So I'm sitting in a Mexican cantina (an exotic version of Fibber Magees where the clientele have higher vitamin D levels) having an in-depth discussion with an Italian photographer about dramatic bowel movements when some friendly locals join us. The band are lashing out an interesting mix of metal and bouncy mariachi, but between songs and buck-lepping, I manage to strike up conversation with one of the lads – a big fan of Slayer and a classically trained tenor. When the guitarristas take a breather to allow staff untangle the knot of bodies strewn across the dancefloor, Javier belts into the odd aria. He gets awfully excited when he finds out I'm Irish. "Have you ever attended the opera festival in Wexford?" he asked in the most wonderful plummy, operatic stage diction. Snap! Just three days earlier I'd been for the first time.
It turned out that Javier (his stage-name is Adrianne) had performed in La Traviata at the Wexford Festival Opera. "Did you have the most wonderful time?" he enthusiastically enquired. Not an easy question to answer. I'd been wrestling with my feelings about the festival like a pair of Mexican luchadors trying to pull the masks off each other. The experience of getting dickied up was certainly more enjoyable than my debs (the last time I'd suffered auto-erotic asphyxiation by neck-tie and cummerbund), but there were elements of the experience that chaffed.
The first grain of sand in the evening’s vaseline was felt when my partner in crime for the night headed up to the bar to get us a couple of glasses of champagne to ease us into the spirit of things. The glasses of plonk, more piccolo than flute, were €15 each. Jaysis! The Opera House in Wexford was a recession-free zone. With tickets peaking at €120, you’d need a credit union visit before splashing out for a round, a plush seat, a lick of polish for the brogues and a shot of starch for the frills on the dress shirt.
There was a change of tenor for the opening performance; surprising to see change from anything less than a twenty. There were cheaper seats available and more accessible performances – not a concern for those pre-ordering bottles of champagne for the interval.
SHORT STRAW
The production was Il Cappello di Pagalia di Firenze (The Florentine Straw Hat) by Nino Rota, which led me into a false sense of security; Rota picked up an Oscar for the original score to The Godfather. The music was more Verdi than Morricone, but it was wonderful to hear the orchestra in full flight as the animated conductor headbanged through the score. There was no doubting the skills of the musicians and most of the performers (Filippo Fontana standing out), but unfortunately the direction, set and comedic stylings on the slanty stage left me at a bit of a loss. Unlike claims of innocence often made by careless drug mules, this really wasn't my bag.
Back in Mexico I thought it would be rude not to sample some local culture besides that on offer in El Fibbernos. In the courtyard of an ancient library I caught a young Colombian ensemble performing . . . opera! The performance was free and there wasn't a champagne flute in sight, but the quality of the tenor and the musicians was as good, if not better, than what I'd caught in Wexford. To finish their performance, the Colombian lads pulled out a crowd pleaser, lashing into Canta y no llores. There wasn't a dry "Ay, ay, ay, ay" in the house as the crowd whooped, whistled and sang along with gusto. The communal and earthy vibe to this performance struck a chord with me and lent perspective to how I'd been feeling about Wexford.
My opera buddy, Kitty, had a much better handle on her Wexford experience: “It was like a musical, only worse”.
Safe travels, don't die.
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