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George Frederic Handel, Rodelinda
“Then you should have known Dr. Burney who wrote the history of music. I knew him exceedingly well when I was a young man.” That made Ernest’s heart beat, for he knew that Dr. Burney, when a boy at school at Chester, used to break bounds that he might watch Handel smoking his pipe in the Exchange coffee house–and now he was in the presence of one who, if he had not seen Handel himself, had at least seen those who had seen him.”
–Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh ch. xxxvii (1903)
When I first read Butler’s semi-autobiography and all its Handel-obsession (honestly, can it be fair musical criticism to judge every composer on the basis of “how much is he like Handel”?), I thought he was a bit crazy. However, that was back in the days when the Handel repertory I knew consisted of the Messiah, The Water Music, and a handful of concerti. Then I started reading Johnson, Smollett, Goldsmith, Swift, Pope and listening, of course, to their friend Handel. I realized that Butler wasn’t crazy at all. When in London, I’d wind my way to Handel’s house, just off Oxford and Bond Streets, and I’d hunt for operas, the more obscure, the better. After a while Handel becomes a sort of default choice. One listens to other things, certainly, but doesn’t it always start with Handel?
And now Handel has undergone, for nearly a decade, a tremendous revival. His works are performed almost everywhere, including many that hadn’t been heard for a century or more, but prove a delight. The contemporary rediscovery of Handel focuses on a good understanding of the Augustan Age, and that essential rule: never take an artist too seriously, and if the artist forgets to laugh from time to time, shame on him. The performances of the New York City Opera get this right. They do so brilliantly. Still the Met’s recent staging of “Rodelinda” (1725) was magnificent, and that’s my pick for today. This is music for the Age of Scandal, and much worth listening to today. Especially, “Vivi, tiranno!” perhaps the greatest of all Handel arias.
More from Scott Horton:
Conversation — March 30, 2016, 3:44 pm
Joseph Hickman discusses his new book, The Burn Pits, which tells the story of thousands of U.S. soldiers who, after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, have developed rare cancers and respiratory diseases.
Freddie Gray’s relatives arrived for the trial in the afternoon, after the prep-school kids had left. By their dress, they seemed to have just gotten off work in the medical and clerical fields. The family did not appear at ease in the courtroom. They winced and dropped their heads as William Porter and his fellow officer Zachary Novak testified to opening the doors of their police van last April and finding Freddie paralyzed, unresponsive, with mucus pooling at his mouth and nose. Four women and one man mournfully listened as the officers described needing to get gloves before they could touch him.
The first of six Baltimore police officers to be brought before the court for their treatment of Freddie Gray, a black twenty-five-year-old whose death in their custody was the immediate cause of the city’s uprising last spring, William Porter is young, black, and on trial. Here in this courtroom, in this city, in this nation, race and the future seem so intertwined as to be the same thing.
Number of Turkish college students detained in the last year for requesting Kurdish-language classes:
Turkey was funding a search for Suleiman the Magnificent’s heart.
A former prison in Philadelphia that has served as a horror-movie set was being prepared as a detention center for protesters arrested at the upcoming Democratic National Convention, and presumptive Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump fired his campaign manager.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”