I did recognise the irony.  Wanting to muse a little on the amazing powers of the human mind, specifically in relation to memory, and I couldn't damn well remember whether I'd written on the subject before!!  Just goes to show, though, what a complex and fascinating subject this is.  (Or that I am prone to forgetting quite a lot...)

What made me think was a performance yesterday after a very long and stressful day waiting with, waiting for and worrying about a friend undergoing a rather nasty operation.  I hadn't slept well the night before, either, so by the end of the day - well, by the end of what normally constitutes a working day, I was pretty much exhausted.  Except I then had to get costumed and made up and venture out onto the stage.  Now, this is a part I have done several times before.  I learned it very thoroughly at the beginning (having learned over the years that to undo mistakes takes about ten times more effort to put right than going to the trouble of taking endless care over the first studies).  I'd mentally rehearsed while I was waiting for my friend to come out of surgery.  I was prepared!

The peculiar combination of extreme tiredness and relaxing due to playing with colleagues I know and in a piece I have done over and over again, however, led to a couple of the cold-sweat moments where you hear your cue echo strangely through your brain and have absolutely NO idea what comes next.  

This is where experience kicks in, and actually, being knackered helps.  You simply have to trust the unconscious bit of your brain to come up with the goods, whilst standing aside with the conscious bit.  

Goes a bit like this:

Conscious mind ("C"):  AAAARGH what the hell comes next???

Unconscious mind ("U"):  Breathe!  It will turn up!

C:  No, really!  I am meant to be saying/singing something here and I have NO clue what it is!!

U:  Chill!  Set eyes to neutral, breathe, and trust.

C:  Ooooookay . . .  here goes! . . .

U:  (comes out with the right words, heard with fascination by C)

C:  Ahhhhhh, so THAT was what I was meant to say!!! Congratulations!

Hopefully the opera continues without many more such soul-stopping panics as this...

Really, though, you have to admire a biological structure which has all those built-in safety nets!

I must also take the opportunity to reinforce the confidence in that unconscious layer of the mind when it comes to auditions.  Doubts are so pernicious.  Learning to take a deep breath and trust to one's preparation is surely a laudable aim for a musician!

We'll call this one "Three Banana", shall we?  

I was with a friend who was visiting Mainz to experience the madness of our Fassenacht (carnival).  We'd got a little stuck earlier, having thought we'd just drop her luggage at the station and move on to a planned meeting with friends, and got into interesting logistical difficulties involving curtailed bus routes, multiple parade crossings and lack of any blasted left-luggage capacity actually left at the station.  Fortunately I am in possession of a key to a friend's flat not far from the station, so we went and deposited the baggage there, and then set off for the intended meeting-point.

It wasn't quite that simple!  Because of the delay, we found we couldn't cross several of the streets in town.  Tried, tried, tried, tried again; and eventually thought, oh well, it's a decent day (first of spring, methinks), we'll just circumvent the city via the Rhine, and rejoin my party from the other side.  We had sensible footwear on, being singers. 

Two hours, just about, it took us.  En route, my friend was inspired to take a slew of photos (she is also a keen photographer).  This was just after we'd finally indulged in a refreshing (translation:  much needed!) beer.  In the interests of safety, I took her beer in my unoccupied hand.

Haha, she thought, a mezzo with a beer in either hand - photo opportunity!  She duly snapped away.  At which point there appeared a banana demanding to be included in the photo.  Um, OK.  One banana.  Then another leaped into shot.  Two banana.  And at last, laughing happily, a third.  Three banana...

Absolutely glorious for the spirit!  I mean, who wouldn't want to be photographed with three happy unknown bananas?  It really exemplifies the carnival spirit for me, though.  Stay positive - who knows what's going to turn up in the near future (I am hoping that the portents are less than literal, mind, as bananas tend on the whole not to advance one's career as an opera singer...)?

Long live the carnival spirit!!

Frozen, I think, for a while.  A (perhaps inevitable) time out due to a nasty cold (I had been sickeningly healthy for months and months, and this came at the end of a clutch of auditions involving flying hither and thither like a mad thing), and the sudden descent of a shatteringly sub-zero winter spell have given the past few days a rather dreamlike and timeless quality.  

But once past the fever-dream stage of illness, I find it invaluable to have a space in which to think, without the necessity of doing.  So much of one's time as a singer is focused, full of forward momentum, goal-oriented - and that of necessity, because without such impetus it is not easy to keep one's head up and stay positive in these dark days for all artists - that it's easy to forget one also needs the introspective calm, necessary for the soul to breathe.  

In the timeless space of reflection, the big questions swim up to the surface:  why am I doing this?  who AM I as a singer?  is this the right path?  is this the right aria?  is this the right interpretation? how do I feel about this role?  should I take this particular opportunity? what next?  ... and are considered and weighed, and sink back down. 

Once the temperature has given in a bit (minus 14 centigrade at one point today) and the cold has retracted its claws and I am once more firing on all cylinders, these musings will be virtually forgotten, but vitally important nevertheless - the iron at the core re-magnetised and pointing in the right direction, the swan's legs working busily yet unseen under the surface...

Well, I can but hope.  In any event, a few days curled under the bedclothes means I'm rested and ready to take on the world!

A somewhat belated Happy New Year!! I know it's the middle of January already, but time has gone a little crazy during the past few weeks and frankly I seldom know which way is up at the moment, hence the reckless abandonment of my poor writings here.  All in a good cause, mind - out of the blue, a few auditions have turned up (which can only be A Good Thing), necessitating lots of frantic learning of new material, practising same and working through it with great coaches, precautionary visits to the spa (steam rooms are GREAT for the voice and I'm convinced that jumping from hot to cold like you're meant to confuses bugs so much that they give up...), and flying here there and everywhere.

In my defence, the time weirdness is not confined to my brain.  I have slowly become aware that my smartphone (ha!) reckons it's a darned sight smarter than I am, and therefore alters any appointments I have made according to the time difference (hmm, that could have been more snappily put...). What I mean is, I note down, for example, an audition at 1440h  for a certain date, in London.  Because I was in Germany when I bunged that in the calendar, it then without damned well asking (or even telling me) shifts the appointment to an hour earlier once I arrive in England.  This has led to me hyperventilating in slight panic a couple of times when in the UK, and once arriving waaay too early at the airport for a flight (sorry L, my dear friend, I was too chicken to admit this, you having hauled yourself heroically out of bed to transport me to the station!).

It snarls things up in the other direction, too.  Having agreed when in England with a friend here in Germany to meet her at the spa in Wiesbaden at a certain time, I was gathering my bits and bobs together in a leisurely manner when she rang wondering where I'd got to.  Blasted phone had switched that appointment to an hour LATER!  Aargh.  Mind you, that particular meeting was somewhat ill-fated anyway - I leapt on the bus and arrived at the spa rather out of breath and unrelaxed, to feel a little smug that my friend hadn't yet arrived.  I texted her to say it was a bit too cold to stay outside so I was lurking in the foyer.  Text back - erm, so am I, and I can't see you.... Oh yes.  It turned out we had different ideas of what "the" spa in Wiesbaden was...

I do have to say, though, that I SO much prefer having pages to learn and places to go; many of the auditions I am currently facing are pretty much guaranteed to turn up nothing concrete in the near future, but the thing is I shall have sung for that particular company, and hopefully they'll remember me when it comes to casting the season after this...  And I have to admit, new stuff can be glorious - whatever the outcome, I shall never forget my first musical theatre audition this last weekend (outfit as per photo above, much admired by fellow auditionees, for which I am hellishly thankful for the advice of my New York Musical Theatre Guru, who knows who she is ;-) ) - I have seldom enjoyed myself so much!

There really can't be many better starts to the new year that that, huh?  Prost!!

 Ohh.  I'd honestly forgotten how much Paris plays tricks with time.  I don't think there's another city in the world in which one can lose track in such a delightful way.

I was there for a couple of days this week for an audition.  Unsuccessful, as it turned out, but not for lack of trying.  It's a part I would love to sing, so learning excerpts was something that should pay off one day.  I know it suits my voice.  And the surreal experience of waiting to audition, surrounded by at least six other hopefuls, all looking very much like me but on a 4/5ths reduced scale in all dimensions... priceless!!  I know the French are very body-conscious, but this was ridiculous.  A whole room full of "mini-me"s...

Still, having the entire day to myself yesterday was an utter pleasure.  I had vaguely thought of bringing my return train journey forwards, since I woke early and was scheduled to leave just after 7 p.m. - but in the end I simply gave in and wandered around fairly aimlessly despite grey skies and rain.

I delighted in a crêpe with crème de marrons (sweet chestnut purée), much to the amusement of the stallholder.  I had to explain that whilst the Germans do produce crêpes, they never have that particular filling, and so for me it has become somehow a peculiarly French pleasure.  

The bookshops around the Sorbonne, with their tempting displays of cheap treasure, appear not to have lost any of their appeal.  Somehow my small rucksack (I pride myself on travelling light) became filled with bargains (blasted places also have rooms full of second-hand CDs.  Shouldn't be allowed.)

And lunch.... ohhhhh, lunch!  I was craving proper French onion soup.  After tearing myself away from the bookshops  (my feet had started to hurt from carrying so much and marching around), I found a little restaurant in the Latin Quarter which had this on the fixed-price lunch menu and ordered entrecôte to follow.  And naturally a small pichet of red wine, despite the waiter trying to entice me into ordering a large one (damn - I used to order those without thinking - this time I didn't even finish the entire jug!), and some sparkling water (bejewelled San Pellegrino - same as I had in Berlin recently.  Evidently not made its way to the provinces yet!).  It was simply amazing how long I lingered over that meal.  Didn't even mean to - my plan for the afternoon was to visit the Rodin museum - but it felt too pleasant, sipping wine redolent of cherries and savouring exquisite food, flicking idly through a novel in French I'd picked up at the bookshop...

I made my train by the skin of my teeth.  I'd even managed to make the Rodin museum, interestingly by way of an authentic Parisian street demo (only place on earth where asking for directions gets you the full and flirtatious attention of SIX riot police in full gear, I reckon...).

Photo taken in the rain near Odéon, just as night began to fall.  What a beautiful city!!!

Auditions, in the opera world, are very much a necessary evil.  It is always an immense pleasure, therefore, to find, much to one's surprise, that one is positively having fun in the middle of one!

I was in Berlin last week for an audition I hadn't been looking forward to at ALL.  It wasn't even for a job - the state agency here (the ZAV) has offices all over the country, and once a year they hold central auditions, by invitation.  It means you don't have to schlep to all the different major cities for all of the agents to have heard you personally.  You are of course more likely to be considered by them if they've seen and heard you in the flesh.  The downside of course is that if you don't do your best in this audition, you don't have another chance to set it right.  I had sung for a couple of the offices before, and knew that my write-up on the central computer was good; part of me therefore wanted just to leave the status quo ante and give the audition a miss.

The rest of me really fancied a trip to Berlin to catch up on a variety of friends, pick up a bottle of cinnamon liqueur sparkling with gold leaf which tastes gloriously of Christmas to me, and catch a cellist friend's début in a well-known Berlin jazz club.  That part won.

So having convinced myself that I was actually singing better than before, and besides which I could use the audition practice, I turned up at the Berlin offices of the ZAV.  I'd planned to be in plenty of time, but got foxed by building works to the Berlin subway system (I'd even remembered to bring along my transport map, being well prepared - shame the U1 and U2 had been illogically part-subsumed into what is presumably meant to be the U1 / 2 but looks like the U12 and isn't on the map...).  Luckily they were running late after lunch, so I had a chance to catch my breath.  I'd warmed up at the apartment of the friend who put me up the previous night, so that wasn't a problem.  The poor things were on their fourth consecutive day of audition, and a quick glance at the list of singers showed an entire day of lyric sopranos... and me.  I went in grinning and thinking, ha, this will shock them, and hit them between the eyes with my Verdi (Azucena, Condotta ell'era in ceppi, from Il trovatore).  (And no, of course I didn't so much hit as rather cautiously let my voice out, it not being the hugest of rooms and it having windows behind all the listeners which bounced the voice back rather loudly...).  All I can say is, they were definitely awake by the time I'd howled the last notes.  Then, as per normal procedure, they had four more arias on my list to choose from.  They were palpably delighted to find a funny one (The old lady's tango, from Bernstein's Candide) and I just relaxed then and there, had huge fun hamming it up, ending with a flourish and a stamp so hard on the last HEY! that I had to apologise for probably having just made a hole in their nice little stage, and said to send the bill for that along with the Bestätigung (bit of paper saying you were there but they paid no expenses, for tax / unemployment purposes).  Leaving 'em laughing is not often an option given the repertoire I sing - I walked out grinning a lot wider than when I went in, and will try and remember this feeling for whatever auditions turn up soon!

Um, yes - the picture is a biscuit.  It's sort of what happened when I landed in England for my sister's wedding a couple of weeks ago to find her in the middle of a biscuits-for-favours crisis (don't ask.  Wedding stuff, only to be understood by initiates....).  On no sleep, being awake an extra hour due to the time difference, and in a mood to try and get as much sorted out as possible, weddings being occasions when even the levelest of minds have a tendency to flip over details, I cut and baked and iced and piped silhouettes of the bride and groom, and picked up shattered pieces of icing and bride-to-be, and answered flatly "yes" to my sister's exhausted question of whether she was mad to do this... and at some point when she wasn't around, blearily decided that the batch of icing I'd just mixed was exactly the colour of a Moomintroll (small Swedish cartoon creature from childhood, for the puzzled).  Therefore I sneaked three biscuits from the production line and iced him in three different poses...  to be wrapped up and sent off with them as a surprise on honeymoon.  Well, it amused ME!!  I'm very glad to report the entire shebang went off marvellously, and wish my sister and her new husband every health and happiness.  (And am damn glad I only have one sister to help with wedding preparations - I was knackered!!)

I've been reflecting a little on the nature of memory and reality recently (this is probably why it's never a good idea to give singers too much free time...).

Two particular incidents triggered this.  Firstly, when I was in Berlin, I went to see the Pergamon exhibition, with the amazing 360° panorama by the artist Yadegar Asisi.  I had the unnerving feeling, standing on top of the observation tower and watching the light change and the sounds evolve on the oh-so-realistic view of Pergamon in 129AD, that I was on a balcony in some high-rise hotel; and that at some point later in life, I would think, oh yes, that was beautiful, where was I just then?  In other words, whilst being perfectly well aware of the treachery of memory, how on earth could I point out to my subconscious and to my memory what was real and what was not?  (And of course, the natural consequence of such a thought - does it really matter?  As an artist, this is definitely one to ponder!).

The second instance is probably just me being horribly absent-minded, but again, it did make me think.  

I write emails after forming them in my mind (well, the more important ones.  Of course, three-second replies go off straight away).  Trouble is, there appears to be a  mix-up occasionally between what I thought I had written and what I actually HAD written.  Not unembarrassing.

Hence the thoughts.  Actually an interesting question, and one worth pondering.

And for nachdenken (things to carry on thinking about), top left is a shot of Mainz from my side of the river.  Cold, cold, foggy day; is there colour there or not?

Inspiration.  Everywhere, if you decide to look for it out there: impossibly elusive if you're caught up in last-minute desperation.

Tonight was simple to decipher.  The Italians have a word for it - sprezzatura.  Virtually impossible to translate, but easy to spot - achievement without apparent effort and with natural ease (however much one has sweated and sworn in real life to get there).  (Well of course it would be an Italian word - they are world champions at this subtle art - "Oh, this old thing...", upon being complimented on their agonisingly expensive new Armani suit, bought at the expense of months of dinners etc; and the nonchalant chucking of growly, flat red sports cars around suicidal bends at unbelievable speeds whilst chatting ten to the dozen and never failing to appreciate a beautiful woman en route...)  Ah yes, this quality was definitely in evidence tonight, in a ridiculously talented German gypsy whose music never fails to leave me uplifted and full of positive energy.  There's not a heck of a lot in common between his music and mine, but the spirit of what he is doing is catching, and thank goodness for that.

In similar vein, I was talking last night to a dancer colleague.   Our conversation ranged interestingly across several disciplines, and we were in the middle of a discussion about Impressionism, when her expression went blank for a moment (I hurriedly reviewed what I had been saying for instant-boredom factor, and crossed my fingers...).   Her eyes focused again, and what she said took me totally by surprise.

"This region on you," she said, indicating with an elegant sweep of the hand the collarbone/shoulder conjunction, "...so smooth and rounded; this is how I aspire to dance."

A view of the world which had never occurred to me!!  Translating someone's physical attributes into a way of movement.  Amazing!  I immediately thought, well maybe we could work together to exchange views on, say, audition pieces - how would a dancer interpret my posture? And how interesting would it be to argue about a dancer's view of musical interpretation, and how much we might learn from that!

One thing we were definitely in agreement on.  As an artist; as a human being: you learn or wither.  Might not be the easiest thing to continue learning and admit that perfection is never within one's grasp, but damn it, it's a sight more interesting!

So.  Back from a long weekend in Berlin, completely refreshed and revitalised (despite the rain, for evidence of which please see photo).  I have to thank my dear friend and voice teacher Jean Ronald LaFond (whose immensely interesting blog - especially to singers with an analytical bent - can be found here).  His generosity, knowledge and advice are unparalleled.  Should any of you be singers, I can thoroughly recommend him as a teacher.

I am also blessed with several good friends in Berlin, making the weekend absolutely perfect.  Between the fabulous experience of the Pergamon exhibition and the unbeatable feeling of being a movie star in a friend's amazingly luxurious bathroom, I had a wonderful time, despite freezing half to death on my first day (evidently I have become a bit of a hothouse flower here in Germany, living where I do...) and severe delays on the way back due to some sort of vandalism in Berlin.  

At which point the great customer service from Deutsche Bahn (German train service) kicked in.  It is, according to most people, completely rubbish.  I think I must be ridiculously lucky in which case, because I have always had wonderful customer service.  Going out, I decided to buy my tickets the day before, in an uncharacteristic burst of orderliness.  (It's not like the arcane system in England; your ticket costs the same even if you buy it on the day.)  Unfortunately, upon reaching the station, the ticket office was closed all day for some sort of business meeting.  There were helpful ladies by the queues at the ticket machines, but not needing any help (so I thought), I slowly prodded my way through the options and ended up with the correct ticket, but only one set of seat reservations, when I'd paid for both ways (Saturday travelling, and holidays, meant that seat reservations were an absolute necessity.  I really didn't want to stand in a train corridor for six hours...).

I bearded one of the nice helpful ladies and explained.  She looked puzzled, and we checked the machine for delayed bits of paper, and finally called her supervisor over.  The supervisor looked even more puzzled, as apparently I shouldn't have been able to produce such a result (illogical, captain...).  Eventually she told me to stay put and disappeared off with all my bits of paper (well of course I was not going to wander off - she had my ticket, and that wasn't cheap!).  When she came back, she gave me all the money back in cash, saying that this was the best and fairest way to deal with it, and together we went through the process again; this time, for no apparent reason, everything went smoothly, and we were both very pleased.  She'd gone to quite a bit of time and trouble to help, where she could have probably just said it wasn't their problem, and thought, heh, bloody foreigners stuffing up our nice machines...

On the way back, due to the above-mentioned vandalism, I believe, my train to Leipzig was cancelled at the last minute.  Hmm, thought I, trundling back up the escalator in a crowd of disgruntled German-speaking passengers (they make the announcement first in German, then later in English, so you can spot the non-German-speakers by their bewildered expressions as 99% of the platform starts to swear and leave), what now?  I made my way to the travel centre, waited patiently for my turn (they were swamped) and eventually set my ticket etc in front of a tired-looking lady, explaining that my train had just been cancelled, and asking what I could do about it.  She suddenly grinned, remarked that probably the easiest thing was to go somewhere else instead (I said I'd take the Bahamas if available, but otherwise, my bed in Mainz was waiting for me), and promptly and without fuss upgraded my ticket and booked me on the next fast train, producing seat reservations without asking and wishing me a pleasant journey.  I don't often think about customer service, but it is amazing what a difference it can make to a frustrating situation when it is good, and this, contrary to some ideas about Germany, was absolutely excellent!

I went to the Oktoberfest, the Real Thing, in Munich!!  Well, there I was doing, um, pretty much nothing properly structured, and then there was the marvellous Indian summer across Europe, and I found a Dirndl skirt and blouse in Oxfam.  Well, given those circumstances and a friend in Munich, wouldn't YOU have gone along?  To be honest, Oktoberfest hadn't really crossed my consciousness until I got to Germany, not being particularly into beer, but I reckoned that it was an opportunity not to be missed, hopped on a train (I spent the entire four hours finishing sewing together the apron which I was assured was a must, and replacing the buttons on the knitted tank-top thingy).

I was rewarded with the most perfect day imaginable, and an amazing feeling of... togetherness?... from the sheer percentage of the attendees who were dressed up appropriately.  I can't think of anything I've ever attended that had so MANY people joining in properly.  Costume parties in England tend to encompass a lot of fabulously-dressed women and a gaggle of sulking men, hideously embarrassed at the whole situation and snagged between being annoyed that they didn't dare to dress up and irritated that they were asked to in the first place.  Here, just about EVERYONE joined in - the effect was most visible from the Big Wheel, where the crowd (apparently two million on that day!) looked amazingly colourful.  So much less black and dark brown than normal - many men wearing Lederhosen and pastel checked shirts, and the women in all colours of the rainbow.  In fact, the Dirndls reminded me strongly of the arguments for classical music.  The basic costume is simple, and you'd maybe think that after having seen a few you'd be bored.  However, in an entire day, seeing literally thousands of women in every possible iteration of the theme, I didn't see a single repetition of the same outfit.  Classic theme; infinite interpretations.  Loved it!

An unexpected view of Cologne cathedral there on the right. Unexpected not from the point of view of photography, but because I hadn't thought I would be there on that evening to photograph it. In point of fact I shouldn't have been doing even that, as I had the last train home to catch - made it by a (rather sweaty) whisker - but I couldn't resist the way it loomed up so high and imposing against the cooling night sky. My resistance was lowered from having enjoyed great company, sought out on a last-minute whim, and not a few elementally delicious little golden ice-cold beers, a Cologne speciality, apparently...

I had decided it would be a great idea to break a long train journey, and indeed it was. Although just before getting off, I was on such a flat, tired adrenalin-reaction that I nearly didn't make it off the train... it wasn't so much the audition itself; I was exhausted from the logistics beforehand.  I left messages and spoke to several people at the state agency (bearing in mind that I HATE making phone calls!) before finally being told I was barking up the wrong tree and should be asking quite another body... aaargh!  I also had huge difficulty getting hold of a hotel room; the city was basically fully booked.  I was still trying to juggle finding a room somewhere along the train route when a nice lady from one of the hotels I'd called in desperation took pity on me and rang me back when a guest unexpectedly left.  This was half an hour before I set off for the station, still unsure whether any of my travel costs would be refunded...

Add to that the self-made panic of realising at the last minute that my passport and credit card were not where they were meant to be (a bit of deep breathing revealed that they were still squirrelled away in my money-belt, last used in Rome), and I was, to put it mildly, somewhat less than perfectly composed when I threw myself on the train with twenty seconds to spare...

I've no idea how the audition went - as I reported back to the agent who sent me afterwards, I haven't a clue about such things.  Unless you've obviously made a total mess of things, I find that the demeanour of the auditioners means precisely nothing in the long run.  Sometimes they smile and tap their feet and look ecstatic, and you never hear a thing; other times you slink off disconsolately, mentally beating yourself up, only to bag a nice contract.  Sing then forget.  

I was glad of the advice of a good friend, though, who reminded me when I was feeling flat as a pancake afterwards that there is a backlash to adrenalin - it's taking time to settle.  Hence I believe my idea of hopping off for a round of laughter and cold beer was beautifully timed.

So, first audition of the season under my belt, and a FAR better understanding of the bureaucracy involved - now I'm ready for more!!  (Fingers crossed...)

As promised... a picture of The Dress I Made!!  Sorry it's not exactly what you might call sharp, but in my flat it's backlighting or nothing, and I reckon you can still see the basics (without noting that some of the seams are not exactly in Germanly straight lines).  I had such FUN making this - a great deal of which was because I had no idea of what I was doing and made it up as I went along.  

Its first outing was to a premiere (Tristan & Isolde) on Saturday.  Whilst both the dress and I aimed for sophistication, I definitely failed.  Two of the three acts passed with me acting in decent fashion.  Then came the third act.  It was so beautifully sung that despite the very modern and political production I dissolved into hopeless tears...  my neighbour, a complete stranger, offered me a tissue and even fished it out for me when he saw I was blind with weeping.  Ahhhh, Wagner!

Amazing how one exchanges one frustration for another, huh?  I FINALLY got an audition - and a good one, for a role I would very much like to sing.  This coming  Wednesday.  So I have been trying to get hold of the right person at the state agency to OK it in order to reclaim at least a proportion of the travel costs, without much success, I might add.  Then, because it is over six hours' train ride away, and the flight would have been ridiculous, I have been trying for a decently-priced hotel, only to find them ALL completely booked.  I am determined that this will work out, but the time spent on logistics is disproportionate; one really feels that here is where it would be rather useful to have money enough to ignore the annoyances.

Ah well.  Meanwhile I am wandering around muttering in Czech to myself (it is a very spitty sort of language, and I always think of the late and wonderful Philip Langridge when accidental spitting happens, as he adored singing in Czech for this very reason!), trying to reaquaint my  brain with the words to the one aria I can reasonably fish out for this audition...

See you later!

Yes.  Sorry.  I ran away,,,

Well.  There were those unmistakeable signs of autumn in the air.  Woodsmoke, for example. A particular freshness in the atmosphere.  Definite lessening of the heat of the day.  At which point I thought, AARGH, this really shouldn't be happening without summer having had its say, and headed for Rome on impulse.  I was lucky enough to have a favourite auntie in place, catsitting in a flat in the suburbs, so bed and company were assured, and given that there were no immediate auditions in the offing, away I flew.  I'm so glad I did - a bit of sun, good food, speaking Italian, have really recharged my batteries and I'm ready for anything.  Yes, even the customary (with agents) "Um, no auditions, especially none for your fach" sort of telephone conversation.

In the meantime it has amused me to make a dress.  First one I ever did, and I have absolutely no idea how to make dresses.  I saw some fabric and liked it, bought a bit of contrasting stuff, and improvised.  Provided I can be bothered to hem a few bits I might well wear it to a premiere on Saturday (I'll try to photograph it, if so).  

Such things take me through the boredom/panic of not having any immediate employment.  Onward and upward, however - who knows what's around the corner?  And I am keeping up my audition arias so that any opportunity can be pounced upon straight away.  Whatever I can be accused of, not being ever-ready to audition will never be on that list!

Last Saturday night the season turned unmistakeably to autumn.  (This was a bit annoying, actually, as I had met a friend and was wandering around the wine festival in town, and my lack of jacket meant that suddenly, the idea of sitting around until late in the evening testing one wine against another rather lost its appeal.)  Anyway, I decided to use the new crispness in the air to look towards the future, rather than mourning the non-summer and the past.  From now on, I am a freelance singer who happens to be based in Germany, and whatever auditions come along, I shall be more than ready for them.  I have been doggedly going to practise in the theatre most days to that end - all sanctioned by the new management there, so there's no need to feel awkward (although I have to admit that I did at first, seeing as how I was employed there for two years, and now am no longer.  This was one of those things where you just have to take a deep breath and do it.  Without such practice facilities, I'd have to heave my life up and reinvent myself yet again, as I can't really sing in my tiny flat.)

So, readiness to audition - tick.  Availability of auditions.... ah, well that's another story.  I sang for several agents last season and they all said they'd think of me whenever anything for my voice type came in.  Then, erm, nothing did.  The general advice over here seems to be, ring them often so you're in their minds.  I did - and every time got the same response - sorry, there are very, very few opportunities around, and nothing for your voice type.  Financial crisis is definitely hitting theatres.

So it's not the most wonderful vista out there, but I'll do what I can to expand what opportunities there are.  I have rung all my agents at least once (provoking some irritation in at least one case, as not all the theatres are yet back after their summer break), and am in the process of contacting new ones (more the merrier, provided I can afford to travel to audition for them).

And finally, it's important to me to keep the artistic flame burning, as it were.  I have practised my handful of audition arias until they are deep in my bones, and shan't cease to refresh them now and again, but if that's all I have to think about, they will quickly go stale.  So I have chosen two roles for which I would cheerfully rip off an arm to have the opportunity to sing (Azucena in Il trovatore and Klytämnestra in Elektra, since you ask) and am learning those thoroughly.  Not to mention preparing an eclectic range of song literature which I have fallen in love with over the years but not really had time to explore.  Artistically I shall not be bored.

Nor, if I can help it, shall I let myself just sit around at home and mope between practice sessions and badgering agents.  My current project is making a dress.  Regular readers will not be totally surprised to discover that I am doing so totally without patterns and on a whim, with only the vaguest idea of what's meant to happen in dressmaking, having occasionally watched my mother sew as a child, and never made anything myself.  Should be interesting to see what happens!

So - new season, new start, fingers crossed!!

I have discovered where German buses come to die and be reborn into another life.  Transylvania, fittingly enough.  Nearly cost me at least another hour of standing by the road in scorching sunshine by "Not-Dracula's Castle" peering at oncoming traffic... I'd been lurking there hoping for a bus back to the beautiful city of Braşov, but given that there were no actual timetables, or even a bus stop, things were a little uncertain.  I'd leaped off the bus there and asked where to get the bus back, and was rewarded with a grin and a gesture towards the other side of the road.  It didn't occur to me that the vehicle in question would turn up disguised as a German school bus, meaning I automatically turned away and thought about something else, until at the very last moment I registered the possiblity of a cunning disguise and peered at it more closely.  Naturally, it makes sense to simply stuff a little cardboard notice in the front window of a recycled bus, rather than going to all the unnecessary expense of respraying the bus, but just sometimes one can see the point of all those corporate rebrandings etc...

Sorry about the photo.  It's really not possible to do Dracula-like atmosphere when the sun is beating down like no-one's business.  Especially funny when the main reason I headed out there was because it was so horribly grey and rainy in Bucharest.  There, I couldn't see more than a metre when I was looking for a restaurant, and the rain was so hard that there was at least an inch of water over every single bit of pavement in the city.  I was fascinated by the story of Queen Marie of Romania however - definitely novel fodder!

Mai pulite queste mani...

Yesterday I inadvertently silver-plated a couple of my fingertips.  I was trying to get rid of a car-crash of tatty silver teaspoons that had collected on Mother's kitchen windowsill, and was informed that they were waiting to be re-plated and that she had some special Stuff that would do it.  So I rolled up my sleeves and set to.  I even remembered to wear gloves.  The Stuff was indeed effective, apart from the places where I realised I was trying to plate actual holes rather than tarnished bits of spoon, and I was rather pleased with my haul of much-improved teaspoons (minus a few hopeless cases now safely in the bin, but don't tell Mother or she'll fish them out again...).

Unfortunately the Stuff had managed to seep through the gloves and has stained the tips of my right thumb and forefinger.  Not, as one might hopefully imagine, as the poor man's version of Goldfinger, either - the skin is blackened and the nails turned blood-red.

So while trying heroically to scrub away the evidence, the lines from Macbeth came sneaking into my head - "What, will these hands ne'er be clean?", and I realised that those particular fingers had, one way or another (mainly red greasepaint, which stains like hell and wedges itself irretrievably down the sides of the nails), been continuously filthy since I started rehearsing Lady Macbeth.

An enduring role indeed!

There is a very particular form of hell reserved for the expat bookworm attempting desperately to reduce the amount of clutter left in storage at home.  I have spent the last few days surrounded by opened boxes of books; mainly, I have to admit, sitting cross-legged in the dust, lost in one or another within minutes of opening any box. 

Over there in Germany is a life where I end up reading just about anything in English I can get my paws on; I read in other languages too, but really need my "fix" of books which can be read without turning on the extra layer of brain required for foreign languages, even those in which I am totally fluent.  And then over here (I am in England for the moment) I have box upon box of temptations to rationalise; some unread (!!), some begging to be re-read; some with sentimental associations, some valuable, some simply too seminal to be given away. 

I have been helped by a local school asking for charitable donations by tomorrow morning.  The school will receive more money the more the donations weigh, so I find myself actually able to fill bag after bag with my precious darlings, off to a new life, but ohhhhh it is HARD!

(And then of course there are the boxes now marked "Katy's Classical Library" and re-stacked; and the boxes of academic books now re-stacked; and the pile in my bedroom for reading whilst here; and the inevitable accumulation in my suitcase ready for the flight back... I am definitely not cut out for a minimalist lifestyle!)



Having resisted the temptation for ages, I suspect I am soon going to succumb to the delights of the Kindle.  Nothing like the pleasure of real books stuffed in a pocket or a handbag, and I shall miss the aimless ferreting around in second-hand bookshops, but I don't think I could face another forty-three boxes of books next time around!

An enjoyable, if somewhat eccentric, leavetaking of Germany (just for the summer).  A friend had planned a lawnwarming (like a housewarming, but for her fresh new lawn, of course) for the afternoon before I flew to England; this then grew, slightly out of control, into a sort of high tea / garden party (probably says a lot about us that it was only about two hours in, chatting to some German guests, that I realised we'd forgotten...erm, the tea!).  I was far more occupied by planning for cucumber sandwiches, and scones (we outsourced most of the baking to a sweet American friend whose hobby it is), and correctly-constituted Pimms, than anything quite so mundane as packing a suitcase (lord alone knows what's in there - it will be interesting to find out over the summer!).  We even managed to track down doilies (doilies!!) and bunting, which we scooted up ladders to hang from branches in the grey and overcast morning cool.

Amazingly, the weather brightened just as the first guests started to arrive, and it really felt like one of those perfect English days (helped, naturally, by the Pimms).  Wonderful relaxation, once the pre-party scurry of peeling and chopping and buttering and arranging was swapped for the glass in the hand. 

A singer, however, is seldom properly off duty.  I was press-ganged (there really is no other term for it) into singing by my friend's next-door neighbour and landlord, a delightful and totally crazy sculptor with a passion for playing guitar in the pub.  He dragged me to one side, eyes shining, and showed me the crib sheets for three songs, explaining that they'd fished out a music stand for me so I would be able to read the words, and that he could play in any key I wanted, and he was just DYING to make music with me.  I tried a few pathetic little excuses (like, just because I'm a singer, it doesn't mean I know how the middle bits of popular songs necessarily go), but I was swept away on a tide of his enthusiasm (yes, yes; and Pimms).

Thus I found myself standing in the sunshine at an English garden party in Germany, complete with hat and gloves, belting out Moon River and Somewhere Over the Rainbow and finishing with Memories (from Cats... this one in German!!)... and grinning like a loon!!  The sheer joy of performing, with no pressure at all and mainly for the purpose of making someone else happy, was overwhelming.  A much-needed reminder, as I head for a period of (relative) vocal rest, of just how exhilarating being a performer can be.  Cheers!

Copyright:  Martina Pipprich

OK, und das war's. 

Last performance as an ensemble artiste here in Mainz.  SO amazing that I got to play Lady Macbeth.  Really, it was an honour and a pleasure.  So many actresses would literally give their eye teeth to get their... um, teeth... into this role.  And I even got paid for it!!  As an artist, leaving on such a high note (OK if I'm going to be a pedant, which I generally am, technically it was a very low note, being as the last word in this role starts on an E above middle C and simply goes down and diminuendos until there is no more voice left...) is wonderful.  And yes, I was inundated with flowers, wine, cards.  Thanks to the Staatstheater Mainz for two wonderful seasons.

Absolutely the best thing, however, was the reaction of my colleagues.  Not just the singers with whom I have shared the stage, but orchestra members, make-up artists, technical staff... I was incredibly touched by the affection I was shown, and only managed to avoid sobbing pathetically by threatening to haunt them all constantly until someone found me a decent role somewhere (translated into normal terms as, I shall be back, I live here for the moment, I have permission to practise in the theatre, and given that I am no longer an ensemble member, I no longer have to hold back on the glamour at premières, so watch out for the diamonds and Attitude!).

I'll be in England for a while (normally coinciding with the best of the weather here in Germany), but then intend to come back and hit the ground running.  Renovation of the website (www.katherinemarriott.com, for those who came in via the back door, as it were) is in process.  Photos done; recorded a couple of arias this afternoon with a wonderful pianist but have screeched to a bit of a halt because the software I used previously has lost its reverb options somewhere along the way, and the orchestra room we used is flat as a pancake acoustically.  I'll work it out somehow (if I have time; social life appears to be running on fast forward at the moment) and put them up when I can.

Meanwhile, thanks everyone for reading my ramblings for yet another year.  Next season promises to be different; who knows what will turn up?    Several of my colleagues have said that going freelance was the best thing to happen to them.  Yes, it's the worst financial climate for decades, but the possibilities are still out there.  I am now free to jump in or work as a guest where and when I please; should you come across anyone who needs a true dramatic mezzo, do point them in my direction!

So, so nearly there.  Final performance this season of My Fair Lady (definite possibility of revival next season, which is good).  Standing ovation.  A couple of colleagues in tears because it was their last performance here, and generally raised emotion overall.  There remains the last outing of Macbeth tomorrow; I'm looking forward to that.  If you have to say (pretty much) goodbye to a theatre, best to do so from the perspective of a lead role.

Has to be said, though, the past few days have been a riot.  Without rehearsals to worry about, I have had enough time to fully enjoy the long weekend of festival here (Johannisfest - have absolutely no idea how to translate that, not being what you might call a practising Christian).  I have so enjoyed flitting from one experience to the next, simply enjoying the atmosphere and the (finally) wonderful weather, not to mention the occasional beer.  The picture above marks the final moments, when a barge on the Rhine lets of a load of rather spectacular fireworks, and masses of people on either bank of the river, and in serried ranks across the bridge, ooh and aah in unison.  I have evidently absorbed exactly enough German-ness to enjoy having the same reactions as a crowd of many, many thousands. 

And tomorrow is predicted to bring massive storms and rain.  All I can say is, please do so earlier rather than later, so that (a) I am not tempted to bask in the sunshine again (BAD for the voice on day of performance!) and (b) by the time I have to don a fur coat and belt around being nuts, the temperature will have come down a few degrees...  Fingers crossed!

Ouch.  OUCH!  Certain members of the orchestra here have FAR too good an aim when equipped with the pointy ends of a whole damned bunch of roses...

It being the last operatic performance here of the outgoing music director, the orchestra celebrated by "spontaneously" chucking flowers onstage (we had been warned beforehand about "spontaneously" picking them up and handing them to the conductor - this is Germany, remember?).  I know they love her - she's a wonderful musician - so the spontaneity was heartfelt.  Wonderful!   However I couldn't help noticing how many smothered giggles wafted up from the pit when yet another rose landed smack in the middle of my cleavage... In the costumes we had, it was probably unavoidable, mind, when leaning down to collect fallen greenery.  Cannot blame the brass section...   (Although I really, really want to.)

It will be sad, I think, not to have such a constant connection with the orchestra.  However, I have had two years to get to know individuals, and that doesn't disappear.  Indeed, when I get back after the summer, I am pretty sure I have a couple of revenge strikes to plan.  It is Not Done to lob scratchy flowers back down into the pit once they've got you.  Doesn't mean one can't do weasel-planning to get one's own back in a different way eventually. HaHA!

Ahhh, now that, THAT was the sort of evening in the theatre which makes all the sacrifices and frustrations and tears worthwhile.  A performance which somehow caught fire, energy bouncing and magnifiying between the public and the performers, grins and ease all round, and a standing ovation.  The best feeling in the world.  And everyone in the building feels it.  

I love my job!!!

Pictured above is one side of my father's coffin.  It was delivered to us as a white cardboard shell (reinforced and safe - we wondered too...), and we gathered as a family in the summer house to decorate it.  Photos, handprints, paintings, all poured out of us as we chatted about him, and laughed, and cried, and tried to incorporate symbols of all that was important to him in life.  I feel it was particularly beneficial for the children - they had an opportunity to contribute something (and their decorations were deeply thought out, individual and beautifully done), and the horror of the object was hopefully somewhat lessened.

It certainly helped me to giggle at the numerous double-takes it provoked as the cortège moved slowly through town to his funeral at the magnificent Beverley Minster.  The occasion went as well as such things possibly can; when it is well-thought-out, the ritual is strangely uplifting, and I was desperately proud of my entire family on such a sad day.   The public response was overwhelming, and I hope Daddy would agree we gave him the best send-off we possibly could (although when I was wielding my paintbrush at six in the morning in a chilly summerhouse, having woken in panic because we'd forgotten to include any windsurfing, I could hear his voice clearly, grumbling that he didn't know why we were making such a bloody meal of it when it was only going to go up in smoke on Thursday...).

Two observations from a singer's point of view:

Firstly, I had no thoughts of singing a solo in church; it would have felt too self-important, and I didn't know how far I could trust my voice at such an emotionally difficult time.  I made sure the hymns we chose were strong and beautiful, and hoped to be able to add my voice to those of the congregation.  Anyway, as I was drawing a shaky breath for the first line, I suddenly realised that my inner volume pedal was not going to function.  It was all or nothing.  In a split second, I considered my options - would the silence of a scrunched-up larynx or the shock of a singer in (literally) full cry be preferable for my family?  I opted for the latter, on the grounds that they would all be able to then sing exactly as much as they could, knowing that no-one would hear any hiccups.  (This has worked wonderfully at carol services etc - people sing louder en masse if they reckon no-one can hear their wobbles.)  In conversation at the wake I realised it had backfired slightly - half the people I talked to said they stopped singing just to listen to me, and the other half were convinced we had had a choir hidden away somewhere...

Secondly, and this must surely apply to any aspect of performing, I can say definitively that it is INFINITELY easier under such circumstances to sing the demanding and pivotal lead role rather than a bit part where you have Time to Think. 

Once again I must thank my family, friends and colleagues for the wonderful love and support they have shown throughout.  A blessing indeed.

"The most difficult thing I've ever done", I thought to myself as I cycled back tonight, pondering yesterday evening's performance.  Then I realised that it actually wasn't.  The most difficult thing I have ever done was take a deep breath the day before yesterday and walk into the room in the hospital where my father lay, dead.  Yes, that's him in the picture on the left.  Less than a week ago, taken on "my" Rhine beach, and looking disgustingly healthy.  I am lucky to have seen him in the end times, and fortunate beyond words that when it came, we had time to gather the entire family together to support each other.  This is really and truly a blessing beyond measure.  For us, the tears spilled into irresistible dark humour, until we even managed to make my poor bereaved and grief-stricken mother laugh.  Death nil, family one (or at least one-all, upon further reflection).

The Call came late on Tuesday.  I tried desperately to get over to England on Tuesday evening, but nothing doing (despite ending up with the phone number of the poor man whose car I hijacked in desperation trying to get to the station).  Had to settle for a ridiculously early flight on Wednesday.  Such times are when you deeply appreciate your friends.  I can't say how wonderful mine have been in the circumstances.  To cut a long story short, the man whom I loved and respected more than any other finally gave up the ghost (not without a fight - despite a massive brain haemorrage his body refused to give in for quite a while.  Stubborn old bugger.) the day before yesterday.

However I had a performance of Macbeth yesterday.  My mother pointed out that Daddy would have had my guts for garters if I wimped out (not to mention that the theatre would have had a bit of a problem, as so few people have ever sung this role, and it would have been a miracle to find someone who could (a) sing it at such short notice and (b) throw themselves into the intense and violent direction), so back I flew in the early hours of yesterday, again with the logistics smoothed considerably by the generosity and kindness of family and friends, and girded my loins for the role.

To the quite exceptional support of friends and family I have to add that my colleagues were wonderful.  Forewarned not to gush before the performance (sympathy would have made me cry, and it's simply not possible to sing when your larynx is in a knot), there was so much love and support offered after the performance, amidst tears and hugs - I am lucky indeed to have such people in my life.

So.  Difficult times, but the consolation of the love of family, friends and colleagues, and even of knowing that, when the chips are down, I can perform.  Strangely appropriate that it was my father who both threw down that challenge, and also supplied the qualities I needed to face and overcome it.

Guy Hawksworth Randle, 10 July 1937 - 1 June 2011. 

Daddy, I shall always love you.

 

Photo:  Martina Pipprich

And thank GOODNESS that's over with!!  Apologies for lack of posting prior to the premiere, but really, things got absolutely manic.  I really don't think my brain has ever, EVER been quite so full.  Cramming for finals at Cambridge was the nearest I ever came, but this was so much more than that.  

Has to be said, though, they LIKED it!!  The public reaction was astounding, given the modernity and tonal weirdness of the piece.  The composer's reaction was very positive (I will admit, I was DREADING his appearance at the premiere - he has not always approved of productions of his work; in person, he was sweet and smiling).  The reviews are fantastic.  I can breathe again...

I am now very much looking forward to actually enjoying a few performances, as opposed to quivering with nerves the entire evening.  The hard work has been done.  I KNOW this music.  Yes, yes, I'll make different mistakes next time, but the broad sweep is fixed and fascinating.  

A short excerpt here from one of the rehearsals.  Roughly the equivalent of the "Yet here's a spot; out, damned spot" point.  Mad scene, I don't think I need to say.

Yes, that IS a fur coat I'm wearing.  In Mediterranean late spring weather.  No  bloody wonder I sweated like a pig!!!

Well, this is certainly a schedule that sorts the sheep from the goats (an expression I use with some hesitation as I'm never quite sure which camp I'm meant to be aiming for).  TWO stage orchestra rehearsals today, meaning ready to rock'n'roll at 10 a.m. and released at 10 p.m. to wander round in a daze wondering where you left your clothes.  Naturally there was time in between, but it does tend to disappear in a mulch of cycling to and from the theatre, buying forgotten essentials at the supermarket, eating, studying the score AGAIN, trying to find a way of remembering incorrect entrances etc etc, and frankly lying down on the bed and passing out for a little while; that in-between time doesn't count as pure relaxation.  Not to mention I take 10 a.m. to mean ready, clothed, possessed of any props I need, and waiting to go on stage at 10 a.m. precisely.  So if I want to actually FIND my rehearsal clothes (the costume department reckoned we didn't need them for orchestra stage rehearsals.  Hmm.  Buggered if I'm going to hit the floor with a thump more than once in my own clothes, or try to balance on mattresses on a steep rake whilst walking slowly in my own high heels, and not those provided by the theatre with nice thick rubber treads...), and get the voice warmed up into the right place, that means bowling up considerably before 10.

The kicker is, we get to do it all again tomorrow.  Last orchestral stage in the morning, hopefully a run-through (and fingers religiously crossed that the solo cello in the forward orchestra, from whom I take many tonal cues, is back... apparently the theatre couldn't find anyone who could play this music at short notice!!).  Then in the evening, same again but with make-up, costume, lighting, props... most of which fall under the category of "technical difficulties" at least once for me in this production.

I'm just praying that the voice survives mostly intact.  There's so much pollen whizzing around at the moment that even I, a luckily non-allergic type, have had to stop and cough my guts out a couple of times while cycling.  Not to mention inhaling an average of 47 tiny flies per journey.  And there are some nasty bugs going around.  All I can really do is wash my hands like a maniac, eat well, drink enough, attempt to sleep, and battle to retain enough sense of humour to keep the entire thing in perspective.

Oh yes, and maybe refrain from spending valuable time typing away on the computer... ;-)

A short paeon, if I may, to the restorative power of social occasions.  Or alcohol.  Or whatever it was.

I met my Macbeth in the corridor this morning whilst trying to persuade my voice to get going after the *coughcough* few beers it encountered last night at the cast party.  He was in fine (and loud, and intermittently multilungual) fettle when I saw him last; and this a man who very, very seldom drinks, and whose self-control, self-possession and cool precision are legendary amongst our current cast. 

We grinned at each other like loons, and agreed that it was worth every degree of ragged voice to achieve the simple pleasure of waking up happy, relaxed, and looking forward to rehearsals.  To be honest, I have been CONSTANTLY stressed to some degree or other for the past few weeks, and it did no end of good to simply kick back, pour beer down the gullet, and laugh at variously surreal and dirty jokes (these last, I have to admit, I still need help with from time to time.  Luckily there was lots of help on tap last night.) 

Not that we haven't gelled as a group; we are working very well together, I'd say.  But somehow, having a couple too many beers together wrought a real transformation (I suspect that this has to happen at the right time to have any power, so more kudos to our director, who suggested the whole thing.)

All I can say is, I got to sing my mad scene today.  And there will NEVER  be anything to beat the sound of the cast and crew applauding, when you slink back in covered in sweat and with fur coat moulting spectacularly, mind still unsure and on the verge of tears.  The sort of applause you carry with you to the grave.

This is Good!

Rats.  Tried to insert a small audio snippet there.  The host site is not keen.  Sorry!  Will try to get this sorted ASAP.

In the meanwhile, I intend to fully enjoy my Sunday, and wish you all the same!

Katy x x x

Getting there, getting there.  We have now leaped over the hurdle of rehearsing with the orchestras for the first time.   Nope, that wasn't a typo.  We have two orchestras; one front right of the stage, the other behind.  There are some SUPER-COOL effects, when the sound swishes from one to the other.  You can virtually see it flying around at certain points.  Amazing.

Anyway, I think the orchestral rehearsals were interesting for everyone involved.  The orchestral score without singers, and the singers without orchestra, lacked a definite something, but as soon as that something got involved, everyone's ears automatically perked up, thinking, oh yes, this could be GOOD.

Some particular moments stand out.  The back-and-forth note-passing of bass clarinet and saxophone in the Banquet Scene which sounds absolutely like trance music (and is much more understandable as such; slightly more than 120 beats per minute, main accent on the offbeat).  The unvoiced notes on, for example, flutes, which end up sounding like heavy breathing.  Certain little "this is a private party" moments for the backstage brass (who evidently thought I was nuts when I suggested this, by the way.)  Glorious interchange between the beautifully-played cello in front and my part in my mad scene.  Ahhh, of such things is job satisfaction truly made. 

One of the most interesting aspects of this was the sudden rush of nerves I was swamped with before each new section with orchestra.  Evidently I am more worried than my conscious self would admit to about sounding good in front of colleagues I respect.

And in this respect I jüst heard today that the composer will be attending the premiere on the 21st.  No stress there, then...

Ohhhh, I just knew this opera was going to be one of those.  From abject misery to exhausted elation in less time than it takes to explain the plot...

Tonight we took a collective deep breath and dived in for the first run-through without any breaks, whatever happened.  Totally scary.  Yet when we got to the end, the feeling of being able to GET to the end without bursting into tears and running away (and yes, this applies to pretty much everyone involved!) was exhilarating.  Of course there were mistakes, and late entrances, and nonsense words.  And I am utterly certain that the next couple of weeks leading up to the premiere will contain their fair share of tears and panic.  Given the nature of the piece, I think that's fairly inevitable.  The overall feeling, though, was tremendously exciting - we've all worked hard on this, and it is shaping up to be a very strong theatre piece.

Definitely worth a few knocks.  And tonight had those in plenty.  My first (passionate) scene with Macbeth has me at one point sliding down the severely raked stage and then climbing back up.  My Macbeth later commented that he loved the sound I'd made... I had unfortunately to disappoint him by noting that the "fantastic sound" he commented upon was actually my head hitting the ground so hard that I saw stars for at least two minutes afterwards.

And I think we need to have a little talk with make-up about my hair extensions.  The one I pulled out at the start of my mad scene took a decent amount of my own hair with it, and I know I have plenty to spare etc etc but damn that HURT!!

I need to constantly remind myself that we have two weeks yet in which to correct mistakes.  I wake up each morning counting, counting, finding the right note; obsession just doesn't begin to cover what we live through in such situations.  Thank god for friends and family who bring me back down to earth.

There is a nightmare, familiar in detail to all opera singers, and in broad outline surely to performers of whatever ilk the world over, whereby you stand on stage frozen in the basilisk glare of the conductor, whose baton is raised expectantly for your entrance.  Your brain is a total blank, you haven't a CLUE what you're meant to be singing, and you break out in a cold sweat as eternity beckons.

Well, I've been there for real several times this week and I can attest that it really isn't pleasant.  Only on the rehearsal stage, thank goodness, but that's bad enough.  I'm something of a perfectionist by nature and am always prepared to put the work in so that by the time stage rehearsals start, I know the music pretty much backwards.  Setting scenes generally knocks the occasional phrase out of kilter, but one can forge on secure in the knowledge that it will soon gel again.  

What's more, on those few occasions when my mind has gone blank on stage, I have usually been able to breathe calmly whilst thinking (with conscious humour), ho hum, wonder what comes next?, and the muscle memory has thankfully kicked in to leave me thinking, mid-phrase, aha, THAT's what I was meant to sing! 

One of the things this modern opera has taught me, however, is that the way my brain learns is strongly related to the sense of the WORDS I am singing.  I string things together based on responding to other characters, on the emotional surges generated by the orchestra, generally supplying my own subtexts to link disparate thoughts if there are none given in the sung text.  Pretty effective, on the whole - except of course in this case.  Lots and lots of repeated and broken fragments.  Especially in my big scene.  As far as theatre is concerned, this is tremendously effective - hell, it's a MAD scene; expecting it to make sense would naturally be a dead end.  

But for a perfectionist to be in such a state of uncertainty and doubt, especially when you feel that a good deal of the overall responsibility for the opera is on your shoulders, is not a particularly comfortable state in which to live.  I will admit to the odd bout of tears brought on by the stress of it all.  Mind you, the irrationality is certainly not confined to me.  My Macbeth, who is astoundingly wonderful, was seen to actually jump around for joy (he's a very stable sort of person; this is well out of character) on singing Saturday's performance of another opera, shrieking, oh my god, listen, there are CHORDS in the orchestra, and a BEAT, woohoooooo!!  (And this is not the sort of opera where you normally sit back and luxuriate in the music...)

Ha.  Yes.  This aspect of the German system seriously doesn't help, and makes you realise why prompters are necessary (we haven't had one for this modern opera until now, which seems utterly mad but was something to do with politics.  Fingers crossed one will magically appear from this point forward...) - over a four-day period I have played in three separate productions, with rehearsals for the forthcoming opera in between.  Three and a half languages.  Totally different styles... I saw a badge on sale in a shop last weekend which said something along the lines of, Oh dear, my brain is full.  I would have bought it but had forgotten to stock up on cash...

Still, it's spring, and in such a beautiful place I can't help but rejoice in the season.  Flowers are releasing the most glorious scents everywhere (particularly notable are a patch of wild roses on my cycle ride to work by the river, which mix with the smell of hot sand to make an unforgettable perfume, and the unexpected ambush from above of previously-unnoticed white acacia blossom), and to top it all, and make all the stress worthwhile, I am currently honoured to be quartered near a nightingale.  The first time I heard it, I was belting back on the bike, exhausted and ready for bed, and all I thought was, oh what the heck is that silly insomniac blackbird doing awake at this time?  It was only later that I thought, oh hang on, it really is actually NIGHT, and the sound was coming from low in the bushes... I checked via Google, and sure enough, it is a nightingale.  I can hear it clearly if I open my balcony door.  Truly, it is a sound to nourish the soul.

(Even if, as a singer, I am blasted well jealous of its tonality and rhythm just at the moment...)

One of those wonderful coincidences today which you wouldn't go putting in a novel for fear of the sneer on your editor's face.  We had just finished the morning rehearsal in the depths of the building and were variously changing, nattering, collecting bits and bobs etc, when in wandered a baritone in search of our pianist, with whom he was due to have a rehearsal for a forthcoming concert.  It was completely unrelated to our rehearsal and normally you meet up with the pianists in their rooms upstairs - I have no idea why he was down there, having never come across this before - I can only guess that this particular pianist might prove slippery to pin down, being a glorious musician, but not 100% sure of his German, and just the tiniest bit eccentric.  Anyway, we weren't taking any notice, until he started to sing - and the entire room turned and stared, because it was precisely the snatch of Verdi that is referenced in our modern opera.  Fragmented in our case, and about ten notes of the same, but unmistakeable.  I was chatting to the conductor at the time, as we made our way out of the door, and we simultaneously turned back and gawped.  Weird!

 

* * *

The disparate fragments of my role are STARTING to knit themselves together.  Extremely fragile construction at the moment, though.  It resembles an ancient but beloved patchwork skirt I own, which I keep treading on or snagging in the spokes of my bike and ripping to bits, always along a new line - as soon as I stitch one tear together, another appears diagonally across it.  Honestly, there are times when it feels that the more I study the role, the less I remember.  I know rationally that this isn't true, that the more small connections made, noticing of differences accomplished, and odd intervals mastered, the more secure the role will eventually feel, but there's only so much you can keep in your head at any given time and I am NOT USED to having important bits of a role slither out of my memory.  Grrr.

The sleepwalking scene is actually here a proper mad scene, and I am soooooooooooo enjoying setting it and looking forward immensely to playing it with a public.  How often do you get to actually tear your hair out?  HahaHA.  Most satisfying.  And working together with the director on this is a dream.  Her ideas are wonderful and are expanding my possibilities; she is taking notice of what I need; and at this point in rehearsal she's allowing me to dictate the pace and the content of the rehearsals, repeating things as and when necessary for me.  It doesn't always happen that one is treated as an adult and an equal colleague in such relationships, and I appreciate it.

And I think I am approaching the right vocal tone for this scene.  I spent a wonderful Easter with good friends in Alsace.  Relaxation, good food, fantastic wine and great company were naturally uppermost in my mind, but heck, there was Stuff to be Learned, so learn I did, in small and (I thought) discreet doses.  However, I was approached one evening by a couple of the children.  "Are you OK, Auntie Katy?"  "Yes, thank you; why?"   "Because we heard you moaning when you were in the loo and thought you might be poorly."  Like the coincidence above, you seriously couldn't make it up!

So, we're now in the second week of rehearsals.  If a world war happens to have broken out, I'd be grateful if someone could please let me know (although obviously only if it's going to impact upon the rehearsal schedule).

Eating, sleeping, breathing this music.  I awoke yesterday morning with an unholy mixture of this opera and My Fair Lady running through my head.  Nightmare!!

We're pretty much working through it chronologically, which helps to fix the sequence of things in our poor overstuffed brains, although illness and planned absences make it impossible to stick to this 100%.  I'm simultaneously very much looking forward to and dreading starting to set my mad scene tomorrow morning.  A wonderful, WONDERFUL opportunity, but the dread stems from not being totally certain what comes where; NOT a feeling I have ever had at this stage of rehearsals.  I'm definitely not the only one; thank god for the support of colleagues and their admissions of similar panics.

What it feels like at this particular stage is that each entrance and the music which follows therefrom is like a bead.  Each bead has been exquisitely handmade, painted and polished.  Some are large, multifaceted, complex; some small and seemingly insignificant.  And now they need to be strung into a necklace, and my hand hesitates sometimes when choosing which bead is next.

Doesn't really help that my mad scene consists of odd little reflections of previous scenes, slightly distorted memories, off-key echoes; in effect, the same beads, but a little squashed and strung out of order.  I am frankly astonished at how much I am using my physical location on stage to fix sequences in my head.  Doesn't normally work that way.  (Mind you, isn't normally this astonishingly bloody difficult to remember!)

Me being me, I wondered if actually making beads to represent the entrances would help - but came to the conclusion that (a) since my memory is very strongly visual, the kinaesthetic aspect probably wouldn't be such a strong support, and (b) I was far, FAR too knackered to try.

Ach.  Back to metaphorical bead-stringing, I suppose.  Silently, at this point, since I don't want to give the poor neighbours nightmares.  I'll probably try the "learning through osmosis" method, as practised frequently in the afternoon, between morning and evening rehearsals (such is the German system, as I may have said before.  Ten(ish, depending on how much of a morning person the director is) till two, then six till nine or ten).  This consists of lying on the bed with the score under your head.  Occasionally you raise your head to glance at and memorise a phrase or two.  More often you fall half unconscious and dribble over the score.  I mean, you're so NEAR the music, it has to be absorbed, no?