A soprano kills her husband on her wedding night and expires after going insane in front of all her guests and screaming her head off in ornamented Italian. On the one hand, it has become a pop-culture symbol for all the stereotypical excesses of opera as a genre. But, like any opera fan born after the heyday of Maria Callas, my relationship to it is complicated. As funny as that story is, any opera lover worth their salt can recognize that I lampooned Lucia Di Lammermoor.īefore going on, I just want to state unequivocally that I love Lucia. After that, things continued on between us as usual. Don’t worry, he took it as the joke that it was intended to be. I playfully retorted that clearly, he didn’t like any opera that does not feature a heroine who goes insane wearing a bloody nightgown or wedding dress while singing in perfect Italian, with flawless coloratura.

In the first place, he never heard of that opera, and secondly, it was not Italian. To say he was caught off guard is an understatement. I asked grandpa to bring me to the MET for a performance of Janacek’s Jenufa. Until one day in 11 th grade when everything changed.

That went on for years, and I saw nothing wrong with it. Gound, Bizet, and Mozart were occasionally mixed in just for variety. As you would expect of an opera lover from the greatest generation, he raised me on a steady diet of Bel Canto, Verdi and Puccini. However, what I typically don’t tell them, is that after that fateful introduction my grandfather took charge of teaching me about this weird and wonderful art form.

Anyone who knows me, knows the story about how I was three years old when I was introduced to opera by a VHS tape of the magic flute as I was recovering from major back surgery.

Lucia di lammermoor met opera review