That Old Black Magic

Blogger Sarah Noble of Prima La Musica, Poi Le Parole (ranked No. 29 in our S&F Top 50) is a compulsive and inveterate opera fan and operagoer, and a self-confessed diva worshipper. This is the sort of opera lunatic that we here at Sounds & Fury ordinarily label a TOF (True Opera Fan: like a teenage movie fan, only worse — much worse), and all that implies. Ms. Noble, however, is no TOF. Not by any stretch of the term.

Witnesseth:

The all-encompassing good thing is, of course, Tristan und Isolde itself [Ms. Noble attended the Met's HD moviecast in Australia]. And I am in my usual Wagner predicament — the kind of elated rambling I lavish upon everything else seems irrelevant and inappropriate in the face of this sort of music. Experiencing Wagner isn't like experiencing opera, it's a trip to another world. My usual concerns disappear and I'm transported and transfixed. I'm sure I've said these things before, but that's inevitable. My encounters with Wagner are infrequent but as a rule transcendent. And this was Tristan und Isolde, for heaven's sake. My very first Tristan und Isolde ever. Imagine that. As always with Wagner, I just wish it was longer and that there weren't intervals. Although really, I'm not sure Wagner and time have much of a relationship. Objectively the operas are long, but to me it always seems to me that they just take as long as they need to in order to be what they are, which is perfect. Neither fast nor slow paced, just Wagner paced. I really don't know if this makes sense. Wagner does not make me make sense.

Compare with this from the late Boris Goldovsky — a man who was a near-worshipper of Mozart — recounted in one of our two accounts of our infamous meeting with the great man (here, the full account recounted here):

Eventually, we got around to discussing Wagner, and at just the mention of the name, Goldovsky turned his face toward the ceiling, threw his arms up in a sort of helpless gesture (Goldovsky was a native Russian, and, well, you know just how emotional Russians can get, especially after tucking away three or four shot glasses filled with lethal-strength vodka), and declared passionately in a vodka-thickened Russian accent which I here won't even attempt to mimic, "Wagner!, Wagner! He consumes me!"

I at first thought he was merely engaging in a bit of stage business to create a dramatic moment to precede some point he wanted to make. But it was no stage business. The man looked positively stricken.

I, of course, was stunned speechless, and my astonishment must have shown on my face because he quickly caught hold of himself and, poised and quietly, explained, "Every time I conduct Wagner the world disappears, and for days after, all other opera seems nothing but shit. Verdi is shit. Puccini is shit. Tchaikovsky is shit. Even Beethoven is shit. And...," and here he paused, leaned his face close to mine, lowered his voice conspiratorially, and with genuine distress written over all his features, he, in hoarse, shamefaced whisper declared," and, Mozart...even Mozart is shit."

We — also a near-worshipper of Mozart — understood that perfectly.

And, yes, Ms. Noble. What you wrote makes perfect — and perfectly eloquent — sense.

Indeed it does.