Music and Opera

Despite the not guilty verdict, Michael Jackson’s reputation has collapsed as dramatically as the ravaged features on his face. The revelations about his fondness for boyish company will haunt him for the rest of his life, even though he was cleared of charges of molestation. It cannot be happily ever after in Neverland. For all the revulsion that the Michael Jackson case prompted in certain quarters, one fact stands out amid the welter of sordid allegations: not one boy stood up in court and unequivocally stated that he was physically abused by Jackson. As I argued in this magazine last year before the trial began, the evidence against him could

Douglas Alexander tells UK music industry: Government pledges continuing help to reach US and China.This year 20 music events are being organised (up six on last year) and UK Trade & Investment will allocate nearly half a million pounds to promote the industry overseas in key markets like the US and China…. Douglas Alexander, minister for Trade, Investment and Foreign Affairs, will attend Midem, the largest international music trade fair event in the world, in Cannes on 24 January, and will begin his visit with a lunch reception hosted by representatives of the Music Business Forum. This will be followed by a visit to see the new ‘British at Midem’

A lesson is learnt. Good music, as we hear it, tends to be ours and ours alone. But bad music is everyone’s: we all suffer together. Last month I related the harrowing tale of a recent family holiday in St Ives, where my girlfriend and I, while not buying beach balls in a tourist-tat emporium, happened to hear Neil Diamond’s singular version of the Hollies’ ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’. With customary lack of restraint, the old schlockmeister transforms a simple pop song into a full-blooded Broadway show-stopper. You have to hear it to believe it. It drips with goo and phoney sentiment. But it’s so vile you can’t

The pop singer Sir Mick Jagger thinks that the Greek god whom he most resembles is Dionysus. Oh dear! One wonders if Dionysus will be pleased when he discovers that the national treasure on earth whose voice keeps giving up (bless) has likened himself to the terrifying god of transformation on Olympus. Dionysus had the cult-name Bakkhos, whence Latin Bacchus. He has four areas of interest. First and foremost he is god of wine and intoxication, though neither he nor his followers (maenads or bacchants) are ever depicted drinking (sorry, Sir Mick). This is because he was, second, god of ecstasy (mania), and no artificial stimulants are needed to experience

Why would anyone want to write an opera libretto? The words are generally held to be at the service of the music, relegated therefore to second place, so what would make any self-respecting writer choose to offer up their skills to the peremptory demands of a composer? The reason is probably quite simply because it’s something else, another way of stringing words together that can take them into an entirely different dimension. Any writer with curiosity will want to experiment with their chosen form, to try more than one way of exercising their craft. And music can take words to places that they cannot reach alone. Langston Hughes knew what

The country-and-western singer Kinky Friedman has a song called ‘They Ain’t Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore’. ‘They don’t turn the other cheek the way they done before,’ sings Kinky. Had he met The Right Reverend Hugh Montefiore, the former Bishop of Birmingham, Kinky might have changed his tune. ‘It happened out of the blue.’ Montefiore, now 82, leans back on a delicate-looking wooden chair, balances it on two legs and rocks gently as he recalls his schooldays. ‘I was 16, a keen Jew from a devout and influential family. I knew nothing about Christianity and I had never even been to a church service.’ His voice becomes quiet. ‘It was

There were four of us on the shortlist: three women in their twenties and me. We sat in a row while a Home Office cheerleader told us what a great life awaited one of us in the press office. The jolly-along lasted for perhaps ten minutes, and not once did the beaver pause in his smiling and giggling, or for a single heartbeat remove his gaze from the girlies in skirts to glance in my direction. I didn’t get the job. Not that I’m bitter. It is entirely reasonable that nice Mr Blair should wish to fill his ministries with the young and personable, rather than middle-aged candidates for new-face