But who would conduct it? In Germany, I mean. Let's face it, the world premiere of Wagner's new opera wouldn't create quite as much of a stir anywhere else really - it has to be Germany. But who would be brave enough to stage the work of a self-confessed revolutionary, wanted by the authorities for crimes against the state?
Well, step forward good old Franz Liszt. Liszt has been making people sit up and take notice with his music-making in Weimar. In fact, both he and Weimar are, as a result, the talk of the country. His uncompromising commitment to good music has brought it an international reputation - a bit like Sir Simon Rattle and Birmingham in the 1980s. And where better to premiere the work of the revolutionary exile, Wagner? (That's Weimar, I mean, not Birmingham.) And the work that had them all worked up? Lohengrin. Or to give it its full kennel name: 'HoFjengrin, tlje i^olp???? an amp; tfje legenbarp ????? of kernel itempsiteb, go off for a long toeekeno orienteering in tfje country'© OK, so I'm lying about the full title. So shoot me. Anyway, best get to 1851. I've such a lot to tell you.
WOMEN ARE LIARS
1851. Quick rain check on the population of various parts of the world as they stand in 1851. Britain is currently on around 20 million, America an amazing 23, France 33, Germany 34, but in first place, with a whopping 430 million, the winner is China. Well done, China. Come on down!
And what news to impart? Well, big news really. Cuba has just declared its independence, France has a new constitution following a coup by Louis Napoleon, and Britain? Well, the first double-decker buses appear. OK, not exactiy huge news for Britain, but still. Things are a little quiet.
In the US, the brand-new New Tork Times carries an ad for the equally brand-new, first-ever, continuous stitch sewing machine, freshly patented by one Isaac Singer, while, over in Paris, photographic pioneer Louis Daguerre keels over, on his own doorstep, and dies. So - he not only invented the first photographs, he also pioneered the mat finish.
The English art cognoscenti are also mourning the death of one of their finest painters, JMW Turner. The big read this year is Herman Melville's Moby Dick, and the brand-new modern building for everyone to complain about is William Cubitt's King's Cross train station. Although platform 9% had yet to be added. But in the world of music, Verdi has something up his sleeve. His green sleeve, you might say. Imagine you're there. Where? There. In Venice. At the Teatro La Fenice.
Let's say… you're in the orchestra. Yes, that's it. You're in the orchestra. You've been to three dress rehearsals so far and, every time you get to a certain part of the opera, you hit a blank page. And I mean literally. Where there should be an aria, there's a blank page. Bloody odd. Whenever you get to it, everyone looks up at the conductor, questioningly. The conductor - who is also the composer - says something like, 'Oh… we'll… fill that bit in later.' Bloody odd. It happens again. And again. In fact, every time you get to that particular bit. How dashed, decidedly, brow-beatingly, breathtakingly, bloody odd! Until, that is, the very last dress rehearsal, which is on the day of the opening night. Only then, does Verdi - our conductor/ composer - stump up the missing aria.
Why? Well, it turns out Verdi knew he was on to a winner. In fact, so convinced was he that he was on to a winning, hit tune, that he wanted to make sure it stayed under wraps until the opening night, for fear of some unscrupulous composer stealing it. And he was right, too. By that I don't mean someone stole it -1 mean he did have a hit tune on his hands. It is usually translated as 'Women are fickle', but I do remember one amazing production at ENO, by Dr Jonathan Miller, which had it translated as 'Women are liars', which I thought was certainly giving it some. His opera, Rijjoletto, opened that night, complete with the hit tune he had kept from even his own orchestra until the same day - 'La donna? mobile'.
And you've got to admit - corking tune. You could see why he'd want to protect it. It's one of those that, once you've heard it, you can't get it out of your head. And the words are so good too. 'Women?.?? liars…ttUTl tlim tlim teedle tum dum dum dum, deedle dum…'
EIGHT MINUTES TO SEVEN
? ne year on from Kigoletto, and, my, what a lot has happened. Louis Napoleon is now more or less a king - or at least has given himself the powers of a monarch, in much the same way I gave myself the powers of an Emperor, earlier. Got to be honest, it hasn't changed me. I still eat in the staff canteen, park in the staff car park - everything. Louis N, however, is still calling himself President. Again, much like me - I don't make a big thing of insisting everyone calls me Emperor. Obviously, if they do, I do tip more. Along some of the same lines, the Iron Duke has died at the grand old age of eighty-four, living just long enough to witness the very first England Cricket Eleven. Presumably, that means he lived long enough to see the very first England Cricket Eleven Batting Collapse, too. Charles Dickens seems able to write no wrong, so to speak, and the blockbusters keep on coming - this year, it's Bleak House, which is competing for shelf space alongside Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin. Artistically speaking, William Holman Hunt's The Light of the World and Millais's Ophelia are probably the most important works. As regards 'the music' in 1852, the big noise is still Richard Wagner.
In 1852, Wagner was still in exile in Zurich. Although Liszt had kindly premiered Lohengrin in Weimar, Richard was, as he himself used to say, still one of the few Germans not to have seen it. And yet it had made him the most famous composer in his own land. You can see why, putting all this together, he might one day have the desire to build his own opera house, can't you? That would solve the problem of not being able to mount your own work.
RW is, however, by no means wasting his time out there in the land of cows and chocolate. He is hard at work on his grandest project yet -well, to be honest, would you expect me to say anything else? I mean, I can hardly imagine myself writing the line 'He had decided to tone things down a bit, go smaller-scale, maybe only write in his spare time when he wasn't committing to his love of insurance underwriting!' No. Richard was clearly one of life's 'bigger, better, grander' people, and this next idea is not just an opera, but a huge CYCLE of operas. Four, in fact, which would form one huge opera-event, and which were going to tower over all opera before or since, from the very moment they were first heard. Wagner gave his project the title The King of the Nibelung, and it was conceived in much the same way as the Star Wars films were. First of all, he wrote the words - the libretto - to something that he called 'Siegfried's Death'. Siegfried is the hero - so, if it helps, picture him as the nineteenth-century Luke Skywalker. He was then about to set out on the music to go with his words when he thought that, in fact, he really should explain the story that led up to it. So he wrote the words to the 'prequel', as it were, which he called 'The Young Siegfried' - a sort of 'Siegfried, the Phantom Menace', if you like. Then, he wrote the words to another prequel to that - 'The Valkyrie' - and then yet another prequel - 'The Rhine Gold'. Wow -one book and three prequels. So you see: Star Wars, then Star Wars -the Phantom Menace, then Star Wars- Attack of the Clones, etc - it was all more or less done by Wagner some 150 years earlier.
Finally, after all that writing of just the words, he sat down and set about writing the music to it all. And by 1853, he had finished the first two parts: 'Siegfried's Death', which he'd now changed to Twilight of the Gods, and the first prequel, 'Young Siegfried', which he was now calling Siegfried. Phew. Hope you're understanding all this. If you are, could you by any chance explain it to me, because I haven't a bloody clue.