Piccard in Space, Queen Elizabeth Hall

Of course there are many types of bad opera. The sort that tries but fails. The sort that has already failed but tries. The sort that neither fails nor tries. This was much worse than those. Piccard is a flawlessly bad opera. It doesn't try to fail. It doesn't fail to fail. It doesn't even just fail. It succeeds triumphantly in its failure. Piccard is the patron saint of bad opera. Name a possible criticism and this opera will be found guilty of it. Patronising to the core, witless to its very end, musically muddled and dramatically adrift, Piccard limps through its mostly pilfered routine and its nauseating attempts at interaction like a kiddy-party clown with bad breath. Worst of all, it raided (without creative licence) both Dr Atomic and Anna Nicole for both its half-baked playschool production and its execrable libretto. And how Gregory has converted a perfectly decent suite of music into musical mess is a mystery.

One flicker of inventiveness (though diffusely delivered) was to be found when, in a jokily (and I use that word very lightly) turbulent scene, the choruses weave fugues in the manner of the turba from Bach's passions. But this was a fleeting and feeble ray of light amid a vast downpour of crap. I shan't name the participants. Most of them are far better than this. I will simply mention that the director of all this gaucherie was the head of the Southbank, Jude Kelly. That she expended her time and judgment on this work proves that the Arts Council were very wise to stem the flow of funds to her pot and reminds us how strange it is that she is at the head of one of the world's finest classical music venues.