BEECHAM

Caught a cold the other day after a café owner sneezed while serving me a pot of green tea. I know it’s green tea, but I didn’t mean mucus, for fuck’s sake!

Nevertheless, I’ve taken the time between streaming eyes, a runny nose, and a hacking cough to test the power of music in aiding my recovery from this unwelcome intrusion on my immune system. So, rather than resort to taking Beechams, I decided to reach instead for Sir Thomas Beecham’s famous 1956 recording of Puccini’s La Bohème (EMI), featuring Swedish tenor Jussi Björling and Spanish soprano Victoria de los Ángeles. Although I cannot fully measure its success in completely overpowering my cold with its sublime beauty, I can say it made me feel considerably better in myself.

October is a little early to be playing Bohème—I usually wait until November or December—but desperate times call for desperate measures, and so I’ve been reunited with my old friends Rodolfo, Marcello, and the rest of the Bohemians far earlier than expected. Honestly, I’ve missed them, and it feels like coming home to be among them all once again. In my sniffling misery I could feel myself warming up as Rodolfo burns the manuscript of his novel while Marcello tosses in his painting of the 'Red Sea' to fight the biting cold in their damp Paris apartment during Act One. Through my sore, reddened eyes, I could just make out Mimì's flickering candle after Rodolfo finally manages to relight it. Hallucinating with Puccini—good title! Maybe not.

I used to be a little sniffy (pun intended) about the Beecham recording compared to my preferred 1972 Karajan version with Pavarotti and Freni and the Berlin Philharmonic on Decca, but lately, I’ve come to appreciate the unique personality and charm of Beecham's Boheme. It’s not flashy or histrionic but perfectly judged, almost as if it could be a real-life documentary of sorts—La Bohème as la vérité, so to speak.

Anyway, the experience of listening to it has probably been greatly enhanced by the fact I’ve been knocking back some brandy in addition to lemon and honey, feeling as though the symbiosis between the warmth of the drink and the warmth of the music is battling the green viral gremlin inside my body.

Now that I’ve reached the coughing stage, I’m easily matching Mimì’s consumptive deterioration in Acts 3 and 4 and marveling at how she sings so beautifully, while I lie draped across the couch like a tragic heroine, sounding more like Babs from The League of Gentlemen.

And on that hairy bombshell, I’m signing off.

Night!