REJECTING A DIVA

INVITATION FROM A DIVA (1954) It’s sad how we let the most sparkling opportunities slip through our fingers. Now, if I had not been so naïve, innocent, wet behind the ears and with less than a robust self image I might have grabbed this sensational invitation. The fact that the occasion marked me for life, making me a hopeless lover….opera tragic, probably makes it more poignant. It was all so improbable. Near 2000 miles north from Sydney, in fact a three days’ train journey from Bennelong Point where the most resplendent Opera House was to rise but twenty years into the future, slumbered the little sugar town of Innisfail. It was here that the drama, was to play out. The cultural scene in Australia in the 50s was about as barren as much of the land itself. We were swaying to the bland tunes of Pat Boone, with Perry Como still a heart swoon for the slightly older folk. I think Bill Halley and his comets were not a serious threat or into orbit yet. Having been “infected” with World Famous Tenors and the like in my training days at Drummoyne I was starting to blossom. The memories of singing around the piano in our brief recreation each night are still fresh and precious. There was the master, Ronny Fogarty playing the violin, and gentle Gerard from South Africa caressing the keys while the likes of Sixtus with some tenor punch led the other three or four of us in sometimes rowdy singing. I even recall the most curious occasion when we “Scholastics”, in chapel for night prayers, were standing for those painful ten minutes silence of the particular examen, when we rummaged the day for peccadilloes and the occasional good deed, when, floating up through the balmy night from the rich folk, McNivens next door came the unmistakable tenor of Ronnie!!! What a man! There he was winning friends and influencing Scottish Protestants!! The next year, by some great chance, I was able to beg, borrow or steal a small radio for my classroom. Yes, I was keen on musical appreciation for the students and used regurgitate some great demo lessons from our visits to Haberfield Demonstration School. The radio stations around North Queensland were few and limited to popular music. But, for a precious thirty minutes on 4AY on Sunday afternoon I was entranced with the magic of those fabulous tenors: Richard Tauber, Joseph Schmidt, Beniamino Gigli, Bjoerling, Richard Crooks, and even Caruso. That infusion kept me alive for the week. I still swoon when I hear the signature tune- the intermezzo from Caviliera Rusticana. So, when the news broke that the Queensland Opera company was on tour and would be giving a one night performance at our sunny little town I leapt at the opportunity to attend my very first opera. It was strange really, as the movies were verboten for the Brothers. Not that they were anyway risqué or provocative. But there was always the risk of some bikini clad siren to stir the passions of vulnerable young monks. But opera was different, so different. After all, didn’t all the heroines take a fatal leap at the end or end up in gore on the floor. Such femmes fatales offered no great temptation to an ingénue like me. Certainly, LA BOHEME ends tragically after some of the most glorious arias and duets. And yes, the “boss’, Br. Colgan gave the nod. So, Marty and I headed up the hill and around to the most impressive Shire Hall (second biggest building outside Brisbane and certainly it dwarfed any such building in Cairns.). Dressed in black suit, topped by that white dog collar I always felt I was caught in some spotlight but bore up bravely. I had no idea what a new world we were walking into as we entered a packed hall and found our seats up the front. We settled in as the orchestra was tuning up. As orchestras go it was on the modest side. About 10-15 players all up, it was enough to entice me into a new world. Maybe the Vienna Philharmonic would not have done it any better. They launched into the prelude and I was swept away. When the curtain went up I was transported from steamy Innisfail to some freezing garret in Paris. (some 40 years later, this was my reality in my two months course at Ecole Berlitz and living with the Brothers!!) For me, the standard of the singing and acting was impressive. My emotions ran riot. From the ebullience of those feisty students on stage to the pathetic rags and cold of Mimi I was a willing victim. As we sailed through on glorious melodies towards intermission I became more involved, especially with the tragic soprano. Now, I must admit that the range of names on the program did not match the colourful Italian names of our students at Good Counsel school : Demetrio Brunnelo, or the Catalanos, or Zampalas and Sultanas but then I wasn’t aware of any real dissonance as she charmed this peasant from the south. Except that this lovely soprano did deserve a more harmonious name. Yes, Molly Maddock was not the name that MGM would have chosen. But, she could sing and enchant. And I fell right under her spell !!! The intermission came all too suddenly. When Marty started to comment or analyse I must have still had stars in my eyes and was not all that communicative. Then, something extraordinary happened. Here I was near the aisle when a chap came down and knelt at my knee!!! “Excuse me but Miss Maddock would like you to pop around and see her in her stage room”. I was confused, staggered and totally at a loss to know why the Diva would want to invite me! I suppose at some level I was flattered, chuffed, exalted. But, my other emotions spoilt what would have been so memorable. Now, over the years I’ve replayed this scene to a much happier conclusion. But sadly, it would take some time to develop the gall! The said gent saw my confusion and inquired: “You are Father Barry aren’t you?” So that was it. In between arias she’s been checking out the audience. And there, in the dim light, was “her” Fr. Barry I found out later he was a very popular (and handsome) young priest at Cairns and knew the Maddock family well. No doubt, after hearing the young Molly perform as a high school girl, he had encouraged her to pursue a career in music. I demurred of course. I could see he was disappointed. And do doubt Molly was too when he returned alone!! She certainly seemed to a little off key for the last Act and ‘died’ unrequited. It was a world away and some thirty years later that I grabbed my opportunities to revel in turbo-charged and opulent opera of the highest class. As a penurious student in New York in 83-84 I haunted the Met. Maybe that’s an overstatement. But I did attend four operas in such glorious splendour at the lowly price of $10, as a standing-room-only patron. I can take certain pride that I, in fact, had a hand in “discovering” that rising star, that stunning gospel singer from the South, Kathleen Battle. Well, I was at her first performance at the Met, and that would have to count for something. The first experience I was almost into stellar space myself, way up in the “gods”. I really needed binoculars but at least I could learn on the railing and enjoy the full sumptuousness of the sets and the unforgettable singing. I did get a little more daring and was able to squeeze my budget a little and hand over $13 for similar comforts on the mezzanine floor. Very graciously, they supplied a series of railings to allow for some relief from aching legs. From there you could actually see features of the singers. There was yet another slice of largesse. If there were unoccupied seats after the first act, you could scramble and claim. So, it was at Xmas 83 that I had two guests from Chicago who were dying for the Met experience. But that night, in mid winter, a vicious low trough brought the most freezing conditions with below zero temperatures. Undaunted and not wanting to squander those $40 for our “seats” we tramped up to 241 Street Subway and rock and rolled into the city . No trouble finding good spaces on the railings. And yes, there did seem to be a scattering of lovely, alluring spaces among the plush seats. But one had to be patient. Maybe, the clients were running late. So, we enjoyed the first wonderful act of La Boheme!! As the curtain rang down we were out of the blocks and like Aussie kelpies we rounded up three seats that would have commanded $100 each. Such prize seats, at a mere $13 certainly heightened the magical experience. It was only when we were leaving that it struck that there could be arctic blasts to brave. But our luck continued. Quite miraculously some six inches of snow had lightly fluttered down, transforming this booming city into some muffled murmur, with traffic swishing by with much caution. Running the gauntlet from 241 St. Subway station to our house could be a little “hairy” at times with some danger spots to avoid or negotiate. But this night, there were no muggers about. I scuttled back through the snow, eager for a mug of hot chocolate and a warm bed. Looking back I was somewhat annoyed to see my guests, Paul and Kate savouring the experience and seemingly “mooning” their way back to Murdock Street. It was also a first glimmer that love had struck. And surely, such an opera was perfect to fuel such a dream!! Back in my home town of Sydney, some years later, I finally caught up with the most successful and popular opera of all time: CARMEN. It was the perfect birthday present for my sister, Carmel and we celebrated in some style, with a light dinner by the harbour and a spectacular evening of entertainment. But I had only one complaint. While Carmen was extravagantly tempestuous and fiery, her “mark” or hero was a little miscast. While he had a splendid tenor voice, the whole impact of a volcanic love affair was a little dulled by his less than stunning appearance. In fact, he was positively portly!!! Now, while that might have been acceptable in Innisfail Shire Hall in 1955 with Molly Maddock, it just didn’t seem appropriate for this the audience in the most beautiful Opera House in the world.

FAMILY TRIBUTE 33-

March-April 2013 have been hugely satisfying for me and so many family and friends. My 80th birthday acted as a catalyst and spur to so many enjoyable and even memorable events. It seemed a good idea to share even more IN WRITING account that includes the events, recollection and reflection on the blessed few weeks and more. No doubt slipping from 70s to 80s is a challenging call. Most would regard it’s a pretty deep and rushing Rubicon really as there is no going back when you’re an octogenarian. Not to be taken lightly. Officially, you are old when you breast 65. Why, even the Government is impressed and pays you for the privilege. And where else in the world can you take a “round the world trip” on just $2.50 you sail to Manly, get a bus to Palm Beach, a ferry to Ettalong and a train back to Central ? Statistically, when you hit 75 you are very old. Crashing through into the 80s almost defies gravity. I mean not all that many come out the other side do they? Biblically “Man’s life on earth is three score and ten more for those who are strong” seems the summit. But in Canticles one wonders at the mathematics of “sixty queens, eighty concubines and maidens without numbers” and how possibly they could all be employed?” Our genes are promising enough. The grans on the Murphy side both notched up 80 and the Bashall side performed even a little better- mid 80 and a very creditable 90! And that was before Medicare and a new world of medical miracles. Early enough in January I realised this was a year with a certain promise. I mused at the possibilities. After all, my 75 was a non-event. I would have to put that right. Then, suddenly one night I had a dream-apparition. My mother, Mary Bashall, was hovering, ghost-like but with a smile, in the corner. “Now, Terry, who don’t you do something for the family?” That started a whole train of thought and imaginings. In fact, when I started to apply myself, it unleashed a “storm” of creativity that positively swept me along for the next few months when ideas crystallised into plans with rich in possibilities. It somehow connected with the “solidarity” among our mums who met for so many years to picnic and chat and share the “goss” about families. Now followed on by their daughters. Wouldn’t this be a grand opportunity to recognise, thank, pay tribute to and celebrate with so many who had played rich roles in ensuring that I had even reached this high point as a Marist Brother? “Family first” I always say. Gradually a plan began to emerge to engage widely. The timing was opportune. I discovered that mum’s family, the Bashalls from Proud Preston in Lancashire had emigrated 100 years ago! Pop and John came earlier to set up for the family and later, the “Irishman” sailed through the heads with those four pretty Pommy girls and Jim, escorted by grandma. Shortly, they were settled in Rose Bay and they used wave to the “Irishman” every few months as fresh cargo sailed in.