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- Operetta CD
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- Mira Brigitte Willi Rose Ina Brosow Erwin Hartung Und U V a M
Mit Mutteraugen. Ich liebe eine Hure. Sie heisst To. Yes, as if made from a vessel All through summer. Her step cuts through my blood. She is an abyss of wild, dark flowers. No angel is so pure. With mothering eyes. I love a whore. Feuchtigkeiten ein lauter Rausch. Ein Kind! O ja, ein Kind! Moistness, a pure intoxication. A child! Oh yes, a child! But how to get one and not — feel ashamed. I dreamt once that a young birch-tree Had given me a son.
A violet song from the heavens Sung to the buds of young roses. Oh, through the nights there sobs unto the stars My male blood. Da lobe ich mir den tiefen Alt des Mohns. Da denkt man an Blutfaden und Menstruation. I prefer the deep alto of the poppy. It reminds me of patches of blood and menstruation. Die weiche Bucht. Alles ist Ufer. Ewig ruft das Meer. Life and death, sex and procreation Would slide from our dumb seed. A piece of algae or a dune of sand: Formed by the wind and heavy at its base.
Even the head of a dragonfly or the wing of a gull Would be too much, and would suffer too deeply. II Despicable are the lovers, the mockers, Despair of all longing, and those who hope. We are such sickly corrupted gods. The gentle bay. The dark dreams of the woods. The stars, huge as blossoming snowballs and heavy.
The panthers spring soundlessly through the trees. Everything is shoreline. Eternally calls the sea —. Get in there, into that stale Thermopylae! Drohungen Aber wisse: Ich lebe Tiertage. Ich bin eine Wasserstunde. Wir wollen helle Haut sein. Meine Vorderflossen sind schon lang und haarig. In der ersten Nacht ist alles entschieden. Selbst so segelhaft. Du machst mir Liebe: blutigelhaft: Ich will von dir. Sieh: Ich. I am a water-hour. In the evening my eyelids drowse off towards forest and sky.
My love knows few words. It is so beautiful by your blood. My queenly vessel! My roaming hyena! Come into my burrow. Let us be bright flesh. Until the shadows of the cedars rear over the little lizard: You! Roses bloom in my hair. My front paws are long and hairy. Longing for the boughs of trees. From strong thumbs you can hang down the whole day long. All is decided on the first night. I grip with my teeth the thing that I desire.
Hyenas, tigers, vultures are my emblems. You are now crossing the water. So like a sail yourself. Fair skinned. Cool in play. And yet bitter red, the blood inside is dead, The mouth is a crevice full of screams. You, let us not land on a shore! You make love to me like a leech: I want something from you. You have cornstalks on your hat.
Your back is brown from your Maccabee blood. Your forehead flows: you spent so long Looking over the stubs of hay for Boaz. You hold it like a sea, so that nothing spilt in play Should moisten the earth. Now, look through your eyelids and steel yourself: See: the precipice approaching from a thousand stars away. See: the jaws into which you must pour all. See: me. Ich bin Gestank. Vom Rand der Erde komm ich her. Weil meine Mutter weint? Weil meinem Vater das Haar vergreist? Ich schreie: Ihr grauer Schlaf! Ihr ausgeborenen Schluchten! Mir aber rauscht die Stirn wie Wolken Flug.
Wisch ihm eins! The Robbers-Schiller I bring plague. I am stench. From the edge of the world I come here. At times, there is something that runs together in my mouth: If I were to spit it out, the stars would hiss, And the entire cowardly boozy lot and the blood of Abel would go under. Because my mother cries? I cry out: You grey somniac! You now impotent gorges! Pretty soon a few handfuls of earth Will be fertilising you. In me, however, the brain rages like a flight of clouds. And that touch of infection that trickled into my blood from the slime of a whore?
A crumb of death is forever stinking in the corner — Sod it! Give it one! Who cares? Das Affenlied Ihr Spiel Gottes! Du liebes Blut! Von meinem kaum getrennt! Durchrausche mich noch einen Tag! Ape song You jest from God! Heavens are the shadows Of the great forests around your fur. Sleeping, feeding, breeding quietly ripens on the Summer land of your blood.
Your holy reapings! You, dear blood! From mine barely different! One and the same. Rage through me again for just one day! Look: hours, earlier ones, lived out, When we still blithely crouched by the river bank: There was the sea and there was the earth — See these hours once lived out, Oh, the return of all these longings Assemble around you!
Ich bin so hingesunken An dich. Und bin so trunken Von dir. Die Welt ist tot. Alles klingt In mein Herz. Madonna Do not give me back yet! I have totally expired on you.staging.allhyipdata.com/36-zithromax-azithromycin-buy.php
And am completely intoxicated In you. This bliss! The world is dead. The heavens sing stretched out against the stream of stars, bright and full. Everything is resounding in my heart. Deeply fulfilled and so beautiful sings the hunting pack of my blood. Das Fett wird ranzig and hat ausgepaart. Wir aber wehn. O was in Lauben unseres Flesichs geschah! Verwirrt im Haar, in Meer. Over graves This one slaves away and bakes, bent throughout the night With rotten meat, following an old baking method. Finally the pig broke his legs.
His fat became rancid and fell away. We, however, drift. Aegean are our tides. Oh, look what has happened in the foliage of our flesh! Tangled in our hair, in the sea, our breasts bleed in dancing, in the summer, by the strand and Ithaka. Mai ist um die Harfe. O Sommer dieses Nackens! O Diese jasmindurchseuchte Ellenbeuge! O, ich bin gut zu dir. Ich streichle Dir deine Schultern. Du, wir reisen: Tyrrhenisches Meer. Ein frevelhaftes Blau.
Die Dorertempel. In Rosenschwangerhaft Die Ebenen. Felder Sterben den Asphodelentod. Du Kranke, tief im Flor Der dunklen Brauen! May surrounds the harp.
The palm trees redden. In the desert wind.
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Rahel, a slim goldwatch at her wrist: Protecting her sex and threatening the mind: She is the enemy! Your hand however is as if from earth: Sweetly-brown, almost eternal, wafted by womb. Friendly Earring turns up. The bright Easter lillies are so lovely: Their wide mouths yellow, with meadows at their feet.
Oh blond! Oh summer ripened back! Oh These elbows drenched with jasmine! Oh I am good to you. I stroke Your shoulders. A wicked blue. The Doric temples. Pregnant with roses, The plains. Fields Expire into their asphodel death. Lips, bold and deeply filled like chalices, As if blood from its sweet place was hesitating, Roaring through a mouth of early autumn.
Oh the sorry brain. You sick thing, deep in the bloom Of your dark brows! Smile, be bright: The violins are shimmering a rainbow. Sie friert. Der kleine graue Stock in ihrer Hand Friert mit. Wird klein. Will tiefer in die Hand. O Marmorlicht! Du rauschst so an mein Blut. Du helle Bucht! Du rosa Staub! Du Ufer mit Libellen! Im Veilchenschurz. Machtloser grauer Strand. Kein Boot, kein Segel geht. Wer nimmt mich winters auf?!
Spa concert Beyond cripples and bathing proletarians, Sunshades, lapdogs and Boa scarves, Beyond the autumn sea and the ditty by Grieg: Whether Iris will come? It is freezing. The small walking stick in her hand Is also freezing. Gets smaller. Wants to go deeper into her hand. The bell flowers, enclosed in your scarve, The white cross of your parted hair and teeth Contrasts, when you laugh, so sweetly with your brown skin!
You steep, white land! Oh marble light! You are the intemperance of my blood. You bright bay! The relaxed expanse of your shoulder blades! The delicacy of the skirt around your knee! You, rosy dust. You river bank with dragonfly! You, from the sides of a bowl ascending In bursts of violets. Surrounded by breasts loudly bloomed! Oh autumn and a return home across this sea! The gardens subside. The grey shores lie impotent. No boats, no sails flutter. Who will take me now in winter time?!
From so many distances blown together. From so many stars newly-born. Just before this river bank: — Iris leaves. Untergrundbahn Die weichen Schauer. Der Strumpf am Spann ist da. Doch, wo er endet, ist weit von mir. Ein armer Hirnhund, schwer mit Gott behangen. Ich bin der Stirn so satt.
Ich will wandern. Blutlos die Wege. Schatten und Sintflut. In the Subway The soft shudder. Early bloom. As if from warm fur, it comes straight from the forest. Red swarms up. Hard blood rises. Through full spring the new female comes. She wears her stockings, stretched. But there, where they come to an end, is beyond my reach.
I sob at their edge. Sultry fecundity, alien moistures. Oh, how her mouth devours the tepid air! You: rose-mind, sea-blood, twilight-goddess. You: bed of earth, how your hips flow so coolly down the passage through which you walk. Life is now beneath her dress: all white animal, relaxed, with mute scent. I am a wretched dog-brain, heavy hung with God, sick of the mind. Oh, that a frame of clustered blooms should gently take its place, and swell and stream and shudder. So detached. So tired. I long to wander. Bloodless those paths. Songs from the gardens. Shadows and the Flood. Buchtet sich ein und aus.
Ich will versinken. And anyway love hit me, the snouts of two whores bulge forward. Gyrates in and out. I want to lose myself. Let me die. Give birth to me. Ich schlage mit der Stirn am Marmorblock die Form heraus. Ich bin mir noch sehr fern. Aber ich will Ich werden! Wir wohen in einer engen Bucht, ausgebaut an des Dorfes Ende. Davon bin ich so entstellt. Unerbittlich ist der Kampf und die Welt starrt von Schwertspitzen. Jede hungert nach meinem Herzen. Young Hebbel You chip away and fashion: with supple chisel and a fine soft hand.
I beat form out of the marble block with my brow. My hands work for my daily bread. I remain to myself still distant, but I will become me! There lies someone deep in my blood who cries for heavens of gods and earths of men, which he has made for himself. My mother is so poor: you would laugh if you saw her. We live in a narrow sty, built at the bottom of the village. My youth is like a scab to me, with a wound beneath. Blood drips everyday from it. That is why I am so disfigured. Sleep I do not need, and food only enough to stay alive. The struggle is relentless, and the world bristles with points of swords, each of which hungers for my heart.
Everyone of them I must melt into my blood: me, the defenceless one. Als wir blutfeucht zur Welt kamen, Waren wir mehr als jetzt. Jetzt haben Sorgen und Gebete beschnitten uns und klein gemacht. Wir leben klein. Wir wollen klein. Aber ich will mein eigenes Blut. Feiger Herr, feiger Herr!
Was zitterest du? Fege meinen Saal. Ich aber will tanzen durch dich schleierlos dein Blut. Made adroit with weapons, to free ourselves, we have become haters, beyond redemption. When we came into this world blood-stained, we were more than we are now. Now sorrow and praying have cut us down and made us small. We live small lives. We want small things. And our feelings, like tame animals, are eating out of the hand of our will. But there are times when desires well up, strong from deep within our blood, their wings like the eagle, as if they wished to broach a flight away from the shadows of the earth.
But the mother of cares and prayers, the earth, allied to you, will not let them go from her old and wrinkled body. But I will have my own blood. I tolerate no other gods beside me. Covered in purple, my beauty persists day and night for you. Why are you trembling? I trained my tendons to be swift for your desires. O give them to me! Let me dance! Clean out my hall. Yellow salivating skeletons of white-haired and sullen blood threaten me. I, however, will dance. Sie schmerzt nicht immer.
Mother I bear you like a wound upon my brow that will not close. The pain sometimes abates, and my heart flows from it still alive. Only now and then I suddenly become blind, and feel blood in my mouth. Drohung Aber wisse: Ich lebe Tiertage. It is so beautiful beside your blood. Sieh, wie das Land auch aus seinen Fiebern erwacht. A man speaks A man speaks: Here there is no consolation. See how the land also awakens from its fever. Almost all the dahlias have stopped gleaming. Everything lies wasted as after a cavalry battle. I hear an upsurge in my blood. You, my eyes are already drinking in the blue of distant hills.
It is already caressing my temples. Hier ist kein Trost Keiner wird mein Wegrand sein. Mein einer Arm liegt im Feuer. Mein Blut ist Asche. Let your blossoms whither. My path flows and runs alone. Two hands are too small a bowl. One heart is too small a hill to rest on. You, my life is lived on the strand and under the falling blossom of the sea. Egypt is spread before my heart, and Asia is dawning.
One of my arms lies in the fire. My blood is ash. Leaving breasts and bones behind me, I sob my way towards the Tyrrhenian islands: There glimmers a valley with white poplars, an Ilissus with shores of meadows: Eden and Adam: an earth out of nihilism and music. Schnellzug Das Gleitende, das in den Fenstern steht! Wir kleine Forst, kein Adler und kein Wild! Du Dagmar-blond! Du Nest! Die weiten Felder der Verlassneheit! Das Rot der Erbereschen hat schon Blut. O sei bei mir! The Express The passing images that face me in the windows! Past my shoulders crumble the fields, the arbours, and the overgrown villages; long-forgotten mothers; the entire land, a grave full of fathers: now it is the sons who are great and prance naked with their red god-like brows, in a whirl of unleashed blood.
That which is festering sounds loudly with its sick voices: Where did we ever come close to happiness? We, a small forest, without eagle or game. Paltry blooms blossom in pale tones in our meadows. The heart cries out: Oh, hair! You Dagmar-blond! You nest! You comforting, blossoming hand! The broad fields of abandonment! The red of the rowanberry already is of blood. Oh, be with me! It is so silent in the gardens. But the passing that faces me in the windows.
Past my shoulders crumble the fields, fathers and the grief of hills and the happiness of hills —: The sons have grown tall. The sons go naked and in the grief of unleashed blood, their red brows reflect a distant abyss of joy. In unserem Blute ist kein Dorn. Oktobertiere rechts und links: Wir makellose, wir letzte Julibrut. Ich versenge dem Tode seine kalte Fratze. Wie alles Rote, Glut und Flammenhafte aus meinen Schenkeln hurt! Flowers I-II I In the room of a pastor between crosses and images of Christ, Jerusalem relics and Golgatha wreaths a bouquet of roses blooms blissfully beyond the shores: We may now happily pass away.
There is no thorn in our blood. II A sea, entirely poisened by the grey blood of autumn, has made me sick. Startled, the river bank, devoid of joy and barren of leaf receives my final step as words of commital. Then in a park there was a flower bed: It bloomed over this entire misery, the sea, the clouds and the storm in the garden. And I cried: I am completely indestructible! I burn away the cold countenance of death. As everything red, glowing and flaming rushes from my limbs! Good morning to you! Der Mond fiel hinterher. Hing tief. Gab Stein statt Brot Dem atemlosen Blut.
Ward still. Schlug um. Wenn mans bedenkt: ein paar verlorene Stunden Haben nun in die Stille Nacht gefunden Und wehen mit den Wolken hin und her. Die Lippen auch. Wie Garben Aus Schnee. O kaum zu denken! Finish I The spittoon — not in the least able to contain such large warm green emissions — finally broke apart. The moon dropped down. Hung deeply. Sucked Backed the vomit in gulps. Dissapointed All trust. Gave to breathless blood Stone instead of bread. II The little clot smelled like a chicken coup, moved here and there.
Became still. The grand-daughter palyed the old game: When grandma is asleep: Around her collar bones the cavities were so deep That she could hide beans in them. A ball could even be fitted into her throat, if one blew the dust out of it. III For him it was all about the spittoon with plum stones. Then he crawled in and cracked open the stones. He was thrown back into his box bed.
And he burrowed into his straw. Towards evening the head keeper came And rebuked the warden: You bloody lazybones, Why has the box not been cleaned up yet? IV For weeks they held the heads of their children, When they had returned from school, high in the air: Then a little breeze went through and she could sleep. Then one bent down once by mistake And his head fell out of his hands.
Turned around. Hung over his shoulders Deep blue. V Requiem A coffin gets work and a bed becomes empty. When one considers it: a few lost hours Have now in stillness found the night And drift with the clouds here and there. How white they are! Their lips also. Like sheets Of snow. Oh, border of the great winter land Of comforting snow: freed from the deception of colours, Hills and valley in a flat hand. Nearness and distance are one and made equal.
We flakes blow into the field, and then a piece, Then is the final spark of the world exstinguished. Oh, it is almost unthinkable! This distant happiness! VI Beyond the Graves This one slaves away and bakes broken throughout the night With rotten meat, following an old baking method. Dem Manne rutscht das Auge hin und her. Ob du noch kommst, Ick kann mir doch mein Brot mit Schinken kofen. Der Mond verirrt sein Gold in diesen Gram.
His eyes slide to and fro. Will you still come with me, I can still fit a bit of ham on my bread. Semen-ready sits at every table with feathers In her hat and puts out her legs, sucks up her hips Full of semen ever more brazenly to her womb. A song curves a dome into the table Of glass: the cold night covers teh stars with clouds. The moon mixes its gold into this misery. Ich war so sehr allein. Die Lippen weinen mit.
Den Strom herunter. Da sitzt sie mit der Laute. Er schwimmt sich frei. Fleischlaub und Hurenherbste, Ein welker Streif. Fett furcht sich. Ein Spalt voll Schreie unser Mund. Then someone lurches in And falls. I have just gone past the edge of God. Do you love me too? I was so very much alone.
The Weser song bucks up the spirits of the jerk. Lips cry along to it. A stream flows down. Sweet valley. There it sits with its lute. The head waiter flails around with his nightcap. He manages to stay upright. Flesh foliage and whore autumn, a withered strip. Fat rumples up. Pockmarked roars: the flesh is fluid; pour it as you will, around you. Our mouth is a crevice of screams.
He pushes through the dumb bouquet of her palate. The murky bourgeois steps out onto the benches: Herd, pimpels, marriage, beards and medals. Many four litres of blood, from which three Is gorged in the intestines: and the fourth Brims around the sexual organs. The whore To uncovers her hand: Soft, like the flesh from the womb, half-open, just there where desire is felt.
Marie Du Vollweib! Your measurements are normal, Any child can come through your pelvis. Widely girthed you take in everything, right up to your brain and then leave. Poems of Transcendence, Benn had attended a military medical school as a student, and in he was called up a doctor at the outbreak of Word War One to serve with his local regiment. He was stationed in Brussels, where he worked in a hospital treating soldiers with sexually transmitted ailments. Other poems yet explore, argue for the need to structure experience, to prevent exertion becoming formlessness. Icarus I Oh midday, that with scorched hay dims my brain To field, flat land and shepherd, So that I run and, and arm in the stream, Draw poppies to my brow — Oh you, expanse of sky, Drifting over curse and sorrow, Being and becoming, Divest my eye of vision.
On through the rubble of the hillside, on through the carrion of the land, Turning to dust, on through the miserly jagged shapes Of rocks — everywhere Blown by the sun — everywhere, Deep mother-blood, streaming, Mindless Drained Borne along. The animal lives only for the day And, suckling, has no memory. The slope in silence brings its flower to light, And is destroyed.
Only I, with sentry between blood and paw, A carrion eaten away by mind, with curses Screaming into the void, spat upon by words, Mocked by the light — Oh, you expanse of sky, Balm my eyes for an hour With that healing early light of primal vision — Melt away the lie of colours, Hurl these cavities pressed by filth into the roar Of rearing suns, the whirl of the suns of suns, Oh, the eternal fall of all suns — II My brain eats dust.
My feet eat dust. If only my eye were round and complete, Then through their lids would break Sweet night, brush-wood and love. Out of you, my sweet animal, Out of your shadows, sleep and hair, I must needs bestride my brain, All its convolutions: The final dialogue. III So near to the shore, already in the ferry, In the crocus-coloured garments of the supplicant. And around my limbs the delicate down — Oh sun!
Every night from out of your folds You roar new worlds into space — Oh, that one of these obliviously scattered here Freshly ablaze would melt my temples, And drink up my instinct-blood! Breite dich hin. Caryatid Free yourself from stone. Burst apart those sockets that enslave you! Rage into the fields. Mock the cornices — Look at the drunken Silenus: through his beard, from his loud blood forever drowned in roars, enthused by exotic music, wine drips into his manhood.
Spit on this obsession with columns. Senile hands, done to death, lifted them trembling towards sullen skies. Pull down the temples before the desire of your limbs which crave to dance. Choose expanse! Bloom to excess. Oh, let your soft meadow bleed from deep wounds. And see this final hour of blissful deception: our southern vision in the vaulted sky. Reise O, dieses Lichts! Auch ich zu: braun! Ich zu: besonnt! Zu Flachem, das sich selbst benennt! Das Auge tief am Horizont, Der keine Vertikale kennt. Journey Oh, this light! The island wreathes Around itself star-blue water.
Stilled at its edge, completed by the beach, It sates itself daily on the sea. Nothing needs to be connected. The seabird, the lobed foliage, find Their fulfilment here. Their purpose lies right At their centre, which nothing can steal. I too become brown! I too receive the sun! To that flat space, which it alone will name. The eye deep on the horizon That knows nothing vertical. Already the rage to connect is disappearing. Already systems of references are dissolving, And under the dark song of flesh rears up the blood-Methuselah. Aufblick Heimstrom quillt auf zu Hunger und Geschlecht.
O Abhang! Mit Fratzen Des Raums bestanden, drohend Unendlichkeit. A glance upwards The incoming tide surges to hunger and sex. Oh, the happiness of milling! Oh, decline! The old sun still storms Forth bright embers; new fire Already mocks it, and around Andromena There is already fresh mist, Oh, wandering world! Devestation of all matter: night-love, done in the meadows. I: lowering, imposed upon, my visage full of stars, From a blow of paws, the shudder of destruction blues like a coast of blood towards me, With harrow, dagger and horns.
The causative way moves rugged through the dwellings Of the immanent mob, with the leerings of space provided Threatening Eternity. To me, however, the morning light of roomless rooms Glows around my knees, A process of shephards squirells through the leaves, Euclid by the sea sings at a threecorned flute: O wood of roses! There takes place Unrestricted birth. Freely shining forth Beasts, cliffs, bright things without purpose: Strips of violets, tepid skulls Meadow-bloody. Wave against torpor and brain, The burner of a deep bacchanalia Set against the mark of annihilation: Upward growth and the conscious mind.
The hands of youths, Athletes limbs, closed by space, Land you on the shore as jug and slope, When with fish-head, onions, flutes The festivals of Leda turn rose-red: Copulation, the plains, and decline. O, Nacht —: O, Nacht! Ich nahm schon Kokain, Und Blutverteilung ist im Gang. O, Nacht! Ich will ja nicht so viel. Nach kleinen Schatten schnappt der Fisch. Sei, die mich aus der Nervenmythe Zu Kelch und Krone heimgebar. O, still! Oh, Night-: Oh, night! I have taken cocaine, And my blood flows out on other paths. My hair becomes grey, the years flee before me, I must, I must in sheer ecstasy Flower once more before extinction.
Oh, night. I do not ask for much: A small point of intensity, An evening mist, a surging Of time displacement, of the feeling of self. Tactile corpuscles, wall of red cells, To and fro, with odours, Mangled by words — cloud bursts.
Full text of "TY German Dictionary"
Too deep in the brain, too narrow in dreams. Stones wing their way to the earth, The fish snap after little shadows. Only with danger through the thing— becoming Sways the skull — feather duster. I can hardly reach you! These things matter, even in operetta. Bravo for the repertoire. Here among the usual operetta suspects Lehar, Kalman and Johann Strauss — are less familiar treats. Sadly, the cheers are more muted when it comes to the artists on this recording. But Viennese operetta is about more than good voices. Tim Ashley, The Guardian, 11 July Anyone visiting Germany last autumn could not help but notice Simon Keenlyside and Angelika Kirchschlager staring down at them from billboards on well nigh every street.
Keenlyside comes out of it reasonably well, as the music keeps him away from the damaged hunk repertoire in which he has been overexposed of late.
Mira Brigitte Willi Rose Ina Brosow Erwin Hartung Und U V a M
Kirchschlager, however, sings with little of her usual passion and is worryingly unconvincing. Even the subtitle — Favourite Operetta Arias and Duets — is questionable. Keenlyside is almost like a tenor, and perfectly at home in the idiom. Yes, not a big part, but the Vienna Volksoper was always doing operetta when I was growing up and my grandmother would sing operetta at the piano. I had the idea to record some of this repertoire at least five years ago and had started to put together some numbers that would suit my voice.
Then Simon Keenlyside came to Sony and he had also wanted to do this. So the record company had two artists who each wanted to record operetta, and the match was made; which meant that we could sing duets as well as arias. Well, the great thing was that Simon knows so much about the subject. He was so enthusiastic. In any case we have been friends for a long time, which is such a help in this music. We were able to play off all the wit and romance with each other.
It never feels like diving into a society completely isolated from our own, because there is a traditional balance in the dramaturgy. There are the aristocratic figures, of course, but also the working class. This was entertainment meant not only for the rich. The characters have their problems, but they are all solved in the end. Some people read political issues into some of these works, but it is all treated in a light and humorous way. Singing or listening to it, you do feel happy, in a feel-good bubble!
Much is very high and you need a lot of concentration. But it must sound easy. Andrew Lamb, Gramophone, August Keenlyside and Kirschlager have enchanted audiences in performances of German Lieder together for some years, and it was perhaps a natural progression for them to join up for a programme of Viennese operetta sweetmeats. The result is a tempting trailer for their live performances of the repertory this year.
Elsewhere each singer lightens his or her tone to great effect. The range of vocal dynamics is employed to telling effect. The inclusion of less hackneyed items furthers the cause, and, aided by the contribution of the orchestra and conductor steeped in this repertory, the grace and charm of the whole compilation shine through to rare effect.
Drawbacks include some distinctly schmaltzy accompaniments and a booklet long on pretentious waffle but criminally short on texts and translations. Anybody with a sweet tooth will love this confection of sweetmeats from the golden and silver ages of Viennese operetta. Equal pleasure is to be had from lesser-known operettas.
Take with coffee and Sachertorte. Indeed, all of these arias and duets have been recorded by famous singers of the past. One misses the chorus here, and the feeling of erotic abandon so necessary to this scene, sung in a North African cabaret beneath the stars. My heart alone Kirchschlager and Keenlyside peek winsomely from the cover, and let their hair down — though not really. This is a very polished rendition of your old favourites and more from the world of operetta. Still, the disc is full of warmth, and the pair waltz and tango through it with more than enough Viennese spirit to keep going.
Your mother will love it. A new disc includes favorite Viennese duets from those operettas and more, while another star vehicle features sparkling tunes from all over the world. Although operetta is considered the lesser stepsister to grand opera, this Cinderella of a genre can be peculiarly affecting. But operetta demands just the right tone, or its brand of bubbly will go flat. Their set of Viennese arias and duets brims with swaying rhythms and sighing romance, every moment a joy. Break out a truly bracing champagne and then give this classy disc a listen.
Thoughtfully conceived and beautifully executed, this operetta program will win many new admirers for Angelika Kirchschlager and Simon Keenlyside.