My friend said, “By the way, do you want to see the dress rehearsal for Tristan und Isolde?”

“Why, yes.”

I had a hunch I must have seen at least one production of this particular Wagner opera somewhere during the past forty years. You know how it is, witnessing multiple versions of the same murky set that faintly resembles a Star Trek episode and grimy opera singers in tunics wandering around a minimalist decor, eager to lean on a wall for accoustical adjustments. It all becomes a bit of a blur.

A few days before the five hours of “geniessen“-ing in the opera house, I arrived at a modern and sterile high school building for a Chi Gong lesson. I could barely open my eyes under the blinding lights. In the not too distant past I have been privileged to take part in several singing masterclasses near Berlin and in which we routinely and strategically practiced Chi Gong exercises to enhance vocal energy and projection. At each masterclass half of the participants were professional Wagnerian singers.

In my first Chi Gong class in Amsterdam, I found myself eyeing a wiry Dutch man who wore his long blond hair in a Chinese style pony tail. A white and black robe hung from his body. No such specimen had been present at the masterclasses for opera singers. Our Chi Gong teacher had been a burly Scotsman who emitted a gentle Paddington-like vibe. He regularly took singers off on “wee” walks and chats around the lake to calm them down. Individually.

I had signed up for the class at the high school location because I felt the need to start to recover from the latter half of 2025, i.e. find my energy and move slow. Moving slow was really appealing to me.

“You straightened your knee,” the wiry pseudo Asian corrected me.

“No, I did not!” I snapped, stepping straight into soprano mode. Maybe it was the lights that were irritating me the most. I don’t think the man expected such immediate feedback.

He made a point to take the time and effort to impress the class with his out-of-nowhere whip his arm around movement.

“Try singing Wotan,” I thought. All I wanted was space and time. And given the harsh lighting, darkness.

Sitting in the opera, I took in the sight of a man the size of a refrigerator and wearing in gigantic knee pads strolling onto stage, “Wo bin ich?” he asked.

Exactly. I feel the audience should participate in these productions. We should shout out, “Probably on a boat, buddy!” or “In your own back garden!”

Then fifteen minutes further into the act, another singer invariably askes, “Was bedeutet das?” Whereupon I feel the audience should call out, “The plot! Lay it on us, pal!” or “Need a hint?”

Of course the second act, after the intermission during which audience members attempt to dine on the contents of their handbags, starts with the same large singer staggering on stage in his comfortable rubber soled shoes, all suited up with a back brace and knee pads under his change of costume, ready for the next two hours, who says, “Wo bin ich?”

Again. It’s standard practice in Wagner operas and a way to keep everyone clued in to what’s apparently happening. I say apparently because the libretto doesn’t help.

“i should stop reading,” my friend muttered to me, indicating the text boxes above our heads. “It’s distracting.”

What was remarkable was the moment near the end of Tristan und Isolde when a recap of the plot was presented by one of the lead singers. As in: if you haven’t been paying attention during the past five hours…..

It is truly amazing to watch Wagnerians manage their energy on stage. The tenor was the most musical performer I have witnessed in a long time. However when I got home, after the sublime end, I just had listen to Callas sing Isolde. Belcanto style, sung in Italian, and it’s not really “Wagner” but it gets me every time.