Interesting concept - voices as orchestra in Michael Ching's opera

Opera Memphis presents Michael Ching's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" -- interesting concept which I'd love to hear (and see the score). 'way back I commissioned Peter Schickele to write a piano concerto (it's The Twelve Months) with choir instead of orchestra (well . . . it was his idea--we met after a PDQ Bach performance at PLU and I asked, as I sometimes do, "Is there a piece you've always wanted to write, but haven't had the opportunity yet?" The idea and commission followed). I know of a few other such pieces, but not an opera!

Perhaps interesting to do here at UNT . . . 

Some excerpts from the review by Heidi Waleson at the Wall Street Journal follow:

Is it possible to write an opera without an orchestra? Composer Michael Ching's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," given its world premiere here by Opera Memphis and Playhouse on the Square, has a "voicestra," an ensemble of a cappella singers, instead of instruments in the pit. Popular a cappella has branched out in recent years from its old-fashioned roots (think "The Whiffenpoof Song") to all kinds of music, including elaborate arrangements of up-to-the-minute rock and hip-hop numbers, with voices re-creating the instrumental parts.

Mr. Ching's remarkably inventive opera is a celebration of what voices can do and still, with the exception of a few startling vocal percussion effects, sound like voices. The voicestra —between 15 and 20 amplified voices, depending on the performance—supports the singers on the stage, its overlapping lines and syllables weaving around them, amplifying their characters and conflicts, sometimes echoing their words (or even their thoughts), or supplying atmosphere. The voicestra gives the opera an added human dimension, and its invisibility goes with the magical nature of the story.
The text, taken from Shakespeare, has far more prominence here than most opera composers allow, as Mr. Ching's tonal and tuneful vocal lines are written for maximum intelligibility rather than musical display, and some of the words are spoken. (There were no supertitles.) To mix things up even further, the lovers, especially Hermia and Helena, often sing in a style that draws from musical theater, and the play-acting workmen occasionally borrow tunes (Flute/Thisbe's speech in the rehearsal is comically set to a bit of "I Am Sixteen, Going on Seventeen" from "The Sound of Music"). Opera singers take the roles of Oberon and Titania, and double as Theseus and Hippolyta, thus giving the grandest style to the rulers of fairyland and Athens, respectively.

. . .

DeltaCappella, the Memphis male a cappella ensemble that was the inspiration for the opera, formed a key part of the cast. (Mr. Ching, who was general and artistic director of the Memphis Opera until last year, was the group's vocal coach.) Along with RIVA, a female a cappella group, their members made up the voicestra, and some of them also climbed out of the pit to play the parts of the mechanicals. Charles Ponder and Thomas "TeKay" King, both large, African-American men, brought a particularly potent energy to Bottom/Pyramus and Flute/Thisbe. Mr. Ponder's rendition of Pyramus's death scene, set hilariously to "E lucevan le stelle" from "Tosca," was brilliantly over the top, while Mr. King gave Thisbe's lament a bare, touching gravity.

The voicestra itself, conducted by Curtis Tucker, was splendid, creating a variety of sounds and textures—the haunting background of Oberon's "I know a bank"; a sinister repetition of "Chop! Chop!" when Hermia's angry father Egeus (Kent Fleshman) demanded "the law upon [Lysander's] head"; hunting-horn fanfares to awaken the lovers; a forest full of insect noises. It was fascinating to read the biographies of these fine avocational musicians in the program—one is an ear, nose and throat surgeon; another is a special-education teacher. In addition to creating a new kind of opera, Mr. Ching and Opera Memphis deserve recognition for successfully incorporating a wonderful local resource into their work.

Ms. Waleson writes about opera for the Journal.

Sweden – Friday 25 January – Orphée

Thanks to Tamara Beliaeva-Bohlin, we got tickets to the Royal Opera’s performance of Gluck’s Orphée (performed in the 1859 Berlioz version). Anne Sofie von Otter and Anna Larsson alternated in the title role—while we would have loved to hear Anne Sofie, Swedish contralto Anna Larsson was in the role that night, and did not disappoint. Interestingly, she’s also doing Erda during the same period at Kungliga Operan.

It was also interesting for me to see Gluck’s version of Orphée, since I’ll be conducting Monteverdi’s Orfeo in a production in Edmonton next November—quite different approaches to the story.

Although musically very strong, it was the production itself that was most interesting. Mats Ek, who is a choreographer, both directed (his first opera, we heard) and did the choreography.

The opera opens with the orchestra pit up and all orchestra members (male and female—the conductor, too) dressed in black suits, white shirts, long black ties, and black fedoras for the overture. At the end of the overture, the pit lowers and the curtain rises on the chorus and dancers, facing the back of the stage, again all in the same costume, except for Orphée, who only lacks the fedora, and whose hair is short, thin, and white (Kathryn said, ‘ratty comb-over’). The costumes and black and white set give the effect of a Magritte painting (with fedoras instead of bowler hats).

Anna Larsson is very tall and thin, so made a striking figure as she moved among the singers and dancers. Ek has everyone be very active (not just the 10 dancers), so the chorus has to move almost constantly and in quite complicated ways. They coped well and sang beautifully. The backdrop for this act is a large moon and gravestone—the sets throughout are minimalist, but very effective—as they sing their opening lament at the death of Eurydice. Larsson, of course, sings during most of the act—it’s a dominating role for the alto—and she was very moving.

When Amor (Jeanette Bjurling) appears to tell Orphée that he can go to the underworld to bring back Eurydice, she’s wrapped neck to ankles in grave wrappings like a mummy and carried around by four dancers, who set her down occasionally to sing (although she also sings while being carried around). This resulted in some giggles from the audience—also during bows at the end when she came out and hopped about with tiny little steps (usually with someone holding her arm for balance).

The second act opens on an extremely Hieronymus Bosch-like hell scene, with trap doors opening up and smoke rising from them. The chorus and dancers are now in nude body stockings (complete with sewn-on phalluses), some with the just the black pants on, some with just the jackets, and many with deformities from hunchbacks to enlarged hands or arms. Again, Ek has the chorus move in novel ways and the dancers in particular move and jump in and out of the pit.

When Orphée pleads to be allowed to bring back Eurydice, he’s accompanied by string quartet and harp in the Berlioz version—Tamara made her only appearance in the pit here, so it was a short night for her!

In the second scene, when the flute has an extended solo, Orphée and the chorus members move to the edge of the orchestra pit to watch the flute and applaud at the end of the solo. Eurydice (Lisa Larsson) finally returns.

During intermission we wandered around to people-watch, and whom did we see but Tõnu Kaljuste! We chatted briefly and it turned out he came over from Tallinn, Estonia, just for a day or two to see this production. The director is someone he will work with and he said (of the direction and movement), “It’s a new language—I love it!” One of his passions is the Nargen Opera Project Theatre, of which he’d dreamed for a number of years; it began in reality in 2004. Tõnu conducted Pro Coro with other choirs at two separate festivals in Toronto several years ago, so I met him there.

The 3rd Act set is just 3 large flats, one with the drawing of a chair, one with a lamp, and one with a door (all upside down). The chorus is now entirely in white bridal gowns (where both the men and women of the chorus/dancers were in suits or body stockings earlier, now all the males were, like the females, in the gowns) with stringy white hair (except for Orphée, of course). One part of the ballet has four of the male chorus members doing a short dance, including some “leaps,” with the largest chorus member in particular, and drawing laughter from the audience. After the chorus and ballet, the flats are flown away and the corresponding props (white armchair, lamp, and door) are brought on as Orphée begins to take Eurydice out of Hades. (Some unintended comedy since the tech person responsible for turning the lamp on and off as Orphée does was never on time). Eurydice (who by the way, is also in a gown, though distinct in style from all the rest, but the platinum blond hair is her own, and quite beautiful) is upset because Orphée will not look at her (he can’t, of course, or she’ll die again) and he finally becomes convinced that she no longer loves him, so he’d rather die. He looks at her and (of course), she dies, and then he sings in grief the best-known aria from the opera, J’ai perdu mon Eurydice (or it’s better known Italian version, Che farò senza Eurydice). He decides to kill himself to remain with her in Hades, but Amor returns to bring Eurydice back to life as a reward for his constant love, and we have a happy ending.

I can’t begin to describe all the scenic effects, dancing, movement, etc, but suffice it to say it was an inventive production, rich in symbolism (some of which I didn’t follow) and imagination. It was well sung and played, all in all quite a success. Many thanks to Tamara for the tickets.