I remember the first time I heard this recording. Ivars Taurins played it for a few members of the Tafelmusik Choir at the end of a mellow Christmas party (or at least we were all feeling mellow at that point) in Toronto when I was a much younger woman. I nearly wet myself, I laughed so hard.
Since then I have been a fond fan of Mrs Jenkins and her unshakeable resolve to be a singer and performer, in spite of a complete lack of aptitude, technique or talent.
Was she an early Andy Kaufman, having a laugh at those who laughed at her? Evidence suggests otherwise.
“Despite her patent lack of ability, Jenkins was firmly convinced of her greatness. She compared herself favorably to the renowned sopranos Frieda Hempel and Luisa Tetrazzini, and dismissed the laughter which often came from the audience during her performances as coming from her rivals consumed by “professional jealousy.” She was aware of her critics, however, saying “People may say I can’t sing, but no one can ever say I didn’t sing.” (Wikipedia)
After a taxicab crash in 1943 she declared that she could sing “a higher F than ever before.” This is probably totally accurate.
She made recordings, designed her own elaborate costumes, arranged her Carnegie Hall debut at the age of 76 and died a month later. In our current world, dominated by narcissistic, delusional performers scrambling for spots on shows like American Idol or Britain’s Got Talent, Mrs Jenkins and her story seem quite pure and sweet, really.
Unlike her voice.
Without further ado, Die Hölle Rache, the aria of the Queen of the Night from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, released on the postumous LP The Glory (????) of the Human Voice. The long-suffering accompanist was the deliciously-named Cosmé McMoon, who was clearly used to dealing with Mrs Jenkins’s unorthodox approach to metre, pitch and tempo.
