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A tenor cries

There are these melodies that seem to explain every­thing, these tunes that, even in a for­eign lan­guage, seize us by the throat, pierce time and hearts. Some times gal­va­nize mem­o­ries and feel­ings like the roman­tic period.

My singing teacher sub­mit­ted Lensky’s aria to me. Tchaikovsky’s Eugene One­gin opera is said to be one of the most sung. It is a series of crit­i­cal paint­ings on the Russ­ian social life of the time. The sto­ry is inspired by a nov­el of Pushk­in’s vers­es and, of course, may appear obso­lete, ridicu­lous, cloak and dag­ger, espe­cial­ly revolvers and jeal­ousy. In short, One­gin, a proud dandy, is irri­tat­ed that a beau­ty prefers the frag­ile heart of the young poet Lensky. To get revenge, he chose to seduce the dizzy one. The pure Lensky is offend­ed by it, pro­vokes a duel in a thought­less way One­gin who will end up killing them acci­den­tal­ly. The duel was pro­hib­it­ed in Rus­sia at the time. So you had to pre­tend to shoot to show your courage. Lensky’s air is locat­ed just before this trag­ic fight.

It is a per­fect air for the tenor, he can show his feath­ers and col­ors while remain­ing in the reg­is­ter of the bro­ken heart. We imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­nize the influ­ence that this tune may have had on musi­cals like Cats, Notre-Dame. We hear the same chords and gone, the insis­tent desire of the heart to love, the regret of not being able to con­tin­ue, the fatal­i­ty, of course, the cry of the roman­tics killing them­selves in advance, because eter­ni­ty can­not be for them, for any­one of course…

It’s good to sing, it nour­ish­es your soul as a Minu­it, Chris­tians. And every­one mourns the hand­some Lensky, the ladies would so much like to pos­sess his boil­ing heart in the inti­ma­cy of their sheets, the homo­sex­u­als would cov­er it with as much semen as they would with kisses.

Ah ! the promis­es and lies of love… Weep, weep with me, my beau­ti­ful. We will always believe in it, we eas­i­ly get on board the boat, even at old­er ages. Pas­sion is not only for the young, regret is not only for the old. Every­thing con­tributes to orgasm and its intox­i­cat­ing deaths. It’s so beau­ti­ful, a cry­ing tenor.

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