Castrati
Il Divo
Svegliatevi nel core,
furie d'un alma offesa,
a far d'un traditor
aspra vendetta!
L'ombra del genitore
accorre a mia difesa,
e dice: a te il rigor,
Figlio si aspetta.
“Stop.” Said the Maestro as he got up from the his chair, “It’s all wrong.’
“Maestro, I only sing what you have written.”
The Maestro pointed to her, “You only must sing it right, my dear Margherita.” He pointed to me, “Start from the beginning, if you would, Andrew. From the recitative.”
I put my fingers on the keyboard and played a chord.
Vani sono i lamenti
è tempo, o Sesto, ormai
“Stop.” The Maestro interrupted, “Which character do you play in the opera?”
The singer answered “Sesto Pompeo.”
“And what has happened to Sesto at this point in the opera, Margherita?”
“His father has just been killed.”
“Than act like it, dammit!” he turned to me, “Play it again.”
I played the first chord.
Vani sono…
Mr. Collins, a dark, grim faced man dressed in all black, entered the room, "Mr. Handel."
"Yes?" the Maestro turned.
"The Divo has arrived."
"Damn right he's here. He's four hours late for the bloody rehearsal!"
"He'll be here shortly." Mr. Collins exited.
The Maestro turned, "Let's try this again."
Vani...
I heard a door open. I beheld the sight of a man coming in.
He was a bout six feet tall. He was wearing a flamboyant and elaborate suit with gilded buttons and a silk ruffle collar. His greasy black hair looked like charcoal against his face, long and pale. His chest was puffed up and almost disgustingly wide. He strutted across the room haughtily and looked at Maestro Handel with resentment.
Maestro Handel shouted, “Where the bloody hell have you been?!”
The man strode towards him and looked at Maestro Handel, as if he had done something unforgiveable, “You will not talk to me that way, Mr… What is your name again?” His voice was uncommonly high and nasally, like a woman’s.
“Handel.” Said the Maestro, irritated, “George Fredrich Handel.”
“Good.”
“Are you ready to being rehearsal?”
“I’ll be ready when I’m ready.” He turned around, “Favio! Get your ass in here!”
A young boy, of about ten or twelve, ran into the room, “Yes sir?”
“Bring me some wine”
“Yes sir.” The boy ran out.
“You assistant?” inquired Maestro Handel.
“None of your business.”
Maestro Handel looked really pissed. He turned to me, “Andrew, ‘Presti omari’, if you please.”
“Oh.” Favio returned with a glass of wine. The “Divo” took a sip, then cast the glass aside, shattering it on the floor, “This is Sherry! You know I only drink fin Burgandy!”
“Sorry sir.” Favio ran out, and that was that.
Maestro Handel walked over to the “Divo”, “Are you ready?”
“Favio!” the boy ran back in, “Go and get me a score!”
Maestro Handel interjected, “But, I told you to memorize your part.”
“Memorize? My part? Seriously?” he chuckled, “I don’t even know what role I goddam play!”
The Maestro was fuming, “Look, Senesio!” he roared, “You are a singer. I am the composer. I have authority over you. It’s four days before the premiere of the bloody opera, and I’m not going to let you screw it up with your petty requests! Now get your arse over here and learn your….”
“You will not talk to me that way!” shouted Senesio, “I’m the star. Without me this theatre is nothing, you hear me, nothing!”
The Maestro turned to Lucas, one of the stage hands, “Can you believe this bugger?”
Senesio strode haughtily towards the Maestro, “You will not dare call me that!”
“I will.” The Maestro returned.
“Favio!” Favio ran in again, with a glass.
“here’s your Bugandy!”
Senesio knocked the glass from Favio’s hand, “I’m not thirsty. Now, go get that score and give it to me! Now!”
Favio ran out.
Maestro turned to Margherita and I and groaned, “From the top!”
furie d'un alma offesa,
a far d'un traditor
aspra vendetta!
L'ombra del genitore
accorre a mia difesa,
e dice: a te il rigor,
Figlio si aspetta.
“Stop.” Said the Maestro as he got up from the his chair, “It’s all wrong.’
“Maestro, I only sing what you have written.”
The Maestro pointed to her, “You only must sing it right, my dear Margherita.” He pointed to me, “Start from the beginning, if you would, Andrew. From the recitative.”
I put my fingers on the keyboard and played a chord.
Vani sono i lamenti
è tempo, o Sesto, ormai
“Stop.” The Maestro interrupted, “Which character do you play in the opera?”
The singer answered “Sesto Pompeo.”
“And what has happened to Sesto at this point in the opera, Margherita?”
“His father has just been killed.”
“Than act like it, dammit!” he turned to me, “Play it again.”
I played the first chord.
Vani sono…
Mr. Collins, a dark, grim faced man dressed in all black, entered the room, "Mr. Handel."
"Yes?" the Maestro turned.
"The Divo has arrived."
"Damn right he's here. He's four hours late for the bloody rehearsal!"
"He'll be here shortly." Mr. Collins exited.
The Maestro turned, "Let's try this again."
Vani...
I heard a door open. I beheld the sight of a man coming in.
He was a bout six feet tall. He was wearing a flamboyant and elaborate suit with gilded buttons and a silk ruffle collar. His greasy black hair looked like charcoal against his face, long and pale. His chest was puffed up and almost disgustingly wide. He strutted across the room haughtily and looked at Maestro Handel with resentment.
Maestro Handel shouted, “Where the bloody hell have you been?!”
The man strode towards him and looked at Maestro Handel, as if he had done something unforgiveable, “You will not talk to me that way, Mr… What is your name again?” His voice was uncommonly high and nasally, like a woman’s.
“Handel.” Said the Maestro, irritated, “George Fredrich Handel.”
“Good.”
“Are you ready to being rehearsal?”
“I’ll be ready when I’m ready.” He turned around, “Favio! Get your ass in here!”
A young boy, of about ten or twelve, ran into the room, “Yes sir?”
“Bring me some wine”
“Yes sir.” The boy ran out.
“You assistant?” inquired Maestro Handel.
“None of your business.”
Maestro Handel looked really pissed. He turned to me, “Andrew, ‘Presti omari’, if you please.”
“Oh.” Favio returned with a glass of wine. The “Divo” took a sip, then cast the glass aside, shattering it on the floor, “This is Sherry! You know I only drink fin Burgandy!”
“Sorry sir.” Favio ran out, and that was that.
Maestro Handel walked over to the “Divo”, “Are you ready?”
“Favio!” the boy ran back in, “Go and get me a score!”
Maestro Handel interjected, “But, I told you to memorize your part.”
“Memorize? My part? Seriously?” he chuckled, “I don’t even know what role I goddam play!”
The Maestro was fuming, “Look, Senesio!” he roared, “You are a singer. I am the composer. I have authority over you. It’s four days before the premiere of the bloody opera, and I’m not going to let you screw it up with your petty requests! Now get your arse over here and learn your….”
“You will not talk to me that way!” shouted Senesio, “I’m the star. Without me this theatre is nothing, you hear me, nothing!”
The Maestro turned to Lucas, one of the stage hands, “Can you believe this bugger?”
Senesio strode haughtily towards the Maestro, “You will not dare call me that!”
“I will.” The Maestro returned.
“Favio!” Favio ran in again, with a glass.
“here’s your Bugandy!”
Senesio knocked the glass from Favio’s hand, “I’m not thirsty. Now, go get that score and give it to me! Now!”
Favio ran out.
Maestro turned to Margherita and I and groaned, “From the top!”