Of all the odd traditions of the classical music world, the “operatic gala” must be one of the oddest. An orchestra flies in a star soprano or tenor, at vast expense, to sing a few arias lasting around 20 minutes. To bulk out the programme to a respectable length, the orchestra intersperses a selection of pop-classical favourites. The star’s loyal fans turn up in their thousands for this brief glimpse of their idol, applaud every note deliriously, and are rewarded with blown kisses, at least one change of frock and a handful of encores.
Saturday night’s gala at the Royal Festival Hall, from the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Romanian soprano Angela Gheorghiu, followed the formula to a T: we heard a series of Russian-themed pieces, including a somewhat over-emphasised and heavy rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No 1, and the star did indeed appear in two different frocks. Gheorghiu made her electrifying debut back in the early 1990s, with heart-stopping portrayals of Mimi in La bohème and Violetta in La Traviata. The operatic world was transfixed by her mesmerisingly beautiful and perfectly controlled voice, together with a gift for histrionics that allowed her to embody these heartbroken and vulnerable women to perfection.
She stayed true to her strengths, at least, in Saturday’s programme. All five arias were in the emotional territory of yearning for love, or love lost, and they included one exquisite rarity, Ombra di nube, by the Catholic priest-cum-composer Licinio Refice. Yet Gheorghiu seemed weirdly unfocused, her voice a lovely but hazy simulacrum of the sound to which we once thrilled. The most disconcerting thing was her seriously awry tuning. The whole phrase began and ended a semitone flat. Did she not notice? Could she not hear?
It was only with Donde lieta uscì, Mimi’s sad song of farewell to her beloved Rodolfo, that Gheorghiu began to find her form. She reminded us how she can embody a whole world of yearning in a long, drawn-out note, while conductor Gergely Madaras expertly followed her every unpredictable move. Then, in Un bel dì, vedremo, Madama Butterfly’s dream of her long-absent American husband’s return, Gheorghiu finally let forth a golden top note. The audience went mad, and the encores duly followed – so why did she sing the last of them, Agustín Lara’s Granada, in a couldn’t-give-a-damn half-voice? Having just won my sympathy, Gheorghiu promptly lost it again. If a diva is only on stage for half an hour, she should, at every moment, give her all.
