Firstly, let me say that my view of Friday night's performance of Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia may well have been coloured by the change in social circumstances in which I viewed it. I booked the tickets back in June some time. It was supposed to have been a gathering for myself, Ross, Sean and Matthew. In the event only I turned up. Ross understandably was absent. Matthew has developed chicken pox. And even Sean was feeling unwell on Friday. So, instead of being a jolly night out for the lads, I endured the event in splendid isolation.
And that's about as much latitude as I'm going to give the event. It was the single most dispiriting operatic experience I've had in my entire life. I've left operatic performances feeling many things - elation, anguish, boredom, gratitude. This was the first time that I've ever left a performance feeling that I've not had value for money.
Barbiere was an opera I came to late on in my operatic attending. I always had the feeling that there would be another chance to see it and so spent my money on other things like performances of works by Janacek, Richard Strauss, Massenet and Britten. When I first saw it, in a wonderful show mounted by Scottish Opera, I was bowled over by the vim and vigour of it all. Since then I've seen a less good show by Welsh National Opera and equally good ones by English National Opera and Glyndebourne Touring Opera. Up until Friday night, I would have said that it was a show that was virtually indestructible. Up until Friday night, that is.
Simple things. The theatre was cold. People were sitting in their overcoats for warmth. The theatre was also half empty. Many people had obviously stayed away.
Neither of these would have mattered quite so much if the performance hadn't been so crass. Well, I knew already that it would be. The reviews had told me so. I can't find the energy to enumerate the ineptitudes but it was woeful.
And even the crassness of the production wouldn't have mattered quite so much if it hadn't been for the truly depressing lack of musical chutzpah. It was as though all the performances, cast, chorus and orchestra, knew they were participating in a turkey and had pretty much given up knowing that there was only one more performance to go before they were rid of the foul thing.
Yes, there were pretty moments but there was an awful lot more of people desperately going through their paces and doing things they really didn't believe in any longer because they were fed up of being booed.
I'm not going to shame people by naming them but no-one came out of the evening with credit. And my feelings were simply compounded by listening to the first of the season's live radio broadcasts from the New York Metropolitan Opera on Saturday night as I was making the evening meal. The performance was Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito - not the easiest of works in the repertory. But it was full of life and vigour and commitment and really put the Royal Opera to shame.
I spent £33 for my ticket to sit half way back in the top circle. Even if I had spent half that amount I would have considered myself cheated.