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Should the following abridged version of
"SUTHERLAND AND BONYNGE---MYTH AND REALITY"
be found instructive, I would encourage the reader to consult the informative paragraph at the end of this web page. It concerns future publications, and the possibility of procuring them in their entirety
through this site.


SUTHERLAND AND BONYNGE---MYTH AND REALITY;
a Year in the Life of the Legendary Couple

by Stephan von Cron


Motivation for this accounting should be credited to Richard Bonynge, who during our last telephone conversation of a year and a half ago exclaimed: “But Stephan, you have really been treated so badly!”
Actually it was amusing to hear this coming from him, but the ensuing months helped me realize that somehow it was my duty to inform other young musicians as to what kind of pitfalls and personally compromising situations, or, if they were lucky, just downright cruelty could await them should they choose, or be chosen, to work on an international level in the music business.

My first personal contact with Joan Sutherland and Richard Bonynge dates from 1974 , when I heard the phenomenal soprano sing in Massenet’s “Esclarmonde” at the San Francisco Opera. At 13, I was
already an uncontested “opera weenie”, and probably fit in very well with all of the lined-up fans, neurotically trembling at the thought of high D’s and E flats, impressively delivered indeed , but also justifiably overwhelmed by the Australian legend’s enormous stage presence and domination in the title-role. I had to meet her, and dominate she did, offstage as well as on. In the background, charming as ever, but meticulously aware of his image and surroundings, was Richard Bonynge, who quipped gaily with his admirers. Of course, I was so tongue-tied as I approached the diva, that I could barely stammer , “Oh Miss Sutherland, you are just, you’re just... the greatest singer in the world! Would you sign this please?”, and I handed her the libretto from her 1970 “Lucia” recording. “With pleasure”, she responded. In turn, Bonynge, Huguette Tourangeau, and Luciano Pavarotti (not in the cast, but in the audience)
graciously did the same, crowning my evening.

I couldn’t stop exclaiming, “Wow!”, and in a daze I left the War Memorial Opera House. But the frustration of not having been able to express myself properly lingered, and a year later, in the form of a Christmas
greeting, I wrote Joan Sutherland a very long letter. It was the beginning of a correspondence which would last, on and off, 25 years, and culminate in a year of work as assistant conductor and orchestral arranger to her husband. From 1992-93, a portion of which would be spent living under the same roof at their luxuriously restored Swiss Chalet in Les Avants, I would learn who Joan Sutherland and Richard Bonynge really were.

My correspondence with Joan continued throughout my schooling years, and apart from brief encounters following performances I attended in 1977, 1985, and 1986, where she was always kind if somewhat distant,
I would have to wait almost 16 years before we would actually have time together. My respect for her and her husband’s work was, and has remained to this day, unerring. I also wanted to be part of the opera world--- their world.

After music studies at Vienna’s Hochschule fuer Musik und darstellende Kunst and the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore, I had started my career at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, first as musical assistant to Jesus Lopez-Cobos, then as a ballet-conductor for three seasons. Due to inner-political upheavals in the house, and several external ones as a result of the fall of the Berlin wall (the machinations of the German music world are to be treated in a further article), I was to lose my position there in 1990. Despondent, I returned to the United States, where I was given no help and forced to make my living as a free-lance violinist and production manager at Simon and Schuster Publishing. Still in touch, Joan, freshly retired, suggested that I go see Richard as he was in New York to conduct a series of “Puritani’’s (with Gruberova) at the Metropolitan Opera. We had a very pleasant coffee, and he offered that I come to assist him unofficially (without pay) at Sydney’s beautiful Australian Opera for two new productions he would conduct: Donizetti’s “Maria Stuarda” and Gounod’s “Romeo et Juliette”.

A couple days later I received a call from his agent, Agnes Eisenberger (Colbert), inviting me to dine at her home at Richard’s request. I had once had telephone contact with Mrs. Eisenberger. Not knowing where
to turn when things went awry in Berlin, I acted upon a suggestion of Richard’s, who had sent me her number, writing that she might be able to help me. When I called, she was direct: “You can’t expect that anyone is going to drop what they’re doing to help you just because you are a US citizen coming home.” “So you think it best I stay in Europe?”, I proposed. “Do what you want”, was her reply; “I don’t see any possibilities here.”
Now a year later, her tone had changed completely. She couldn’t have been more charming, offering that I come see her at her office to discuss my career the next day.

At the meeting, she could tell I was nervous. When I asked her if there were a problem with the presentation of my resume, she responded it was just right, refreshing even after all the dishonest ones. She then asked me if I had ever considered PROMPTING. I replied I was a conductor, and it was daunting enough trying to find leads for something I had been trained for. “Well, I certainly don’t know how it works” was her astounding reaction, “but we’ll ask Richard”. We never did. When I arrived at her lovely Manhattan appartment with spectacular view over Lincoln Center, all thoughts were on spending a pleasant evening. The invited guests were Richard, Chester, Nova Thomas and a broadway producer. There was lots of shop-talk, good food and wine, everyone else taking turns poking fun at the new boy on the block. I didn’t mind and we had a wonderful time, Mrs. Eisenberger insisting by evening’s end that I call her Agnes. Resurrection was not far, I thought.

AUSTRALIA

Australia is an amazing country, with its unique combination of rugged colorful exoticism and British social structure. I was full of hope upon arrival, and couldn’t wait to start rehearsals with Richard. Hence my surprise as his initial greeting seemed cool, almost as if he had not expected me to come. Just four months previously he had spoken with me about a recording project he was preparing for DECCA for which he wished I assist him. So, as confusing as the reaction was, I just threw it off, determined to prove myself as a useful and worthy colleague. In the course of the next week, his attitude warmed, but I could not help but notice the strange commentary and signals exchanged at my regard by the majority of his co-workers and administration.

Rehearsals continued, and I was fortunate enough to befriend several of the singers in the production, including the very lovely Amanda Thane, who sang the title role in “Stuarda”. But speculation continued as well, with the constant question, “Why is he here?”. Bonynge made no effort to explain or defend me, even advising me to remain “low-key”, and most certainly not attempt to conduct the piano-rehearsals he could not attend! I was starting to regret having come---then the orchestral rehearsals began. They were full of problems, due to the badly organized materials: lacking cuts, dynamics and even bars of music in the parts. Aside from my making all the corrections in the parts, the producer (and director of the Australian Opera), Moffatt Oxenbould, also decided that he needed some four minutes of additional music for a scene change where there was none in the score. Richard and I opted for the Introduction to the Overture of “Belisario”, which I needed to retouch before inserting into the parts as Donizetti had been a bit hasty with his orchestration. So suddenly I was of use, and people started to treat me like a colleague, expressing regrets for their former attitude. Later they explained that the majority of the house had been convinced that I was only asked to come work with Richard as a pretext to sexual favours, so readily bestowed by other “assistants” in the past. After eight years in the music business,
I was certainly not naive, particularly concerning Richard’s personal preferences; however, I felt a certain diplomatic immunity after an almost 17 year correspondence with his spouse---a misjudgement I paid for as
the year progressed.

I worked well for the next two months. On weekends I was invited to the house at Whale Beach (Tom Cruise was in the process of negotiating a purchase of the house just next door at the time), with its breathtaking views to the ocean and its trunks of 19th century scores, parts and music memorabilia Richard had collected over the preceeding 40 years. On certain weekdays, I was invited for lunch at the Sydney flat, also with stunning views to the sea and harbor. At both homes, the indefatigable Chester would cook for us, always haute-cuisine and served in his flamboyant, lovable style. Later on I would become more aware of the sadness behind his happy-go-lucky facade. Many good moments were spent around the pool, discussing singers and composers of the past, sharing experiences in the music world (negative comments were usually avoided), or being silly in the company of Richard’s son, Adam, and grandchildren, Natasha and Vanya, who were as adorable as Adam was personable. Richard was obviously proud of them; hence my surprise when he commented, “Children are like dogs to me: they should just behave and stay put in a corner somewhere” (I was busy running around the house with a screeching Vanya on my shoulders!).

At the Sydney apartment one afternoon between rehearsals, Richard played through the piano-vocal score of Auber’s “Le Domino Noir” for me, a score he had wished to revive for Joan many years previously. His plans
to record it with Sumi Jo were already known, and I was to help him prepare materials and assist him in the studio. During our rummagings, however, Richard mentioned that Tchaikowski had written recitatives for the opera to replace the spoken dialogue by Eugene Scribe (just like Ghiraud for Bizet’s Carmen). Looking at the text, I realized it was far too long to be of interest for a recording, and evidently had already been a problem in the theater, as its typically French wit translated badly at a time when works were performed as a rule in the vernacular. Even in French it was too long, taking up more than a third of the total performance time, and giving more the impression of vaudeville than opera-comique. Tchaikowski loved the score, and most certainly did the work a service. Unfortunately his completed recitatives were lost after the six performances in Moscow, given by a visiting Italian troupe as a benefit for Desiree Artot (in the booklet, Richard expresses doubt that
they were ever performed), and indeed the sketches from 1868 found in the Tchaikowski Complete Works Edition are sparse. Richard did happily just happen to have a copy of these. Although the manuscript upon which they are based is not in Tchaikowski’s hand, they are considered authentic, having been used at rehearsals in Moscow. Naturally I seized the opportunity to reconstruct them, and although Richard was
hesitant due to recording time alotment, he agreed, as it seemed the only feasable solution to a convincing recording of the work. With only the vocal line in Italian, a figured-bass and two or three instrumental indications with no musical or rhythmical figures, I saw two months of work ahead of me. But what a joy it was to take part in this project.

Chester had already reminded me to discuss clearly the financial terms of future work for Richard well in advance, warning that he could be abusive, so I was pleased when just after playing through the score, Richard said, “Now look Stephan, we can’t have you working for nothing all the time, so I’m offering to pay you 500 Swiss Francs per week for the work on this project and during your stay in Switzerland. Of course there you’ll have no costs for room and board since you’ll be living with us.” Naturally I accepted, and I can still see the gentle afternoon sun streaming in by the green curtains next to the piano. Everything was golden. Toward evening, Richard announced, “You realize, Chester, that MOTHER will be coming on Monday...”. Well, I wasn’t aware that Richard’s mother was still alive, considering he was in his sixties, and Chester had never talked about his, so I felt a bit stupid when it dawned upon me that they were talking about Joan. The bliss of innocent bachelorhood in relaxed surroundings was to come to a sudden halt.

Joan’s arrival the following week was heralded by lavish preparations and general excitement. Marie-Claire, the French diction coach at the Opera who had kindly offered that I stay with her, was constantly on the
telephone, getting the latest reports. Richard claimed that giving information to Marie-Claire was the equivalent of putting it on a radio broadcast. Certain subjects were forbidden: no one was to express regret that Joan had flunked her driver’s license exam for the second time---it simply hadn’t happened. Her third try was scheduled for later in the year. Other delicate subjects: Adam’s job situation, Adam’s marriage,
Adam’s relationship to his parents....Adam. As Adam’s mother-in-law Jean, one of the kindest ladies I have ever met, so aptly put it: “When Joan arrives, the fun stops.”

During the last six weeks of my stay in Australia, I was only invited once to the Whale Beach house, and never again to the Sydney apartment. I don’t believe it was for lack of space. The Friday/Saturday outing was most interesting. I can’t remember Joan’s greeting since there wasn’t one,and in the course of our lunch together I was dumbfounded to hear her say, “You know, Stephan, whatever talent you might have, and considering what happened to you in Berlin, I am convinced that ones success is dependant upon how much one is willing to work; it takes real discipline, you know.” The remark was insidious, and no reaction was possible. But I took it she was just mistaken, for I wanted to like Joan, and I would have wanted her to like me. After all , we had been corresponding for 16 years, hadn’t we? That evening around the fireplace she inquired, “So tell me, Stephan, I understand you plan to go back to
finish your violin studies in New York--is that so?”. Having left New York in order to come work with Richard in Australia and later in the DECCA studios in London, I was confused by her question, and responded that I
had no idea at this point of how my career path was going to continue. She insisted it would be a good idea to go back to playing the violin---I was crushed.

The next morning at breakfast I decided to read her hand, something I had learned to do while on tour as a violinist in Italy. Joan did not seem to take any of it seriously, until I began to decifer the lines regarding her character traits, in particular her sense of calculated will-power and domination at all costs, a lack of generosity and tolerance, as well as an aquired condescention toward most people. The tongue-in-cheek atmosphere dissipated, and Joan fell silent. “But it’s most certainly the hand of a great artist!”, I finished. Weeks later Marie-Claire told me that Joan had been very much affected by what I had seen in her hand.
“Well”, I answered, “chiromancy is considered a science in some cultures: even the picky Germans after 75 years of study have recently admitted its validity.” “But she was quite disturbed”, insisted Marie Claire. “Oh really?--- well, that wasn’t my intention.”

In the afternoon Adam and family were scheduled to drop by. While we took a walk on the beach (candid snapshots were strictly forbidden), Chester prepared , as usual, a wonderful meal. A phonecall announced
the family’s delay so we went ahead and ate. When they finally arrived, the official welcome visit for Joan had all the warmth of used dishwater. Good thing for the grandchildren’s presence, for you could have grilled
a steak on the tension between Adam and his parents. At one point downstairs, in the midst of digging through more brick-a-brack, Adam caught me alone. I liked Adam. He was a truth-loving Aquarian like myself, and very lucid. After some comments on how much his
kids had enjoyed horsing around with me on the last visit, he asked, “So, what’s it like working for my father, Stephan?” “Quite honestly, I feel like I’ve been ressurected,” I answered innocently. “Be careful”, he warned, “----he’s a real bastard”.

We returned to Sydney that evening just in time to see the wonderful fireworks over the harbour in celebration of the bicentennary of the city’s founding. This is how I wanted to remember my stay in Australia. The work with Richard continued as “Romeo et Juliette” rehearsals started. I would see Joan again on several occassions at the Opera House or at Marie-Claire’s house for a dinner party. Toward the end of my stay she seemed to warm to me, and I have a fond memory of her grabbing my hand and dragging me over to the oyster-bar at a reception after a Gala concert given in her and Richard’s honour. Joan loved to eat, and who could blame her: Australian oysters are delicious!

SWITZERLAND

I returned to California for three months before leaving for Geneva. Aside from working on the recitatives for “Le Domino Noir”, I was anxious to sing the praises of Australia and the Bonynges, pointing out that
just before the premiere of “Romeo et Juliette” Richard expressed his desire that this be the first in a long series of collaborations. Two weeks previous to my departure, even my mother received a letter from Joan !
She wrote that everyone was looking forward to my coming. I couldn’t have felt more motivated.

At the end of November I arrived. Chester came with Richard to collect me at the Geneva airport, and a stunning drive followed on twisting narrow roads which lead up to Montreux, home of the international jazz-festival, and a little further on, to the village of Les Avants. Joan had written that access by train was possible, and indeed the place came complete with pictoresque alpine station and what looked like wind-up toy trains: in short, idyllic. As we approached “Chalet Monet”, with it’s four story neo-mideaval tower Joan and Richard had built onto the original wooden-framed structure, I was overwhelmed by the view over the village and down to Lake Geneva. A little road to the left side of the house lead discretely up toward the Rochers-de-Naye summit. I would get to know it well walking the dog.

In fact, Dolly, a beautiful St. Bernard, was the first to greet me in the kitchen, where Joan and Ruthli, faithful cook and housekeeper for over 36 years, were waiting for me. A narrow corridor lead from the heavily curtained entryway toward a heavy green tapestried door , giving the impression of a dead end. Like a secret passage way, it opened to the kitchen. On the way, I noted several fine antiques and 19th century music boxes, as well as oil paintings, several damaged (one of Maria Taglioni). On the left hand side was the main stairwell, quite narrow, but with shelved enclaves that held numerous large Staffordshire figures, flanked by portraits, one of Joan as Lucia (the one which appears on the cover of her recording with Pavarotti). Most everything was in green, Richard’s favorite colour, or a blueish shade of the same colour. As the fabrics were rich and the tapestry in relief patterns, even fully lit it felt dark and somewhat oppressive.

I was glad to get to the kitchen. It was the only room in the house that didn’t remind one of a museum, and thanks to Ruthli’s little touches, the only one that had retained the charm of a real Swiss chalet, depite its modern appliances. Moreover, one had a sunny view to a high bank and the peaks of the mountains beyond it. Just behind the door to the right, next to another shelved enclave (the house was full of them) holding the telephone (a strange black relic from the thirties which could awake the dead), was perhaps the single most unusual “portrait” at Chalet Monet. It depicted the royal family of Queen Victoria, seemingly from the period
and coloured; however all the heads had been skillfully cut out and replaced by those from modern snapshots of Joan (Queen Victoria), Richard (Prince Albert), Chester, Ruthli, Ruthli’s husband Jean-Paul, Rachel their daughter and so on. Even the dog’s head had been replaced by Dolly’s!!
What was apparently a pleasantry provided revealing information as to how Bonynge’s saw themselves. Happily, Joan’s greeting was very warm, Ruthli’s reserved but agreeable, and I could feel I was embarking
on a special adventure.

Joan led me through the upper levels of the Chalet to my room on the last floor. We passed by her bedroom (with its huge antique gold-posted bed), cut into three parts including study and large dressing room (complete with photocopier), and she motioned to the adjacent official guest room with its small entry hall hung with engravings and a beautiful portrait drawing of Joan as Marguerite de Valois in "Gli Ugonotti" at La Scala in 1962. Should one rather turn to the right from the landing of this middle floor, a corridor lead to the immense music room, the original main room of the Chalet, to which one descended via wooden staircase, as always, hung with heavy velvet curtains (red, this time). The view over the room from the landing was impressive indeed, with it’s two pianos (one of which was Queen Victoria’s), Degas bronze, countless Staffordshire figures and portraits of 19th century singers.

Amongst these was a strange depiction of a rather gaunt and homely-looking woman, recognizable to me, much to Richard’s surprise, as Jenny Lind. I suspect it was an accurate portrait. Near it was the portrait I had seen in opera recording booklets as that of Giuditta Pasta, but Richard explained there was no proof it was her; he had just chosen it as it seemed to fit her description, and so on.

Everywhere were treasures. The most amazing to me were those which filled the countless built-in bookcases and armoires: scores and sheet-music. Many of them were in the halls and corridors of the house. The most important collections naturally were in Richard’s room and library. We continued upward and directly across the landing was my room, cut into two parts: a small study with large built-in worktable flanked by closets containing music paper, pencils, erasers, rulers and other office supplies which Joan anxiously showed me, as well as boxes of studio photographs from every stage of her career marked with dates and places. I enjoyed looking at these in less stressful moments---what an extraordinary career she had had! A narrow adjoining piece with clothes closet led directly to a tiny bedroom, containing two armoires from the 19th century, one with an ornate gilt mirror, and a boxbed from which underneath came regular drafts no one could explain, Joan warned me. Since it was winter, I often caught cold because of this nuisance.

The views from both windows were breathtaking: one over the valley down to Lake Geneva, the other up the hill to the inn of Sonloup, hence the name of their street, rue du Sonloup. Joan remarked that their last secretary used to be careful not to daydream too much whilst gazing out to the countryside, and indeed , even in winter, it was splendid.

Right next to my quarters was the so-called television room, a narrow salon with just enough space for a couch and television in the corner, full length shelves standing opposite with a portion of their vast video library. Further down the hall were the bathroom on the left and, just adjacent to another corner well with floor-to-ceiling videos, Ruthli and Jean-Paul’s bedroom. Another large bathroom separated it from Chester’s bedroom, at the end of this right wing of the tower. Turning left again to complete the square, one found Rachel’s bedroom at the end of the corridor, next to which was a good-sized storage room for performance materials.

As I deposited my bags, Richard came up and asked if I’d come with him so he could show me his domaine. We took the recently installed elevator facing the alcove to the right of my room (more books and scores
nestled in it!) and descended to the lowest floor. Since the Chalet was constructed on a slope, the first floor served as the house’s main entrance. The ground floor, which opened out to white-stoned terasses looking down to Lake Geneva, was where Richard spent most of his time. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d entered a cave. Opposite the elevator was an oil portrait of Richard from the early 70’s. He turned left and lead me straight down the hall, hung with oil-painting upon oil-painting to the right, including a self-portrait of Courbet, walk-in storage rooms with countless elements of his exhaustive collections (postcards, stamps, 19th century journals, engravings in all categories etc.) to the left, leading to a modest separate WC and a large bathroom in marble with luxurious shower installment. Just above the shower was a stunning male nude drawing.

He turned to the right, leading me into his bedroom. It was large, dark and forboding, but with the fascination of a time-machine. On the right as one entered was a large bed next to an armoire upon which stood rudimentary stereo equipment. Across from the bed was an immense dressing closet, which contained hundreds of boxes, files and albums with 19th century memorabilia in shelves above the clothes. A long wooden antique table divided the room, behind which was an archway, flanked by bookcases with large orchestral scores bound in colourful period leather. The table was loaded with books, papers and general clutter. On the other side of the archway stood the house’s third grand piano, also piled with clutter. Surrounding it from floor to ceiling were hundreds of piano vocal scores, all beautiful antique editions more or less alphabetically arranged in built-in shelves. Two French doors finished the room, which during warmer seasons could open out to the terasse, complete with white stylish patio-furniture.

The piece de resistance of Richard’s little realm, however, was the library, the first room one normally passed to the right as exiting the elevator, or directly opposite the stairwell. The value of the collection in these 16 square meters was inestimable. Included were Offenbach’s manuscript
of “La Vie Parisienne” (it would later be auctioned by Sotheby’s), Massenet’s piano-vocal manuscripts to “Thais” and “Manon”, several autograph scores of operas by Auber , correspondences of Saint-Saens, Massenet and Gounod, Pauline Viardot’s guestbook, with entries by all the great musical personalities of her day (including Rossini; even de Beriot wrote a violin cadenza for her as a personal entry...), and, amazingly, the complete manuscripts of compositions by Pauline Viardot. Up to that point I had no idea that she was not only a legendary singer, but also an excellent composer. And these were only the items Richard showed me. I was dumbfounded.

Richard then told me I could spend as much time as I like in his part of the house, for working, or, if I’d like, to relax or come to sleep. I thanked him as if I hadn’t really understood, and we went up to the main floor. Joan
met us in the livingroom, a good-sized salon which harboured a complete set of chairs and sofas which once belonged to Napoleon the first’s finance minister, Talleyrand. On the walls hung two impressive oils: Jenny Lind (the most famous of only two exsisting portraits, the other exhibited in the National Museum in Stockholm), and practically the only authenticated oil portrait of Giuditta Pasta (standing sideways, one foot gently poised on a pillow). Just beside a huge unframed oil of Joan as Violetta, which hung over the hearth, the very first miniature portraits and objets d’art Richard ever collected were arranged tastefully. Opposite however, on the large window sill with spectacular view over the valley, stood countless Staffordshire figures. In fact, they were everywhere, delicate and threatening, reminding one that moving freely was frowned-upon. Aside from being aesthetically displeasing, their presence seemed to suffocate the house. I quickly learned to hate them.

The dining area, which was just past an archway to the left as one entered the main room, included a very long banquet table, the same heavy green and red relief wallpaper from the salon and more oil portraits of Joan. In stark contrast to the excellent one of her as Norma, which hung in the bedroom (her favorite role: she regularly wore a bronze pendant effigy of herself in it), the same artist had managed a simply dreadful one of her as Amina (the same which appears on her unfortunate recording with Pavarotti, this albeit being one of her greatest roles. Richard claimed it was indeed her greatest and discarded both her studio recordings as unrepresentative, maintaining that at her best she was infinately better than Callas in the role---a justified commentary to those who are familiar with Joan’s pirated live recordings of Sonnambula). A “casual morning” family portrait, depicting all in elegant dressing gown lounging about the music-room, completed the collection. Joan had used a photograph of this last oil as a Christmas greeting to her fans during the 1980's. The long window sills were stuffed with rare glass carafes in all colours. A good English canvas hung above the buffet. It was surrounded by smaller coloured landscape engravings, and in desparate need of restoration and cleaning. Richard always sat with a view towards it, looking over the table and into the room, his back to the window. He told me he prefered darkness to light.

Across to the other side of the livingroom, as one passed under an archway of built-in bookcases containing rare editions of classical works, one entered the “card-room”, as they called it. At a round antique table with chairs that tended to break with any assertion of pressure (Joan and Richard spoke bitterly of guests who dared lean back on them including baritone Sherrill Milnes, more than once causing the demise of these wooden shrines), we often took our coffee and played cards while Richard sorted through one of his collection albums. A couch and small television completed the room, and little portraits of Joan (as Alcina and Antonia), as well as a huge vitrined armoire containing the rarest and largest of the Staffordshire figures (Malibran, etc.). This room was pleasant.

After the “tour”, Richard kindly offered that I call home to let them know I had arrived safely, and take a shower to freshen-up before dinner. They seemed surprised when I spoke with my mother in German, but since Ruthli was German-Swiss, I suspected they were used to it. I then went upstairs to shower, but only had about 3 minutes of hot water. I figured the supply was exhausted for the day, and thought no more of it. Soon this would become a major bone of contention between Joan and myself.

As it wasn’t quite yet evening, Richard came up to my room to explain another project which needed some quick attention, so I started work that afternoon. He had accepted to conduct a recital-disc with soprano Christine Weidinger in Krakow, which she was to finance. Since Richard enjoyed working with her, he reduced his normal fee and even offered to provide a never-before recorded number for the project. In fact, he had recently uncovered a lost manuscript to a Donizetti opera, “Elisabetta di Siberia” , and was enthusiastic about the finale with its buoyant cabaletta. The sessions were to start in three days and he had no orchestral parts, so he asked me to write them out from the manuscript. It was a lot of work, but very interesting, as I had never seen a Donizetti autograph---only that one had to be vigilant as Donizetti in his haste didn’t always remember in what transposition his instruments were playing!

When I came downstairs Joan asked, “Tell me, Stephan, what kind of cereal do you want to eat in the morning?”. I responded that I did not eat cereal, and that if it were not too much trouble, I would just like some bread and jam. “Well, you don’t have to pretend here, you know; we all know you’re American.” “Maybe so”, I responded, “but I don’t eat cereal in the morning!” “Alright, dear, do as you please.”

Two days later Christine Weidinger arrived to rehearse with Richard before leaving for Poland. She was to stay the night in the guest room. I liked Christine. She had a wonderful New York Jewish sense of humour, and was a hard worker. I had heard her Met debut as Semiramide the previous year, and although I felt the role was wrong for her voice type (Adina or Norina would have been more suited), she demonstrated many vocal qualities. Just before going downstairs to work with Richard we experienced an electrical blackout. Rather than sacrifice the rehearsal I suggested they use the the two crystal cadelabras which stood on the Queen Victoria piano. Joan reeled: “No, you are not to use those---don’t touch them, Stephan!” “I think it’s a wonderful idea”, retorted Richard. So I carefully moved the massive pieces over to his piano, and we lit the candles. The effect was breathtaking, and very 19th century. As I went upstairs, Joan pulled me aside, saying, “You never should have moved those monstrously heavy things, Stephan. Had you slipped and broken one or worse the Tiffany lamp on Richard’s piano, he would have hated you for the rest of your life!” Whilst writing upstairs I could hear Christine working with Richard in the music room. On one of my intermittent trips down to the photocopier, an unimpressed Joan blurted out “God, who could stand that for two minutes, let alone a whole recording!?”

Later in the day I spoke with Christine about some of her recent colleagues. She not surprisingly had no kind words for the conductor of her Met debut, so incompetent that Marilyn Horne walked out of the production. Not only was it the worst conducting I had ever heard at the Met (other than Sarah Caldwell), but I couldn’t understand how the young Rumanian, Ion Marin, had managed to get a contract with DGG (his subsequent discs for them with Cheryl Studer, “Lucia” and “Semiramide”, were equally disastrous). Christine explained to me that his wedding band never kept him out of any bed of use, and being good- looking he shot high, managing to successfully seduce a powerful male producer at the prestigious German company. Ever since his star had soared in the heavens, despite his obvious lack of talent.

The following morning I finished the parts just in time to give to Richard before leaving with Christine for the airport. In his absence I was to prepare all the materials for “Le Domino Noir”, as well as orchestrate a
“Romanza” which Auber had supposedly composed to replace the original tenor aria, “Amour, viens finir mon supplice” for the first Italian performance. I tend to doubt this, as a composer by the name of Lando Rossi had much to do with the Italian adaptation of Auber’s work, and everything about this “Romanza” betrays Italian style and sentiment, very unlike the rest of the score. In fact, Richard let out a resounding “Oh, shit!” when I found an entry in a 19th century French music dictionary which praised the beauty and refinement of the aria he had removed from our version.

I’m still not sure where we found the time, but in one of these first days, Richard played through my reconstructions of the recitatives at the piano. At first he claimed that Tchaikowski’s work was bad (upon hearing the inserts in the studio he regretted we hadn’t used more of them!), and insisted on two fundamental changes in the recitatives, changing the chords and vocal line of some 10 measures, which I then reorchestrated. Hence my surprise and bitterness when the recording was finally released in 1995, and in his brief “A note on the performance”, I saw that Richard mentions me in thanks for having helped HIM reconstruct the recitatives
of Tchaikowski! In the translations of this completely unilluminating text (even the French critics complained about the lack of explanation concerning the version), it is clear that Richard takes credit for all the work done on the opera. It was a vicious slap in the face for my loyalty and three months work. He had gone as far as to ask me to write an article for DECCA, which he presumably sent them, detailing the reconstruction process and how we had arrived at a viable performing version. Upon its receipt he wrote me that he was sure DECCA would be pleased to have it. Not only was the article never printed, but no mention was made of the choice of spoken text used (after discussion with Richard, I had pared it down to one tenth of the original), let alone the use of a number from the Italian version, which might not even be Auber!

With Richard and Chester gone, mobility was reduced to one person, Ruthli, when she had time. Joan therefore counted on me to drive her into town when necessary, as well as take care of larger office tasks
for Richard. Although I like to drive, I’ve never been comfortable driving other people’s cars, and particularly on roads as narrow and winding as those in the Suisse Romande. So it seemed predestined that my first time
out in Joan’s brand-new Saab, I should be caught out while parking in Montreux, the fronts wheels being pulled into a strange water-gully which lunged the car’s bumper into a wall, propituously decorated with
jagged protruding stones! Of course the front bumper had to be metallic, rendering some of the deepest scratches one could imagine. A chill went down my spine as I got out to estimate the damage. How could this happen on my first time out?! I cleaned the bumper as best I could and did my larger photocopies (Joan’s machine was too little). On my return, terrified of the consequences, I simply parked with the intention of bringing it up later, MUCH later, and went to the music room where I put on a Palestrina Mass to calm my nerves. Not even ten minutes had passed when Ruthli appeared on the landing. “Did you put the scratches on the front of the car?”, she asked. “Yes; I can’t believe it was me”, I answered from the little table I had set-up for work. “OK” she confirmed and dissappeared. Two minutes later she was back: “Madame... I mean , Joan wants to see you”.

This unhappy event served as a fine vehicle for the unleashing of Joan’s agression. “How dare you!!--You should be ashamed of yourself: go out and polish-up that bumper immediately! If you can’t remove the damage, we are not willing to have our car insurance premiums upped as a result of your stupidity---” “I shall be willing to pay for the repairs.” “You bet you will, and we’ll take it from your salary!”, she retorted. I polished the
bumper to a point where the scratches were barely visible. The next day, however, Ruthli and her husband brought it into a shop. The mechanic declared that the bumper could not be repainted as the scratches were
too deep: it would have to be replaced. Cost: SF1000, or two weeks salary. Several days later Ruthli and Joan went shopping in Lausanne. In the parking lot a young couple, while getting in, slammed their car door right upside Joan’s precious Saab, creating a large dent. After not speaking with me for over 48 hours, she related the story upon her return. After expressing disbelief that the young couple had just laughed about it, she reasoned that ultimately these kinds of things are unimportant---”It’s just a car, darling”, she quipped. She nevertheless took the 1000 Swiss francs out of my pay at the end of my stay.

Work continued, and there was much of it. So much, in fact, that I was often too tired at the end of the day to practice my violin. I did manage however to take the weekends to write Christmas mail. Joan would occassionally receive journalists to give interviews (she found the Italian ones boring, because they were the least daring with their questions) , or receive a sculptor for a sitting (she found him charming), but it wasn’t long before she enlisted my services, amazingly enough, as a DRIVING instructor!

Having failed her exam twice already, she was determined to have her license the third time around. We went out in her now well-broken-in Saab and drove through the mountainous, winding roads; practiced parking manoevers, proper shifting and signaling, and I must say, Joan was a good driver! It seems, however, that once she entered the exam situation her brain went on tilt, and she forgot everything, much to the astonishment of her official Swiss driving instructor. He even asked her at one point: “Mme. Bonynge, how is it possible that after singing in front of thousands of people regularly, you could get so nervous for a driving test?!” Naturally the answer was simple, and Joan told him that she only felt secure in her own metier. Be this as it may, these “lessons” were my best memory of time spent together with Joan. She needed my help, so she became the uncomplicated and fun person, albeit with an iron will, that had marked her beginnings and made her cherished by so many colleagues and friends. We quipped about the rediculousness of Swiss regulations right before almost smashing into a post (Oh, FUCK!---thought you’d never hear me say that, did you, Darling?”). It was a lot of fun. Upon our return each time, she would make me a lemon tea and bring it to the music room, and I still see her walking down the staircase to set my tea on the table with a real sense of affection and gentleness.

Joan was to join Richard in Montpellier, where he was scheduled to conduct a production of “Contes d’Hoffmann” right after the recording in Poland with the then still unknown Natalie Dessay as Olympia. Richard had accepted to conduct the production under the condition that they use his performing version, the materials of which needed lots of work as Joan had transposed so many numbers down at the end of her career. Richard expected Joan to arrive with the retransposed and corrected materials . Having noted that I was working like a dog, she told Ruthli that she planned to intervene on my behalf with Richard, so that he would do something to help me professionally. She often spoke with me at this time of the “bad luck” she considered I had had in Germany, to which I responded that I didn’t wish to see myself as a victim, and had no regrets. This seems to have animated her desire to help even more, as Ruthli secretly informed me following her departure. I was genuinely touched, and worked even harder.

During Joan’s absence I got to know Ruthli better, especially since we spoke the same language. She was surprised to hear that I spoke English with a slight accent, and told me that when she inquired, Richard simply remarked, “Don’t let him fool you; he’s just another stupid American.” She told me that at many stages she had thought seriously about leaving the Bonynge’s, above all else on the grounds of their cheapness, but she had adored raising Adam. Even Bonynges had to admit when asked who had had more of a hand in raising Adam, Joan or Richard, that it was neither of them: Ruthli had raised the boy. Perhaps this somewhat explains his strained relationship with his parents. She continued that if she were to write a book about her 36 years with them and all that had occured, it would create such a scandal as to topple their empire.
She nevertheless remained loyal, and spoke about how badly Richard had been treated when he first returned to Australia with Joan in 1965. Evidently the attacks by the press were more personal than anything else, but they also coincided with the beginning of his ardent affair with Chester, not kept very discrete by those working with the company at the time. He had been a baritone in the Australian Opera Chorus and reportedly had quite a good voice. Unfortunately he and Richard were even caught going at it full force in one of the dressing rooms, according to members of the house. What Joan had gotten out of all of this, other than a career which she claims would never have been as brilliant without Richard , was never quite clear. She had said at table that Ruthli “should be so lucky” , were I ever to come visit her after hours. Hence my surprise to catch Joan and Ruthli one day in the kitchen, kissing one another on the lips. For someone as reserved as Joan, the gesture seemed quite intimate to me, especially considering that she only ever gave Richard a peck on the cheek when he left on long trips! But what they did amongst themselves, I mused, was their business; that is, until it became mine!

The strangest and most hillarious of chapters in their existence at Les Avants, it would seem, was when Richard decided he was going to try to become a singer in order to appear with Joan!! Ruthli said she had trouble not to buckle-up laughing while observing his voice lessons. “It didn’t last long!”, she concluded.
While cleaning the house she used to curse regularly at the hand woven Belgian carpets which decorated the floors. Joan had recently slipped on one in her bedroom, claiming she ended by “measuring her length on it”. They were in fact too thin to be layed-out on any sort of smooth surface. They had been fixed countless times with double-sided tape, but always managed to buckle and finally detach themselves, obliging Ruthli to move
all the furniture to recenter them. “You would think they would invest in some beautiful orientals”, I commented. “They have no money” was Ruthli’s cynical response.
It should be noted that Joan Sutherland and Richard Bonynge are the wealthiest performing couple in the history of opera, their fortune well exceeding that of either Pavarotti or Domingo. It was not uncommon for
them to receive US$80,000 per performance over a 25 year period, averaging regularly earnings of one million dollars a month (not counting recording royalties, Joan being the most recorded soprano in history).

Joan, Richard and Chester arrived back from Montpellier just a few days before Christmas, just in time to go collect one of their oldest friends from the airport, Peter. A cancer specialist, Peter was a very generous,
very British, mousy sort of person, completely devoted to the Bonynges. One could have called him their greatest fan. Whatever Joan or Richard maintained, he agreed with, but he was himself very cultivated and
had excellent taste. I remember his unexpected kindness to me with little gestures: some beautiful postcards of Les Avants he had found while in town to give me as a souvenir of my stay, discussions of the possibilty
of moving to London to further my career outlook; he even was so thoughtful as to bring a gift for me from London, so I would not be left out when he made his splendid Christmas offerings to Joan and Richard. It
was the most exquisite silk tie I have ever received, and I have worn it on many formal occassions.

This was the first time the whole household was together over a longer period. The first noticable change was Ruthli’s constant reference to Joan as “Madame”, with others quickly following suit; Jean-Paul, then Chester.
I suppose it was considered an affront that I continued to call her Joan. More disconcerting was the sudden change in Joan’s attitude towards me, and I couldn’t help feeling she had been briefed during her stay in Montpellier. Her regard became cold and determined, her attitude condescending and quite aggressive. I realized something was wrong on our first evening together. As fish was being served for dinner, the place settings contained three different forks each. Looking down as a salad arrived, I hesitated before choosing a piece of silver, not realizing that I was being watched. As I cast a confidential glance to Ruthli the moment I lifted the fork, she nodded with a smile and said, “Yes, that’s the right one.” Suddenly Joan burst out, “What’s the problem---one would think you were raised in a barn, Stephan!” I cringed, to which Richard attempted to soften the blow by adding, “Well, it’s fairly logical, isn’t it: you eat from the outside inward”. “Oh, I see”, I answered, not wishing to let them know that I was used to eating salad at the end of a meal!
Joan then spoke of recent mail she had received, berating one fan “to be so stupid as the address me with Dame Sutherland”. At the time I wasn’t even aware that in Great Britain only first names are used after a title.
When I brought up cultural differences, she simply barked: “What would you know, Stephan, you never read anyway.” She was refering to a conversation we had had several weeks before, in which I admitted that I had not found much time to read with all the music these last years. “Well, we’ll help you fix that”, she cooed, and lent me a stack of books on Queen Victoria. Richard continued to pour wine, as always, excellent, but I could feel my limits being reached and told him so. “And what happens then?”, he asked. “I’m afraid I start getting romantic”---to which he refilled my goblet after every gulp. Richard became more charming as Joan got ugly.
Conversation turned to Montpellier (Richard was amazed by Dessay’s upper register, in particular a high G she interpolated during Olympia’s final appearance--”assez, assez, ma fille”, although he found the voice had not much colour), then Australia. The burning controversy of the moment was as to whether or not Australians would vote to sever their ties to Great Britain. Joan was adamant to the point of making herself many enemies later on down under, considering the Australians beholden to Great Britain for their very existence. When Peter asked, “But where is your Australian patriotism?”, Joan roared, “I am NOT Australian: I was born British, and I have a British passport to prove it!” (like all Australians at the time). At coffee I asked Peter about his cancer research, suggesting that our modern intake of so many chemicals in food may have something to do with the increase in cancer victims during the 20th century. He dismissed this as “rubbish”, explaining that longevity
had increased, permitting more to go wrong with the organism, and that there were certainly plenty of cancer victims in the 19th century who could not yet be diagnosed as such. I didn’t insist, but Joan offered I should “rather keep my mouth shut than discuss subjects I knew nothing about.” So much for pleasant conversation.

I began to dread meals. But they were not without interest, in particular when the subject turned to Joan and Richard’s former colleagues. All of a sudden, no one was safe. It sufficed to pick a name: Anna Moffo---”She was always too nervous to sing well, and just counted on her looks. Her problem was having made a soft-porn film at the beginning of her career which marked her professionally,” “But wasn’t she a fine Violetta?”, I asked. “NO”, said Joan. “She was dull on stage in the role”, remarked Richard. “In what roles was she good then?”---- Joan: “None”. Dame Janet Baker---”Such a bloody hipocrite, talking to the press about the choice she had to make between personal happiness and a career while she’s cavorting around with her lesbian lover!” , asserted Joan surprisingly. Frederica von Stade---”Such a huge production over one of the most boring singers of a generation: when I heard her sing “Sonnambula” in the so-called “Malibran” version (everything transposed down, and not even accurate), her first entrance was visually stunning. She looked exactly like one would imagine Amina should, but when she opened her mouth I thought I was going to fall asleep by the end of the first aria. Absolutely no interest.” commented Richard. Lucia Aliberti (in the same role)--- “When I heard her sing it in Lausanne in concert” hissed Joan, “ she made me so mad, I hoped she would fall over and hurt herself; such repulsive singing and stage demeanor”. Kiri te Kanawa, about whom Joan had been asked to write a paragraph in hommage for a book being published---”How am I possibly to say that it’s the Mauri blood that makes her so lazy and stupid?”
Of all the singers mentioned, one of the few that went unscathed was Renata Scotto. Although we all agreed that at the end of her career the voice got wiry and role choices were unfortunate, Joan maintained that this was a great singer, and particularly of Bel Canto roles in the late 50s and 60s. Those who are aquainted with her recordings from this period would have trouble denying her qualities.

Joan and Richard’s personal favorites, however, remained Marilyn Horne and Luciano Pavarotti, even though neither was spared when it came to personal or vocal criticism. Joan had wonderful memories of performances with Horne, and I remember her having to turn away when Richard and I put on their 1964 disc of “Serbami ognor” , after several minutes of listening intently as if reliving the experience. She did not wish for us to see her emotion. I saw this happen only one other time, much later, when I put on what I considered one of the most beautiful pieces of singing she ever did, “Beatrice di Tenda”’s opening cantilena. After quipping, “Don’t ask me to try to do that nowadays!”, I saw her rapidly wipe the tears from her cheeks. Her opinion of Horne’s vocal technique, on the otherhand, was mixed. “I could never understand how she used her chest voice, and I did not find it particularly healthy or beautiful.” The criticism of Pavarotti seemed more justified, and personal.

As is well known, Joan and Richard played a very important role in the developement of Pavarotti’s career, he having been chosen by them for the Australian tour of 1965 as a complete unknown. Before the success he had at Covent Garden opposite Joan in the 1966 “La Fille du Regiment”, Richard had to insist and threaten so that he be used by DECCA studios for the “Beatrice di Tenda” recording: they did not want him. The following 9 years saw many wonderful collaborations. Then in 1974, they were scheduled to record “Maria Stuarda” together. DECCA wanted the paring for sales, although Pavarotti had never sung the role. Although he claimed to have learned it, it was obvious after a few takes that he hadn’t done his homework, so everyone had to be sent home and brought back into the studios one year later at enourmous cost (in fact by this time to Joan and Richard’s own pocket-book, as they had concluded a deal with DECCA by which they were payed in direct profits on their sales, not receiving a fee for the work in the studio). This put a strain on his relationship to Bonynges. Nevertheless, they made up, and for Joan’s very last recording “Adriana Lecouvreur”, it was the general wish that Pavarotti be at her side. Having never sung the part, DECCA sent a coach from La Scala to his home some six months before sessions were to start. “But Luciano just wanted to have fun, and they spent most of their time in the swimming pool, cooking and horsing around”, said Joan. DECCA called regularly to be informed as to their progress, but soon it became clear they were going to have a problem, despite the coach’s efforts. “You see, Luciano doesn’t read music, so he’s a very slow learn”, explained Richard. “We got into the studio, and after several good takes, he began to falter.” “But DECCA was prepared”, continued Joan, “so as it became obvious that Luciano hadn’t learned the role, they announced, ‘Thank you, Luciano: you can go home now---Mr. Bergonzi has arrived’; DECCA had called him at the last minute”. As a result Carlo Bergonzi, who knew the role like the back of his hand and had agreed to come to the rescue if need be, ended up making Joan’s final disc (and his singing is the reason for buying it!). “Since then, I refuse to have any more to do with Luciano professionally, as much as he’s an adorable person”, concluded Richard. Of course by then, Pavarotti’s best years had already passed, and he didn’t need Bonynges anymore to boot. Strangely, Richard claimed one of the physically most repulsive experiences he ever had was right before a show with Pavarotti: “I came back to his dressing room, and he didn’t yet have his shirt on, so just before leaving I put my hand on his shoulder, and it just sunk into this mass of fat; you couldn’t feel any muscle. It was revolting.” “But that didn’t stop him from getting as much of IT as he wanted, dear”, Joan explained to me on one rare restaurant outing when Ruthli was away. “He was QUITE active, in particular with the young opera coaches; I just don’t know how he was even able to find it when looking down!”

As far as their black colleagues were concerned, Joan and Richard’s attitude was reserved to hostile. When I mentioned that the only singer I felt had equalled Joan in vocal beauty, style and stage presence in her generation was Leontyne Price, she answered dryly, “Well, she did have quite an organ”, adding, “but she should never have sung Donna Anna; that was awful.” Her “Trovatore” Leonora she considered “alright”.
At table there was also talk of Martina Arroyo, whom they thought a serious colleague (“I’ve never met anyone who sweat so much: we lent her a sweater and it came back drenched!”), but passions broke loose
as soon as Kathleen Battle’s name was mentioned---”That filthly little nigger bitch!!”, spewed Richard. “Her recording with that so-called trumpet player, Winston Marsalis, is a disaster”. I reasoned that at the beginning of her career I remember a lovely Rosina from the Met (1981), at which they both balked. “She’s just as vile as her nigger culture, but you Americans aren’t allowed to say anything against blacks: they should all just go back where they came from! A Jewish high-society hostess friend of ours in New York used to always tell a joke I loved; she’d say, 'the blacks? there’s only one solution---one should load them all on a big boat bound for Africa, and if the boat sinks on the way, all the better!!'” Richard told this “joke” at least three times at table during my stay, inevitably followed by raucous laughter. It was a bit like being at an SS meeting, but to strike a word for tolerance, he claimed that the Australian Aboriginals weren’t any better: “All just niggers; should be working as slaves”. Of course, that wasn’t necessary: Bonynges already had white ones!

Christmas at the Bonynge’s had a certain tradition. Joan had wished for a big tree to be ready for Richard’s return. A rather unfortunate but large specimen had been found and felled from their property. It was my duty
to decorate it, which I enjoyed doing, as in my youth, but I could not do much for the lop-sided aesthetics of the tree. The ornaments were a strange array of traditional glass, and not-so-traditional offerings from fans.
The funniest was a 4-inch depiction of Joan as Marie, complete with army drum and a jaw almost as large. “I think she went over the top with the jaw”, Joan duly noted, while handing me ornaments from below. I finished the uppermost branches from a ladder, and this was a nice moment we had together. On a couple of occassions before her departure for Montpellier, we went into town to do Christmas shopping. I had already arrived with gifts for them, but did not wish to be empty-handed for Ruthli and Jean Paul, so off we went to Montreux, finishing the afternoon in a lovely cafe with the warm glow of the village and the smell of Christmas pine wafting from the cut ribboned branches above the windows through the door each time it gently swung open. Joan seemed curious to see if anyone recognized her, and was pleased when an admirer would make a passing comment. We spoke of conductor’s she had worked with before Richard and her eyes lit up when she remembered Tulio Serafin: “My God, all you had to do was sing; he was always there!”, or Sir John Barbirolli, and she started humming the solo from Mahler’s 4th Symphony---beautifully.

Christmas Eve was marked by Richard’s asking me to play through some Mozart Sonatas with him at the piano. I told him that I hadn’t had a chance to touch the instrument in weeks and prefered we do it in a few days. He insisted, and the results were destabilising due to faulty intonation. When I mentioned to Joan that I wasn’t too pleased with myself, she answered, “It wasn’t very in-tune, but Richard’s racing at the piano didn’t help matters”. I was in fact surprised (and even shouted at him once to stop rushing!), since his singer accompaniments were always so sensitive. I’m not sure what was going through his mind, but all agreed it was pretty bad music-making from us both. A couple hours later, Chester put on Joan’s Christmas album from 1965, and as she cried out, “Who’s that woman shrieking in the background?!”, we all descended into
the music room, fully lit with gifts strewn everywhere. The gifts were opened one by one and it was quite lovely if somewhat subdued. Chester had video-taped the previous year, where Deborah Riedel was their guest, sang and played piano duets with Richard: our ceremony must have seemed awfully dull in comparison. Upon receiving the Grove’s Dictionary of the Opera, Richard immediately scrutinized his entry, noting all the mistakes and inaccuracies.

Within days Joan’s attitude towards me sharpened, as if I were not fulfilling what had been expected of me. One evening before dinner, as I expressed pleasure to be able to work on a high level again, she fixed me with her eyes and said flatly, “Of course you should be working on this level, Stephan, but your problem is that you are not submissive enough.” Since by that time I was also working weekends, it was obvious that discipline was no problem. Nor was my capability, as Richard had expressed his satisfaction with my orchestrations. All the same, they couldn’t avoid making unusual reflections on my past, Richard quipping “Well, evidently the problem was that he doesn’t play piano, but I personally think that’s rubbish for a conductor”, or “When you sent me the tape of your brass arrangements (I had done several opera transcriptions which were recorded by the brass quintet of the Berlin Opera), I knew you couldn’t be completely stupid!” First of all, with whom in Germany had he discussed my years at the Deutsche Oper, and moreover; who had proported that I was incompetent? I never asked Richard, but doubt he would have told me. I was simply happy to let Germany rest and go on to something new.

Coincidentally, I was to have received a call from Rafael Fruebeck de Burgos at this time, then Music Director of the Deutsche Oper. He was looking for a personal assistant, work to begin the coming fall. Turning to the orchestra commitee after his search had come up empty, they suggested me as a perfect candidate. The “Vorstand”(committee representative) of the orchestra even telephoned to tell me that Maestro de Burgos was enthusiastic and would ring me the week following Christmas. The call never came. At the beginning of January I was recontacted by the Vorstand, who said that de Burgos had mysteriously and very quickly decided on someone else. At the time I was not aware of my blacklisting in Germany; neither was the Vorstand. Dissappointed, I came down to breakfast the next morning. Joan did not seem surprised by the news. I commented, “Well at least I never had to go to bed with anyone in Berlin to achieve what I did at the opera.” After a deadly silence, Joan answered, “Many who have sat right at this very table have had to do just that, darling, and it didn’t bother them in the least.”

Richard did not stay long. He couldn’t refuse a “Fledermaus” series in Rome after initially quoting them a fee he thought would send the administration running. Instead, they accepted. During his absence DECCA’s artistic director, Michael Woolcock, came to call. We got on well, and, as fate would have it, he had known my first conducting professor , Michael Moores, quite well. Hence his surprise to learn that he had been killed in an automobile wreck five years previously. He mentioned that a close friend had been Douglas Gamley, long-time arranger for Richard until an unexplained falling-out. Since

Dios de mi vida





Mito Sutherland al suelo


Recomendabilisima lectura. Que horror las opiniones vertidas sobre los compañeros

¿Hay que leerse todo eso? Lo dejo para otro momento.

tamino escribió:

¿Hay que leerse todo eso? Lo dejo para otro momento.

Merece muchisimo la pena. Te destaco lo mas interesante


I began to dread meals. But they were not without interest, in particular when the subject turned to Joan and Richard’s former colleagues. All of a sudden, no one was safe. It sufficed to pick a name: Anna Moffo---”She was always too nervous to sing well, and just counted on her looks. Her problem was having made a soft-porn film at the beginning of her career which marked her professionally,” “But wasn’t she a fine Violetta?”, I asked. “NO”, said Joan. “She was dull on stage in the role”, remarked Richard. “In what roles was she good then?”---- Joan: “None”. Dame Janet Baker---”Such a bloody hipocrite, talking to the press about the choice she had to make between personal happiness and a career while she’s cavorting around with her lesbian lover!” , asserted Joan surprisingly. Frederica von Stade---”Such a huge production over one of the most boring singers of a generation: when I heard her sing “Sonnambula” in the so-called “Malibran” version (everything transposed down, and not even accurate), her first entrance was visually stunning. She looked exactly like one would imagine Amina should, but when she opened her mouth I thought I was going to fall asleep by the end of the first aria. Absolutely no interest.” commented Richard. Lucia Aliberti (in the same role)--- “When I heard her sing it in Lausanne in concert” hissed Joan, “ she made me so mad, I hoped she would fall over and hurt herself; such repulsive singing and stage demeanor”. Kiri te Kanawa, about whom Joan had been asked to write a paragraph in hommage for a book being published---”How am I possibly to say that it’s the Mauri blood that makes her so lazy and stupid?” Of all the singers mentioned, one of the few that went unscathed was Renata Scotto. Although we all agreed that at the end of her career the voice got wiry and role choices were unfortunate, Joan maintained that this was a great singer, and particularly of Bel Canto roles in the late 50s and 60s. Those who are aquainted with her recordings from this period would have trouble denying her qualities.

Joan and Richard’s personal favorites, however, remained Marilyn Horne and Luciano Pavarotti, even though neither was spared when it came to personal or vocal criticism. Joan had wonderful memories of performances with Horne, and I remember her having to turn away when Richard and I put on their 1964 disc of “Serbami ognor” , after several minutes of listening intently as if reliving the experience. She did not wish for us to see her emotion. I saw this happen only one other time, much later, when I put on what I considered one of the most beautiful pieces of singing she ever did, “Beatrice di Tenda”’s opening cantilena. After quipping, “Don’t ask me to try to do that nowadays!”, I saw her rapidly wipe the tears from her cheeks. Her opinion of Horne’s vocal technique, on the otherhand, was mixed. “I could never understand how she used her chest voice, and I did not find it particularly healthy or beautiful.” The criticism of Pavarotti seemed more justified, and personal.

As is well known, Joan and Richard played a very important role in the developement of Pavarotti’s career, he having been chosen by them for the Australian tour of 1965 as a complete unknown. Before the success he had at Covent Garden opposite Joan in the 1966 “La Fille du Regiment”, Richard had to insist and threaten so that he be used by DECCA studios for the “Beatrice di Tenda” recording: they did not want him. The following 9 years saw many wonderful collaborations. Then in 1974, they were scheduled to record “Maria Stuarda” together. DECCA wanted the paring for sales, although Pavarotti had never sung the role. Although he claimed to have learned it, it was obvious after a few takes that he hadn’t done his homework, so everyone had to be sent home and brought back into the studios one year later at enourmous cost (in fact by this time to Joan and Richard’s own pocket-book, as they had concluded a deal with DECCA by which they were payed in direct profits on their sales, not receiving a fee for the work in the studio). This put a strain on his relationship to Bonynges. Nevertheless, they made up, and for Joan’s very last recording “Adriana Lecouvreur”, it was the general wish that Pavarotti be at her side. Having never sung the part, DECCA sent a coach from La Scala to his home some six months before sessions were to start. “But Luciano just wanted to have fun, and they spent most of their time in the swimming pool, cooking and horsing around”, said Joan. DECCA called regularly to be informed as to their progress, but soon it became clear they were going to have a problem, despite the coach’s efforts. “You see, Luciano doesn’t read music, so he’s a very slow learn”, explained Richard. “We got into the studio, and after several good takes, he began to falter.” “But DECCA was prepared”, continued Joan, “so as it became obvious that Luciano hadn’t learned the role, they announced, ‘Thank you, Luciano: you can go home now---Mr. Bergonzi has arrived’; DECCA had called him at the last minute”. As a result Carlo Bergonzi, who knew the role like the back of his hand and had agreed to come to the rescue if need be, ended up making Joan’s final disc (and his singing is the reason for buying it!). “Since then, I refuse to have any more to do with Luciano professionally, as much as he’s an adorable person”, concluded Richard. Of course by then, Pavarotti’s best years had already passed, and he didn’t need Bonynges anymore to boot. Strangely, Richard claimed one of the physically most repulsive experiences he ever had was right before a show with Pavarotti: “I came back to his dressing room, and he didn’t yet have his shirt on, so just before leaving I put my hand on his shoulder, and it just sunk into this mass of fat; you couldn’t feel any muscle. It was revolting.” “But that didn’t stop him from getting as much of IT as he wanted, dear”, Joan explained to me on one rare restaurant outing when Ruthli was away. “He was QUITE active, in particular with the young opera coaches; I just don’t know how he was even able to find it when looking down!”

As far as their black colleagues were concerned, Joan and Richard’s attitude was reserved to hostile. When I mentioned that the only singer I felt had equalled Joan in vocal beauty, style and stage presence in her generation was Leontyne Price, she answered dryly, “Well, she did have quite an organ”, adding, “but she should never have sung Donna Anna; that was awful.” Her “Trovatore” Leonora she considered “alright”.
At table there was also talk of Martina Arroyo, whom they thought a serious colleague (“I’ve never met anyone who sweat so much: we lent her a sweater and it came back drenched!”), but passions broke loose
as soon as Kathleen Battle’s name was mentioned---”That filthly little nigger bitch!!”, spewed Richard. “Her recording with that so-called trumpet player, Winston Marsalis, is a disaster”. I reasoned that at the beginning of her career I remember a lovely Rosina from the Met (1981), at which they both balked. “She’s just as vile as her nigger culture, but you Americans aren’t allowed to say anything against blacks: they should all just go back where they came from! A Jewish high-society hostess friend of ours in New York used to always tell a joke I loved; she’d say, 'the blacks? there’s only one solution---one should load them all on a big boat bound for Africa, and if the boat sinks on the way, all the better!!'” Richard told this “joke” at least three times at table during my stay, inevitably followed by raucous laughter. It was a bit like being at an SS meeting, but to strike a word for tolerance, he claimed that the Australian Aboriginals weren’t any better: “All just niggers; should be working as slaves”. Of course, that wasn’t necessary: Bonynges already had white ones!

Me lo imprimo y me lo leo más tarde con una cañita.
Gracias Javi.

tamino escribió:

Me lo imprimo y me lo leo más tarde con una cañita. Gracias Javi.

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Eso de llamar a Kathleen Battle pequeña puta negra, es bastante fuere

Cielo santo.
Mira que no me acababa de gustar cantando (que nadie me lapide, pero echo de menos las consonantes cuando la escucho y un poquito de algo más que no sea sonido bonito), pero después de leer esto...
¿Me dejaré influir?

Qué bárbaro. Acabo de terminar las dos partes del artículo...

La fuente del articulo, y descargable... Que se me olvidó ponerlo

http://balonsoes.blogspot.com/2007/11/msica-la-stupenda.html

despues de leer el articulo, simplemente se me ocurre una frase: nunca sirvas a quien sirvio

por cierto, no me creo nada, que lo demuestre, si puede

Irmin santo, que la Sutherland pronunciaba mal, que digo, falta, puede que valga, pero un rollo tan grande con su misma mala pronunciacion, pues como que para otro día, juas,juas,juas.

Abrazos.

Pero qué es esto???????????

Al Qaeda-KKK de la ópera?????



La grabadora estaba metida entre las sábanas de los "Sutherland"???

El catálogo de mezquindades que el autor atribuye a Dame Joan y cara mitad es tan amplio que resulta bastante increíble, sí. Me he quedado con la boca abierta.

... es que sólo "empachaos" de whisky me creo tantos dardos...

de empechaos al borde del colapso nervioso... que facil es calumniar!