Oddly enough, the opera had originally been conceived as a celebration of not just the brand-new 'Italian Opera' House, but by way of a general party for the opening of the Suez Canal, in 1869. It has an amazing lineage, commissioned, as it was, by an Egyptian Khedive (I think it's possibly, literally, a funnel-ended vessel), with a plot by a French Egyptologist, a libretto written, in French, by Camille de Lock, and then the whole thing translated into Italian by fellow librettist Antonio Ghislanzoni, and the odd 'crossing-out' by Mr Verdi himself. The whole thing was then shipped out to Egypt -composer not included - along with scenery and costumes, ordered from Paris, all to be then held up in the Siege of Paris.
Eventually, it was premiered, though, and it - Ai'da - became one of the most successful operas in history. Again, if you get a chance, go and see it live, because it really is worth it. Try one of those huge, popular productions, with a cast of thousands, performed in the round, at the Millennium Stadium, or somewhere like. It really is a fantastic spectacle.
Verdi himself refused to attend the premiere. Refused point blank. Said he didn't like all the glitz and glamour, and was not fond of sea traveclass="underline" and besides, he couldn't do a thing with his hair. He did, however, receive a telegram from the Khedive (literally, a mollusc of the species Phylum mollusca) to say that Aida had gone down a storm. Fascinating, huh?
This was all happening around the same time that Wagner was preparing a Christmas present to his new wife, Cosima - the daughter of Franz Liszt and previous wife of his 'dear friend', Hans von Bulow. Prior to marriage, Wagner had been conducting an open affair with Cosima for some years/ As much by way of relief from his??? he rearranged as a love token some of the tunes from his opera, Siegfried, into a cute little piece called the Siegfried Idyll, and had it played to her outside her bedroom, with a bunch of musicians squeezed on to the landing. Awwww. Now that's what I call High Romantic, Volume 7! (Not a huge-selling album.) So that's that. Cosima has her Idyll, the Khedive had his opera. Actually, let me quickly look up the word 'khedive' while you wait. Key, khaki, khalifa, khamsin, khan khidmutgar. Mmm. No 'khedive'. Mm. Sorry, can't tell you what it means. I can tell you, however, that, according to my dictionary, a 'khilifat' is 'a caliphate'. Very useful.
I V 1874
1874. Not a bad year, I suggest. And imagine, if you did one of those ubiquitous seven-hour-long schedule-filler TV programmes recalling the year, with various talking heads popping up (the same ones who popped up last week, and seemed to have exacdy the same opinion of a completely different year) and full of clips of music, and items you'd forgotten from the year - well, how would it sound? Nothing like the following, I can guarantee.
First up in the clips stakes is Verdi's Requiem. This is one truly amazing work - not an opera, obviously, and yet very operatic in style. In fact it was labelled, by conductor Hans von Bulow - he of the flighty baton and even flightier wife - as 'an opera in church vestments'. And you can see what he meant - this is very much a Requiem in the line of Berlioz rather than Bach or Mozart. It's a very theatrical, dramatic piece. More importandy, though, it was to Verdi what William Tell was to Rossini. By that I don't mean it cost a fortune in flit's amazing that despite Wagner and Cosima's infedelities, von Bulow remained a dedicated Wagner fan all his life. apples - I mean it was the last piece he wrote before retiring for a while. In Verdi's case, it wasn't the full, 'Rossinian' thirty-four years, but he did shut up shop for the next thirteen. Thirteen years! A long time for the people of Italy, no doubt. He just… moved to the country. Wrote nothing, 'Do not Disturb' sign up, everything. (Wipes tear from eye.)
So that was Verdi and his 'operatic' style of 1874. His Italian sound is very different, too, to the German operatic sound of Wagner. It's not just that you don't have to shave twice and bring a change of clothes to get through an Italian opera, it was just, well, different. Very different. Italian opera and German opera had taken different turns on the road, and were travelling different paths. Verdi's stuff was still pushing at the limits, somewhat - I mean, just listen to Aida and La Forza del Destine: these were both really stretching it compared with where Verdi started in Nabucco, for instance. And so it would be - the two were nearly thirty years apart. And thirty years, musically, in that - and this - day and age means a hell of a lot.
Anyway, that's Verdi's Italy, and Wagner's Germany, but where is France? And who is France, as it were? Well, come with me, to the next line but one, and I'll tell you. But bring your hankies - it's a weepy.
THE BIDET BELONGING TO GEORGE
T
o the composer Georges Bizet, now, whom my computer spell-check wants to call George's bidet. No lie - honest. But don't worry - we have people to check for that sort of thing.
George's bidet was born in 1838 in Paris and was every bit the classic child prodigy composer. He was already enrolled at the Paris Conservatoire by the age of nine and had won Paris's biggest composition prize by the age of nineteen. His compositions were STAGGERINGLY mature and it soon became apparent that the name bidet was going to live forever. But then things took a turn for the worse.
Bidet's situation was, I've always thought, not unlike that of some actors today. I'm thinking about the ones who sample early success. What often happens is that offers flood in and it becomes very hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. This seems to have happened to George's and soon, well, it looked like bidet had hit the bottom, all washed up.
But things did get better. Bidet married the daughter of his composition professor and life began to inspire him more. Due to the high regard in which his earlier works were held, he won a commission for a new opera - an opera that was to be staged in the March of 1875.
If you were to ask anyone to name a piece by Bizet, they would probably say… well, actually, let's find out what they'd say. You there! Yes, you. The one reading this. Name a piece by Bizet.
Good, yes, Carmen. Exactly my point. But then if you ask them to name any other piece by Bizet, you're likely to get no answer, becau-
Right. OK. The Pearl Fishers, yes, that's true. Well done. OK. Well, ask them to name another after that and you really get an embarrassing si-
Yes, all right, all right, LArlesienne, yes. Look, no one likes a smart arse. UArlesienne, yes. But ask anyone to name a fourth and-
OK, OK, The Fair Maid of Perth. But ask absolutely anyone to name a fifth-
…?
HAH! THOUGHT SO! RIGHT. Good. Right, let me start that again. Ask anybody to name just FIVE pieces by Bizet, and you'd probably draw a blank. And, well, it might come as a bit of a shock, then -although not to some of you bloody clever clogs - that he actually wrote, what, 150 piano pieces, alone. He'd won the coveted Prix de Rome composition prize in 1857 - but was never, as far as I can gather, tempted to dress up as a French maid and run after a soprano - and then went on, over the next few years, to write suites, overtures, even the odd symphony. But it was OPERA that he really wanted to crack.