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Noseda's Requiem triumphs in Zurich despite dramatic interruptions

A decade after Turin, Noseda's Requiem electrified Zurich—until an ill-timed ringtone stole the spotlight. How did the stars recover?

The image shows a black and white drawing of a group of people standing in front of a stage, with a...
The image shows a black and white drawing of a group of people standing in front of a stage, with a cloth draped over the wall and windows in the background. At the bottom of the image, there is text which reads "The Theatre of the Opera".

Noseda's Requiem triumphs in Zurich despite dramatic interruptions

Back in 2013, Gianandrea Noseda conducted Verdi's Requiem with the Orchestra of Turin's Teatro Regio at the Konzerthaus. Now, no longer music director in Turin but—alongside his post in Washington, D.C.—in Zurich, he returned to the work, this time with the Zurich Opera Orchestra. For Noseda, it was surely a welcome change from the challenges he faces at the Trump-Kennedy Center. A chance to let off steam—and what better work for that than Verdi's Requiem? In 2013, it was a stereophonic spectacle: theatrical, direct, and overwhelming. This time, it was… different.

At first, things went well, with the Zurich Opera Chorus's deep, whispered basses and Noseda's sensitive, patient buildup of tension. The hissing and snarling of the chorus in the Dies irae ("Quantus tremor est futurus") even felt like vivid musical storytelling. Soon, though, the text was swallowed up in the tumult—a glorious musical chaos of blaring brass and roaring chorus—leaving little to nothing intelligible. At times, it felt more like Carmina Burana, so undifferentiated and brutally loud was the performance.

The soloists had their fine moments. Bass Alexander Vinogradov was consistently elegant, his voice warm and authoritative. Mezzo-soprano Agnieszka Rehlis, though occasionally drowned out by her colleagues, offered a velvety smoothness—though without the primal depth that sends shivers down the spine. Soprano Marina Rebeka grew stronger as the evening progressed, which suited the role: its greatest demands come late, and by then, she had developed a radiant brilliance. Even veteran tenor Joseph Calleja had passages of full-voiced, sonorous power. But when the score called for the inevitable tenor shrieks, the result was clanging, metallic notes that made you wince, as if his vocal cords might snap at any moment.

Then, at twenty to nine, a mobile phone alarm blared out—jarringly, in the evening's one quiet moment, during the Libera me, Domine—forcing a brief pause. A shame, really; at 8:48 p.m., the same alarm would have been lost in the general din. Still, mission accomplished: steam successfully released.

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