Herzliebsten, gute Nacht
May. 8th, 2013 11:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaOn Wednesday, on May Day, I stood with the company of Fulham Opera by the coffin of their Alberich, on top of which lay the Ring of the Nibelung.
"Der Ring des Nibelungen!" Robert used to say. "Not der Ring des Wotans. Not der Ring des Brünnhildes. Der Ring des fucking Nibelungen!!" And there is no doubt that Robert Presley was the best Nibelung of them all.
I was a little late to the funeral, arriving just before start time, so I had to sit at the front. At the organ, Ben the MD was playing "Di Provenza il mar" mixed with bits of Rigoletto, bits of the Ring and other pieces I couldn't place. I sat down, and noticed I was sitting very close to Robert. Except he was in a box and not talking, so that was clearly not right.
I suppose it hadn't properly hit me, before. Robert was in rude health when last I saw him and gossiped with him, after Siegfried. A few weeks ago, on 10 April, he fainted suddenly on a train platform and could not be revived. He was 55.
And there I was, sitting feet from him, in the same church where I'd sat only a short time ago listening to the living man sing. There's a terrible finality about a polished wood box with a plaque on it. All that Robert was, all that he still is to us-- cannot possibly be contained in so small a thing. There was a vastness to the man. Partly his gutsy, ebullient presence onstage, of course, but also things like the way he stood, utterly unafraid to take up space and ready to challenge anyone who infringed. Robert's attitude was many times his own size. It was a total contrast to the rigidly enforced British self-effacement, and I found it refreshing.
Robert, of course, had learned badassery the hard way, growing up gay in Alabama in the 60s and 70s. He got out; to San Francisco, and then to London, where he met Andrew, his partner, who was with him at the end, on that cold station platform. I can't imagine what that felt like.
Andrew, who was sitting in front of me, had left a single red rose on the coffin, over Robert's heart. Beside it lay a small bouquet of poppies with something blue, I don't know what. At the foot end of the coffin lay a curtain-call bouquet with calla lilies and some sort of white-flowered branches - almond blossom? And then, just below the plaque, a golden rose. Which, I realised, was no mere rose but a ring, bought from Claire's Accessories because it was gold and large enough to be seen from the stage. They were burying Alberich with the Ring he'd forged-- and I still remember how amazingly Robert sang and acted the great scene of its loss and his curse. Now, in death, the Ring and victory are his.
And now, sitting opposite the box with Robert in it, I can no longer kid myself that he isn't gone. I wept (silently) all the way through the service, and could barely sing the hymns. I'd wanted to sing the hell out of them for Robert's sake, but luckily the rest of an entire congregation of musicians had had the same idea. We badly missed Robert's voice, and by god we were going to give him ours.
It is an irony that the man who sang loveless Alberich was the heart, soul and life of the company, the shows and the after-parties. It's a different, crueller irony that that massive heart was what failed him so tragically early. I wish very much that he were still here, but if he had to have a funeral, I think his company did him proud.
"Der Ring des Nibelungen!" Robert used to say. "Not der Ring des Wotans. Not der Ring des Brünnhildes. Der Ring des fucking Nibelungen!!" And there is no doubt that Robert Presley was the best Nibelung of them all.
I was a little late to the funeral, arriving just before start time, so I had to sit at the front. At the organ, Ben the MD was playing "Di Provenza il mar" mixed with bits of Rigoletto, bits of the Ring and other pieces I couldn't place. I sat down, and noticed I was sitting very close to Robert. Except he was in a box and not talking, so that was clearly not right.
I suppose it hadn't properly hit me, before. Robert was in rude health when last I saw him and gossiped with him, after Siegfried. A few weeks ago, on 10 April, he fainted suddenly on a train platform and could not be revived. He was 55.
And there I was, sitting feet from him, in the same church where I'd sat only a short time ago listening to the living man sing. There's a terrible finality about a polished wood box with a plaque on it. All that Robert was, all that he still is to us-- cannot possibly be contained in so small a thing. There was a vastness to the man. Partly his gutsy, ebullient presence onstage, of course, but also things like the way he stood, utterly unafraid to take up space and ready to challenge anyone who infringed. Robert's attitude was many times his own size. It was a total contrast to the rigidly enforced British self-effacement, and I found it refreshing.
Robert, of course, had learned badassery the hard way, growing up gay in Alabama in the 60s and 70s. He got out; to San Francisco, and then to London, where he met Andrew, his partner, who was with him at the end, on that cold station platform. I can't imagine what that felt like.
Andrew, who was sitting in front of me, had left a single red rose on the coffin, over Robert's heart. Beside it lay a small bouquet of poppies with something blue, I don't know what. At the foot end of the coffin lay a curtain-call bouquet with calla lilies and some sort of white-flowered branches - almond blossom? And then, just below the plaque, a golden rose. Which, I realised, was no mere rose but a ring, bought from Claire's Accessories because it was gold and large enough to be seen from the stage. They were burying Alberich with the Ring he'd forged-- and I still remember how amazingly Robert sang and acted the great scene of its loss and his curse. Now, in death, the Ring and victory are his.
And now, sitting opposite the box with Robert in it, I can no longer kid myself that he isn't gone. I wept (silently) all the way through the service, and could barely sing the hymns. I'd wanted to sing the hell out of them for Robert's sake, but luckily the rest of an entire congregation of musicians had had the same idea. We badly missed Robert's voice, and by god we were going to give him ours.
It is an irony that the man who sang loveless Alberich was the heart, soul and life of the company, the shows and the after-parties. It's a different, crueller irony that that massive heart was what failed him so tragically early. I wish very much that he were still here, but if he had to have a funeral, I think his company did him proud.
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no subject
on 2013-05-09 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2013-06-02 12:59 pm (UTC)