I was never going to write an autobiography before, but this past month has been just so LOL-style. What's a better title: Living Like Both Ends of a Crisis Hotline, or I Can't Feel My Legs Anymore Thanks to the Adhesive Patch on My Lower Back? Whatever, I've just been busy (which is what I call it when I drink from 6 PM to 6 AM ). There was, however, enough time to squeeze in Siegfried in Seattle Opera's Ring Cycle. I've performed in two Wagner operas before, but never have I sat in the audience. I was expecting my ass to be much more uncomfortable, but the five hours totally flew by, and most of the time my hands were covering my awe-opened mouth (occasionally they were covering my eyes in shame, but we'll get to that). Siegfried is usually called "The Boring One" of the four operas. Rightly so. The story is basically that a young orphan engages in his hidden destiny, which is to re-forge the sword Nothung, slay the treasure-hoarding dragon Fafner, learn fear, and awaken the sleeping Valkyrie Brünnhilde with a kiss. It has real snooze potential, especially since it's missing memorable solo passages. Seattle Opera's triumph last night was in its ability to bring the mythology alive through careful stage direction and stagecraft. Stephen Wadsworth brought his intelligent, considerate direction into every detail of the singers' movements. He managed to make Alan Woodrow move about like a teenager might. It was clumsy at times (Woodrow's a thick fella), but he was not less believable for this. Vocally, Woodrow carried it off quite well. There were a few pitch problems at some of the rare orchestrally exposed places, but both the tone and the words were clear and fairly even (he sucks the edge out of the top from time to time). Stealing the show—as she often does—was Ewa Podleś as Erda. She emerged from the (let's be obvious) Eternal Rock Vagina with both grace and gravity and did not let up from these for the duration of her scene with the Wanderer. The moment she sang her first phrase, I saw heads throughout the entire theater turn to their company with a real WTF??? expression. Most of the faces turned into smiles with teeth glinting from the stage light. "My thought is knowledge," said Jonathan Dean's supertitles. He might have added, "My voice is Earth." The column of sheer ancient, godlike power in Podleś' throat is unmatched. A true contralto, she never shyed away from dropping into full-throttled chest voice, which boomed across the hall and pierced right through the orchestra, even when she was standing directly over the brass section. Greer Grimsley as Wotan/Wanderer was appropriately stoic and grand. I wish he hadn't made the decision to thicken his voice artificially in order to sound old or whatever. It was, afterall, artificial-sounding. I wonder if he's unaware how much more majesty and character his voice has when he allows it to work freely and openly, with clear vowels (and without that creepy-ass croak thing that he does at the beginning of each phrase). Another memorable portrayal came from Richard Paul Fink as Alberich. He never once compromised attention to the text. That, though, is a testament to the helluva-voice he possesses. He kept it wide open and never worked too hard. Still he was not once drowned by the orchestra. I expect him to move to larger, more prominent roles; keep an eye out. Thomas Harper was a gross, gross, gross Mime. Wagner wanted Mime to be repulsive visually, but Harper opted for the Harvey-Fierstein- as-shrewish-midwife angle, and it worked. Gidon Saks as the voice of Fafner was just near perfect. Saks's tone is strangely constricted in a way that can actually be described as "reptilian and jealous," and his wonderfully sinister phrasing was enough to equalize the cheesiness of the mic-and-echo effect over the sound system. Wendy Hill as the Forest Bird, was inaccurate, unmusical, and completely forgettable. And then there was Jane. Jane Eaglen, who (according to a Seattle Opera insider) promised to lose 150 pounds by this summer, but only lost ten or so. Jane Eaglen, who had to take her sleep punishment on the ground, rather than on the daïs, which presumably would never have supported her. Jane who coughed on stage multiple times (it won't save you now, Janie!). Why this singer continues to be engaged for dramatic soprano roles, I cannot imagine. Her voice is all but inaudible below the middle of the staff. And whereas in the past her gear-up-heave-and-blast-air technique sufficed for the upper notes, even those are becoming erratic and wobbly (don't deny it, coddlers!). The secret is that the voice has been headed this way from the beginning of her fame. It will continue to get worse, not because she's dangerously overweight, but because the sound of the voice will always and forever reflect the functional state of the mechanism and the manner in which it is used. Her manner is at its very root faulty. She has taken no care to build the lower register, which is the key to having a full, even, beautiful voice. She has taken on roles that require stentorian sounds. At best, hers is a lyric soprano, pushed to its outer limits. Nature cannot be undone, and as much as people think they can tame it, it will invariably humiliate those who attempt to work outside of its laws. We're seeing the result of that now in Jane Eaglen. I do not wish her ill, but I hope that she has the courage to step back and either retire, or completely rework her technique. She is an embarrassment to the literature, to the company, and to herself. I do, however, blame the artistic staff at Seattle Opera for having neither the foresight to protect her, nor the ear to have taken on a different soprano—someone who can, in fact, carry the role of Brünnhilde. We are in our most desperate hour. Help us, Jennifer Wilson; you're our only hope.