2018: OEDIPE: IS MAN STRONGER THAN FATE? ONE MORE ... (RING CYCLE) MARNIE: OPERA & PICTURES THE HALLOWEEN TOP 10 JENUFA: ICE-COLD REALITY IN WARM-BLOODED MUSIC MY PARSIFAL CONDUCTOR: A WAGNERIAN COMEDY LOHENGRIN: IN THE EMPIRE OF THE SWAN DIE ZAUBERFLÖTE IN A ROLLER COASTER PARSIFAL IN BAYREUTH HEAVY SUMMER (THE ROAD TO PARSIFAL) LOHENGRIN IN SCREENSHOTS LESSONS IN LOVE AND VIOLENCE BERLIN/BLOG: FAUST & THE CLAWS OF TIME THE GAMBLER: RUSSIAN ROULETTE WITH PROKOFIEV BACH/BLOG#1: THE ROAD TO LEIPZIG BACH/BLOG#2: BACHFEST LEIPZIG BACH/BLOG#3: JOHANNES PASSION & MORE DER FLIEGENDE HOLLÄNDER, WAGNER & DRACULA THE CHRISTINA CYCLUS OF KLAS TORSTENSSON LA CLEMENZA DI TITO: MOZART ÜBER ALLES BRUCKNER AND THE ORGAN GURRE-LIEDER: THE SECOND COMING PARSIFAL IN FLANDERS: REIGN IN BLOOD TRISTAN & ISOLDE AND THE IMPOSSIBLE EMBRACE DANIELE GATTI & BRUCKNER'S NINTH 2017: ON THE BIRTHDAY OF LUDWIG (BEETHOVEN'S MIGHTY NINE) THE DINNER PARTY FROM HELL ZEMLINSKY & PUCCINI: A FLORENTINE DIPTYCH VENI, VIDI, VICI ELIOGABALO (HERE COMES THE SUN KING) LA FORZA DEL DESTINO DAS WUNDER DER HELIANE 'EIN WUNDER' TO LOOK FORWARD TO EIN HOLLÄNDER IN BAYREUTH FRANZ LISZT IN BAYREUTH SALOME & THE WALKING DEAD LOHENGRIN IN HOLLAND 2016: ORFEO (Richard Powers) WAGNER WEEKEND THE SUMMER OF 2016 PARSIFAL IN SCREENSHOTS (BAYREUTH 2016) BEING TCHAIKOVSKY GUSTAVO & GUSTAV: DUDAMEL & MAHLER HAITINK & BRUCKNER: A NEVER-ENDING STORY DAVID BOWIE FOR LEMMY AND BOULEZ BOULEZ IST TOT 2015: LEMMY - ROCK IN PEACE THE BATTLE: WHO'S THE BETTER LOHENGRIN? STOCKHAUSEN AND HEAVY METAL FRANZ LISZT IN THE FUNNY PAPERS TRISTAN UND ISOLDE DER ROSENKAVALIER SOLTI'S RING AND BAYREUTH IN 1976 EASTER CHANT BOULEZ TURNS 90 HOLY TINNITUS FRANZ LISZT IN THE PHOT-O-MATIC THE HOLY GRAIL FRANZ LISZT - ROCK STAR AVANT LA LETTRE 2014: THE BEST THEATER EXPERIENCE IN MY LIFE About Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen in graphic novels. About graphic novels of the Ring that exist and those that don't (and can only be judged by their cover). This blog post includes images created using AI. Right from the premiere of the complete cycle in 1876 at the Bayreuther Festspielhaus, the operas of Der Ring des Nibelungen have inspired artists. The highly imaginative musical dramas (and their highly imaginative composer) were the inspiration for paintings, drawings and, later, comic books. We have, of course, the comic books (or graphic novels) of the complete Ring by P. Craig Russell on the one hand, and the series by Roy Thomas and Gil Kane on the other (before he could incorporate the Ring into a graphic novel, Roy Thomas was already warming up by incorporating the story of the Ring into a Thor-storyline for Marvel Comics: New Asgards for Old). 
JUDGING A BOOK BY ITS COVER Especially fun for people who do know the Ring operas, I think, are the following covers of a comic book series that doesn't exist. It's a bit like making movie posters for films that were never made. A poster that evokes a film that exists only in your mind and, perhaps for that reason, fascinates all the more. As an extension of those film posters, which announce something that will never be seen, this is a series of comic books that tell the story of Richard Wagner's Ring des Nibelungen. Books that can only be judged by their covers. All images of the following covers are made with the help of an AI-image generator.  Taking a moment of Das Rheingold, the adbuction of Freia by the giants, mentioned by Fricka, not seen on stage, and highlighting it in comic book fashion. So that the graphic depiction of that moment can take on a life of its own, beyond the original story.  I have always found the combination of Wagner and the gothic element very attractive. Der fliegende Holländer is, of course, the most obvious opera to make that association but Die Walküre also lends itself perfectly to a gothic atmosphere. What if Hunding were a vampire?  Siegfried is essentially an opera about characters trying to sleep (this goes for both Fafner and Brünnhilde). Until they are awakened by the hero of the Ring, that is. The cover image for the third part of the Ring is in straightforward, action-packed (super)hero-style.  Although ravens are definitely horror-worthy, it's not Wotan's ravens but a sky full of bats on this cover for Götterdämmerung where the final part of Wagner's tetralogy gets a push towards a Hammer-movie. With Brünnhilde as a witch-like ghostly apparition. EPILOGUE Of all the artists who ventured into Wagner's Ring, Arthur Rackham's drawings from the beginning of the 20th century are perhaps the most famous. Anticipating the graphic novel and largely determining the image we now have of the world of Der Ring des Nibelungen. A fantasy world that we now regard as a more or less natural representation of what the Ring world should look like. Russell's and Thomas's graphic novels are heavily indebted to Rackham's art. But in search for a staging on paper there is, of course, no harm in thinking beyond that kind of 'natural' visualisation. To ponder about visual material in ways as it already happens in theatres. To illustrate a core and essence of the Ring-story in ways only a comic book can. (I am thinking of an artist like Dave McKean who created, together with Grant Morrison, an outstanding Batman rendition with Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth). To anticipate a bit of a comic book Ring in a more modern world (I hear you, ‘Oh no, spare me the Regietheater!’), here are a few more ideas in the form of comic book covers. Because the world of the Ring continues to fascinate, not only musically but also theatrically and visually.   Software: DALL-E, Adobe Photoshop & Illustrator
- Wouter de Moor Die Walküre, the next chapter in the 'authentic' Ring conducted by Kent Nagano is a marvel of narrative musical splendour. And although the 'nineteenth-century' sound here provides less of a surprise than with predecessor Das Rheingold, this is a breathtaking journey through the first day of the Ring.  © Simon Van Boxtel / NTR In the year 2021, we were offered an encounter with a Wagner opera in a performance based on historical research. The result of this historically-informed performance of Das Rheingold exceeded all expectations and dispelled the possible reservations one could initially have about such an undertaking with the strongest possible resolve. Instead of being exposed to stiff museum atmospheres, we were taken into a maelstrom of haunting excitement. The nineteenth-century instruments and their replicas blew a breath of fresh air through Wagner's work, making the performance effortlessly rival the Wagner summit. And now, three years later, Kent Nagano and Concerto Köln, joined by musicians from Dresdner Festspielorchester, return with the next chapter of the Ring. It must be said that the surprise and delight that the historical approach to Das Rheingold gave us was somewhat less imposing with Die Walküre. Once again, we were confronted with Wagner's nineteenth-century instrumentation containing the organic, pleasantly unsteady sounds of the brass and woodwinds. The prelude to the first act, Winter Storm, sounded on gut strings crystal clear and heady. It was the beginning of a Walküre that rushed rapidly towards Wotan's farewell. The acts lasted 60, 80 and 65 minutes respectively, making this Walküre one whose second act, at 80 minutes, would fit on one CD; a rarity as far as I know. This speed did not come at the expense of the dramatic moments; they were given enough weight, it did sound swift, not rushed. That there was less of a revelation here could partly have to do with the context in which the performance of Das Rheingold took place at the time - for the first time since the Covid pandemic, we were able to attend a fully cast Wagner opera again. In view of its reception as part of a full Ring, something else might be added. As 'just' a preliminary evening, Das Rheingold, in full production and in concert performance, often comes with a promise that is not quite fulfilled in the remainder of the cycle. This is especially true for staged productions (I'm thinking here of the last Ring of Valentin Schwarz in Bayreuth, where it becomes weaker by each part, but also of Frank Castorf's Ring there, although Castorf recovers after a weak Walküre in Siegfried) but here, of course, that promise lay in the sound of a historically informed performance. How that sound would make us listen to Wagner differently.  Emil Doepler - ca. 1905 It was as if that historically informed performance elevated Das Rheingold more to a performance in the outer class than Die Walküre. As if Das Rheingold held more musical interpretative potential because it was less 'finished' as an opera than its successor. The historically informed performance revealed many previously unheard nuances that elicited unprecedented theatrical expression from the first part of the Ring. The sound of the orchestra was like an X-ray vision of Wagner's instrumentation, and in the historically informed treatment of the voices, Das Rheingold seemed at times to anticipate someone like Kurt Weill. Proto-cabaret in a musical drama where the treatment of the text serves expression, and everything, including its beauty (Wagner loved Italian bel canto), was set to that purpose. Indeed, with the musical storyteller Wagner, music is not mere music, but a means of conveying a story (one wonders to what extent he would have been successful in writing symphonies, compositions where you cannot lean on a story). As a prelude, it is great (my appreciation for it has only grown in recent years), but the drama in Das Rheingold does not yet reach the heights of its successor Die Walküre. Die Walküre is three dramas for the price of one, and Wagner unleashes them on the listener with a Schubertian sense of melody. Each act is a drama that can stand on its own. Going home after the first act, we would have experienced a story with a hopeful ending. In the second act, that hope is brutally dashed and we witness the death of a hero, Siegmund. The third act begins with one of the most recognisable tunes in music history, the Walkürenritt, a musical boost after the dystopian conclusion of the previous act. With Wotan's farewell that third act ends with one of the most beautiful pieces in the entire opera catalogue.  Ric Furman (Siegmund) © Simon Van Boxtel / NTR In Die Walküre, the imaginative world Wagner creates is painted with nineteenth-century instrumentation in transparent tones and refined brushstrokes. The bombast with which Wagner is often associated was absent here. Even in the Walkürenritt, the windows remained wide open and the sound remained clear at all times. At times it was akin to a radio play, with even the singers with relatively modest voices not having to force themselves anywhere. With everything neatly proportioned, both orchestra and voices, in the acoustics of the Concertgebouw, not exactly an easy task, the narrative power took precedence over the orchestral power. The love between Siegmund and Sieglinde is doomed. That love is doomed because of the laws Wotan has imposed to subjugate the rest of the world. (And of course Wagner knows that stories that end badly make more of an impression than a happy ending.) The fact that Wotan also binds himself in the process is something he is pointed out insistently by his wife Fricka. She makes it clear to Wotan that he must remove his hands from the incestuous love of the Wälsungen twins if he is not to undermine his own power, and the power of the gods. The laws of marital union that condemn the love between Siegmund and Sieglinde are emphatically not dictated by nature. They are artificial, imposed by a supreme god, and are all too human in character. Morality is a social concept and it seems that here, it is impossible not to sympathise with the Wälsungen pair, Wagner deliberately presents incestuous love as an act of resistance to the bourgeois mores that dictate how people should relate to each other. Wagner himself would have plenty more to cope with this when he begins a relationship with the married Cosima von Bülow-Liszt and when his affair with Mathilde Wesendonck forces him to take refuge in Venice. (The composer incorporates his own worldly struggles into his work, and the tantalising way in which he does so tends to make people, then and now, forgive him for his less-than-pretty traits and behaviour. As Hans von Bülow said after Wagner ran off with Cosima: "If it had been anyone but Wagner, I would have shot him.")  Ric Furman (Siegmund) & Sarah Wegener (Sieglinde) © Simon Van Boxtel / NTR In Die Walküre, Wagner encounters the primacy of music in his search for his desired musical drama. In the music of magic fire (in the third act), he unlocks a symphonic potential that he will fully explore in Siegfried. In the historically informed performance, that symphonic potential is given less space (less voluptuous weight) to manifest itself; it has to make room for an almost chamber-musical approach. With radio play-like moments as a result. With Wotan's great monologue in the second act, thoughts turned to what Wilhelm Fürtwangler once called his favourite performance of an opera. That was a performance of Die Meistersinger in Bayreuth in 1912, conducted by Hans Richter, during which he was barely aware of the music. It was an ideal symbiosis of all the components of a total theatre. The music here too, with a smaller orchestral sound, more than in an orchestra with modern instruments, is at the service of the singers. The transparency in the orchestral image reveals details that add a subtle nuance to the listening experience. It certainly contributes to a better understanding of the musical architecture and the newly perceived details can enrich the story in new ways. That the music is entirely at the service of the singers was entirely according to Wagner's intentions but a transparent orchestral sound was not. In his own Festspielhaus, Wagner placed the orchestra below the stage because the singers' intelligibility was an absolute priority. This resulted in an orchestral sound in which the various instrumental parts melted together more and sounded less clear overall. After the premiere of the Ring in 1876 at the Bayreuther Festspielhaus, Wagner therefore thought of rearranging the orchestral parts.  Walkürenritt © Simon Van Boxtel / NTR But perhaps even more than by the historically informed orchestral sound, the difference from other modern performances was determined by the singers' treatment of the text. That treatment of the text was more linked to the immediacy of the spoken word. For the singers, the first stage for rehearsing their texts consisted of pronouncing them where they found their tempo and intonation. Only then did the singing follow. The result was a singing that was less pompous and which, even in the more exuberant moments, was more in the service of narration than vocal prowess. This allowed, for instance, Siegmund to be cast with a smaller voice than is usually the case. Ric Furman's tenor flourished best in the more lyrical moments, though a bit more mass would have been welcome in the big dramatic moments. The same could be said of Christiane Libor's Brünnhilde. Patrick Zielke's Hunding was like a piece of basalt in this cast of relatively small voices. A bit angular but that suited exactly the brute who slaves Sieglinde to be his wife. Not small in voice was likewise Derek Walton's Wotan. His vocal impact was imposing, although he could have used a bit more lyricism to make the Werdegang of the supreme god more dramatically palpable. An observation that, in the light of the performance, was little more than a side note. After Wotan's farewell, I was floored. Empty and purified. Tired yet fulfilled. As if I had experienced something of magnificent importance. Exactly as it should be after a Wagner opera. Die Walküre, Concertgebouw Amsterdam, 16 March 2024 Kent Nagano conductor Concerto Köln Dresdner Festspielorchester Derek Welton bass-baritone (Wotan) Ric Furman tenor (Siegmund) Sarah Wegener soprano (Sieglinde) Patrick Zielke bass (Hunding) Claude Eichenberger mezzo-soprano (Fricka) Christiane Libor soprano (Brünnhilde) Natalie Karl soprano (Helmwige) Chelsea Zurflüh soprano (Gerhilde) Ida Aldrian mezzo-soprano (Siegrune) Marie-Luise Dreßen mezzo-soprano (Roßweiße) Eva Vogel mezzo-soprano (Grimgerde) Karola Sophia Schmid soprano (Ortlinde) Ulrike Malotta mezzo-soprano (Waltraute) Jasmin Etminan alto (Schwertleite) - Wouter de Moor
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