The model of a modern major opera fan

Some years after the worst of my G&S enthusiasm was behind me, a friend who was profoundly cognizant of the most elevated nuances of the classical repertoire told me that Sullivan's music in the comic operas was actually full of rather wicked musical jokes. That he was frequently parodying grand opera, mocking Mozart, teasing Verdi, and the like. I hadn't realized this. I had thought Gilbert was in essence the humorist, and that Sullivan, while he knew that they were onto a good thing with acceptable commercial repercussions, would prefer to be writing a deeply sincere oratorio or a sublime symphony.

It seems to have been the fate of a number of Victorian "greats" that their fame should be almost entirely associated with their less serious accomplishments. Edward Lear was lionized for his "Nonsense"; Lewis Carroll for his Alice books. Yet the first was a committed landscape painter, and the second an academic mathematician. In this tradition, later, T.S. Eliot is today probably known better as the author of "Cats" than of "The Waste Land." I suppose it's a case of "some are born great, and some achieve lightness." A.A. Milne is indelibly marked by Winnie the Pooh while his adult writings are mainly forgotten, and Beatrix Potter is marked by Squirrel Nutkin and Mrs. Tittlemouse – little books she grew tired of when she become a sheep farmer and rural conservationist.

To care what posterity thinks is a temptation of the notable. But it is, perhaps, a somewhat irrelevant concern. Some who assume they will be remembered are forgotten. Some who were ignored are recognized. They, supposedly, are the ones who were ahead of their time.

Those of us who are not troubled with notableness are not likely to be troubled by the worry of posthumous reputation. It is on this basis that I have now agreed (somewhat unwittingly, it must be said) to sing on stage. I have been given a small part in an upcoming play. Singing was not part of the audition, so the discovery that this part is that of a rather over-the-top chorus master in an opera house and that he bursts suddenly into song, surprised me a bit.

Admittedly, the play is a comedy and is also set in an "alternative" universe, so this fortunately means a degree of unseriousness attaches to my snatch of operatic excellence. In other words, I am required to sing a few lines of spoof opera. It is in Italian, and the stage direction suggests making the (actually ridiculous) words fit a famous Mozart highlight, "Voi che sapete."

Although it has required some practice, I find it is really quite easy to sing badly. One resorts, of course, to what one knows. All I need to do is imagine that I am singing in the shower (I gave up the bath about the same time I gave up G&S) and that I'm one of the Three Tenors. It's astounding what you can do by means of imagination.

But I suspect it is all that singing along with "The Gondoliers" and "Pirates of Penzance" that has finally paid off.

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