Review: Fleming is world-class, from entrance to encore

CONCERT REVIEW |

On Friday night, soprano Renée Fleming showed Seattle exactly how a world-class diva makes an entrance. By the time she appeared onstage at Benaroya 15 minutes past the hour — resplendent in a peacock-green gown with gold filigree sparkling around her neck and fingers — the audience was about to burst with anticipation.

Fleming conversationally introduced her first set of songs, five spare and rarely heard tone poems by Olivier Messiaen and an aria excerpt from Jules Massenet's "Cléopâtre." The audience tittered like a nervous suitor at her disarming banter. If you weren't already in love with her when you arrived (I confess), then you definitely left wrapped around her finger.

Like Barbra Streisand's, Fleming's vocal style is instantly recognizable. Every note her soprano caresses is unmistakably hers. The Massenet aria highlighted the lustrous tone she can achieve: a molten shimmering that somehow pierces even as it soothes — ideal for a siren song intended to lure Cleopatra's slaves to suicide.

The next set of songs, "Le Temps l'Horloge," were written for Fleming by 94-year-old French composer Henri Dutilleux. These complex miniatures revealed to stunning effect the palpable light and dusk in Fleming's sound, as well as her effortless power.

During the title song, Fleming's soprano winged its way up, dizzyingly high, then plummeted down. "Le Dernier Poème" was all angles, but Fleming's voice poured like liquid gold into its jagged nooks and crannies.

Dutilleux's entire set sounded like a pile of splinters, quite frankly, and I doubt any other singer could have made such beauty out of it. In her success, Fleming owes much to accompanist Gerald Martin Moore, whose playing of this difficult music was superb.

After intermission (and a dress change), Fleming returned in the striking black-and-white strapless gown that she famously wore to the opening gala of the Met. Her remark, "I think there's just as much applause for the dress," served as a cheeky reminder of the close physical scrutiny that sopranos are subject to and that Fleming so gorgeously rewards.

"Strauss is my desert island composer," Fleming admitted, by way of introduction to the five lieder that followed. These lush Romantic songs, Strauss at his most winsome and melodic, all brought an ache to the throat and a sting of tears, especially "Freudliche Vision," "Ständchen," and "Zueignung." No one does Strauss better than Fleming.

Entertaining operatic excerpts from three lesser-known but charming Italian composers followed: Ruggero Leoncavallo, Umberto Giordano and Riccardo Zandonai. Fleming sang the gamut, from heartbroken whore ( "Zazà" and "Siberia") to teasing coquette ("La Bohème" and "Conchita"), providing a vivid peek into the dramatic skills she is famous for.

Fleming's exit from the stage was as pefectly calibrated as her entrance. The soprano provided four encores to her besotted audience: two obvious tidbits from Puccini and Strauss, and two unfamiliar tunes, an aria by Giordano and a song by cult jazz singer Blossom Dearie.

The Strauss and Giordano were both stunners; hearing Blossom Dearie sung operatically was just plain weird. If I don't hear "O Mio Babbino Caro" ever again, I will be just fine. That the divine Renée Fleming deigned to sing this ditty at all was an act of artistic generosity as thrilling as the rest of the evening.

Sumi Hahn: sumi@bewodo.org