Dollie de Luxe
Rock vs. Opera

The stage setup (let's say) was probably the thing closest to the Soviet Union ever seen west of Checkpoint Charlie. Any aesthetic aspiration was sacrificed to a cold gigantism, all lines and geometries. Two side staircases and, if needed, three or four backing singers (also with a very Soviet look) positioned at a distance on a chosen side. They could move, but not necessarily. No more than one instrument on stage, heavens forbid you might fill the oppressive sense of emptiness too much.

Official logo that could very well have been from a mid-80s CGIL Congress.

In the competition, the poetry of the spaceships of Tozeur was lost among masterpieces of perfect lyrical vacuity - above all, the memorable 100% d'amour by the homegrown starlet Sophie Carle, who was not a singer professionally. Totally consistent with the spirit of the festival, as were the three Swedes who won with the electronic nursery rhyme Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley (which, as you might guess from the title, didn't tackle very complex themes).

“Those countries always win, actually those UP THERE. Those from the North”

Like Norway, whose performance was preceded by an introductory clip (back then it was done that way) that was supposed to make you think of Norway: a stormy sea and a ship floating on the waves. The music of the clip was very reassuring, halfway between an 80s Pat Metheny and a Superquark background. Yet something unsettling was leaking through: that ship among the waves didn't seem to look good.

The orchestra was conducted by maestro Sigurd Jansen, someone who had conducted an impressive number of Symphony Orchestras both at home and abroad. He had already represented Norway five times, he's a veteran.

This would be his last Festival, and not due to a premature death.

But as we were saying, the song.

The song is called Lenge leve livet, a triumphant anthem to life with vague hints of carpe diem (“we don't know where we will end up” - so: as long as we are alive, let's enjoy it) and an exhortation to universal brotherhood (“long live the belief that enemies can become friends”: truly beautiful, indeed). A schlager, just as much in line with the spirit of the Festival. All very reassuring, indeed.

If not for the fact that... they enter.

There are two of them. An ex-punk (it seems), namely Ingrid Bjornov, and a soprano, namely Benedicte Adrian.

The name Dollie De Luxe is already quite disarming on its own, but the look is even more so. Now you'll read on various blogs that it was a proto-goth-lolita-esque Japanese style, like Strawberry Switchblade, but that's a bunch of nonsense. It was actually a futuristic synthesis of elements of Nordic folklore, with even nods to that pre-Christian Norway so dear to Varg Vikernes.

From Munch to black metal, indeed, Norway has always had its tendency to shock.

There is something demonic, in that performance. For example, Adrian rolling her eyes. Not due to satanic possession, the newspapers said, but due to the unabsorbed effect of alcohol in the pre-contest. The high notes leave the sluggish Luxembourg audience puzzled, the choreography (including a small keyboard that Bjornov pretends to play) does not lift the issue. It ranks 17th, a national fiasco for Norway (which cares more for the festival than for the World Cup, for obvious reasons).

Overwhelmed by criticism upon their return home, the wonder duo perhaps realized that continuing down the road of little songs and universal brotherhood wouldn't be a great idea, and had the ambitious intuition to try something similar to that experimented – in their time – by Nice, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Deep Purple, Procol Harum, New Trolls, Osanna, Red Canzian, even Love Sculpture by Dave Edmunds (and Khachaturian).

With an additional soprano, though. EH.

You've already figured out what it's about, so I won't say it. Also because the title already says it.

Where the “versus” might perhaps suggest not a harmonic fusion between rock and classical, but a tormented and conflicting marriage. With strong friction (and contextual sparks from which to protect eyes and perhaps also ears).

Most likely bewitched by Amadeus by Forman and the rockstar-key reinterpretation genius-madness of the Salzburg Genius, the two ex-runic heroines (now halfway between Arcadia and Rococo) veer violently onto the path of contamination. And the result...

...the result is: a Queen of the Night moving on the Motown of Satisfaction, a wild merry widow on the loud guitars of Whatever You Want, a Gilda singing Caro Nome to the riff of Sex Drugs & Rock'nRoll (that of Ian Dury), a Carmen more hippie than habanera among castanets and Gimme Some Lovin' (“mais si je t'aime... so glad we made it, so glad we made it...”)

Got it?

So yes: the dinosaurs of symphonic prog may have dared the unthinkable, but nothing that remotely compares to Rock vs. Opera. Which is something much more unthinkable, to the point that nobody ever thought of it.

And then we're in the 80s. There are keyboards, synthesizers, metal guitars. Electronic drums.

Which dominate the B-side - because one song each for Stones, Status Quo, and Spencer Davis Group is fine, but the tribute to the greatest of all times cannot be confined to a single piece. To the greatest of all times, a suite in eight movements is dedicated, long as an entire side, and the Magic Flute is involved (again), mixed with – in order, more or less:

A Hard Day's Night

Taxman

Paperback Writer

Day Tripper

You Won't See Me

I Am The Walrus

Because

Helter Skelter

Get Back

Mean Mr. Mustard

A Day In The Life

Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds

For No One

Eleanor Rigby

She's Leaving Home

Lady Madonna

All You Need Is Love

(even more than one at a time, if needed). But it can't be explained without listening.

The work leaves you “a bit” flabbergasted, Satisfaction (as a single) reaches 20th place in France, the record sells decently. Even well, considering the content.

But it's not enough.

The two aren't satisfied and try again less than a year later. Not with little songs, not with new hybrids of rock and classical, but with a musical written with four hands (albeit with the assistance of a librettist for the dialogues) inspired by witchcraft and the Malleus Maleficarum.

Witch Witch (Witch Witch, indeed) debuts at home, in Bergen, in May '87. The VHS of that epochal event is available on Youtube. Not satisfied, the two even manage to export it abroad, for a total of 76 nights at the Piccadilly Theatre in London.

The only surviving reviews describe it, in order, as: “a bizarre musical”, “a terrifying rock opera”, “the second worst London musical of all time”.

(I've never wondered who occupied the first place).

Anyway, and it's what I cared about the most: Ingrid Bjornov almost completely disappears, Benedicte Adrian reappears instead. On Norwegian TV. Especially in cooking shows.

That doesn't change the fact that I'm deeply attached to my Rock Opera vinyl, bought second-hand several years later. For a price of 1 euro and 50 cents.

And maybe I wouldn't trade it for the entire Beatles discography...? (It's a bit of an exaggeration, but just to get the idea across).

Despite the Beatles being the greatest of all time.

After Amadeus.