Last night, watching a live transmission of Turandot from the Royal Opera House to several hundred venues round the world, I was under no duress. It wasn't like being a kid pushed into the girls' toilets; forced to wear a hand-me-down cardigan with reindeers stampeding across it trying to get away from their own aesthetic; bullied at the age of four-and-a-half to stand in the middle of the community hall and sing a verse of A Gordon for Me. No, I went there voluntarily.
And it was splendid. Everyone taking part was magnificent and at the height of their artistic abilities. The sets, props and costumes bathed me in the colours of a 1950s sweet shop. The musicians and singers were outstanding. Turandot and Liu sang beautifully. Nessun Dorma was delivered effortlessly. The audience were ecstatic.
But I just don't get it. No. I don't get it. I'm very conscious of the fact that I was brought up among coal miners to believe that opera was for posh folk. A place to be seen in best frock as much as a musical experience. Being reasonably self-reflective, however, I haven't sandbagged my mind, blocked its intrusion with ashlar bagfuls. I have seen quite a number of operas now: La Traviatta, Salome, La Boheme, Madame Butterfly, Barber of Saville, Falstaff, etc. And still, I don't get it. I can appreciate the art, but I'm not pulled in.
Those formally-trained voices push me away. The baritones do nothing for me; the quavering sopranos are icy cold. The notes they have been given to sing, the chord transitions (the rarity of a Nessun Dorma is an exception that illustrates my point) and the unexpected phrasing and melodic leaps that stab you in the chest are few and far between.
I suspect it's my flinty heart and the irregular patchwork of my brain that is to blame. Oh dear!
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