What’s Opera, Doc?
You know those moments when you realise, quite suddenly, that the things you experienced as perfectly normal turn out to be a bit strange, a bit peculiar? I thought I had a very regular, run-of-the-mill childhood well into my teens, and then discovered the awful truth: I grew up listening to classical music, and that was distinctly not the norm. Depending on your opinion of that genre, we have my mother to thank or to blame. I still sort of think of Handel’s Messiah and Mozart’s Magic Flute as children’s music, because those were on frequent rotation when I was a little girl. The first thing I learned to whistle (a skill I worked on with ferocious determination) was Chopin’s Nocturne No 2 in E-Flat Major Op 9, because my mother played it frequently on the piano in the living room. I did not know that this was unusual behaviour for a six- or seven-year-old. It was just the music that was around, the records that were on the usual rotation, or the melodies my mother hummed during the day.
Did I learn the more usual children’s fare? Of course. At school, I was taught classics such as Raffi’s "Baby Beluga" and happily sang along to "Skinnamarink" after watching Sharon, Lois, and Bram on Saturday mornings, but the strains of etudes and sonatas always made up the majority of this mix. This tendency was only strengthened by my enrolment in Orf classes and children’s choirs, where I learned to count rhythm to Tchaikovsky, the parts of the orchestra with Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf, and proudly learned the parts for Vivaldi’s Gloria. Was I an insufferable little soprano, refusing to read anything but the top line of music? Did I scoff at pop music, which I found to be extraordinarily simple and boring? Yes, I did. I’m not proud. I was a terrible snob. Thankfully, my teen years introduced me to British pop of the 1960s and 1970s rock, so my self-satisfaction was somewhat corrected. I admit I am still partial to much of the classical music and opera over other genres, and I wince at flat notes and unsupported breathing; I do not have a poker face when it comes to music. These are not the shiniest parts of my personality, not the aspects of my character of which I am most proud or pleased, but here we are.
So imagine my delight at discovering Looney Tunes’ adaptations of familiar favourites: the Barber of Seville, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhauser, Ride of the Valkyries, Hungarian Rhapsody, the Minute Waltz - all paired with the delightful comedic stylings of Bugs Bunny and company. There is something that tickled me about Elmer Fudd singing “Oh, Bwunhiwde, you’we so wooooovewy,” and Bugs responding in simpering tones, “Yes I knooooow it, I can’t heeelllp it.” Or when I was about ten, going to see Fantasia 2000, and being utterly charmed by the animation paired with Rhapsody in Blue and Carnival of the Animals and The Pines of Rome. Did the Firebird Suite scare the living daylights out of me, and did I leave the movie theatre early? Yes - that flaming bird demon was enough to give me nightmares for weeks. Trust Stravinsky to scare the pants off a kid.
The good news, dear reader, is that unlike the record store or streaming service, enjoyment does not require categorisation. I can appreciate sugary pop music, earnest 60’s folk rock, classical music, synth-heavy 1980s new wave, and opera equally. I do not need to choose - the world is my oyster, and I can delight in all of it. But I will admit that, having been reminded of Chopin’s Nocturne No 2 in E Flat Major Op 9, I will be humming it for the rest of the day: tra laaaaa!
Jennifer