I was particularly happy yesterday to attend a lunchtime "living-room concert" set up by a friend. I hadn't a clue who the band were that she'd invited, and in fact deliberately didn't look them up, because the concept sounded cool to me, and I thought that surprise all around might be the best idea. (I don't always work on logic, as you may have guessed.)

The audience was five in total. The band consisted of four Swiss brothers, plus the occasional unamplified instrument. I have seldom seen such energy and such sheer joy in the making of music! It didn't bother them in the slightest that the audience was so small; they smiled, sang and played because they just wanted to. I was thrilled to experience such fabulous music so close up. What made me happy (and made me think) in particular was that they sang, perfectly in harmony and with beautiful voices, utterly without self-consciousness or "showing off" or anything which distracted from the music. That is, of course, what I aspire to on stage and in auditions, so I was really grateful for the opportunity to remind myself that it can be done, and with unassuming grace.

(Should you be curious as to who they are, here's a link to their website: 77 Bombay Street.) I've put a photo up of us all after the concert; I think the wide grins all round show how "up" we all were after the concert, both audience and performers! 

I also had the chance to help out a friend's exciting new venture combining opera and a cappella, by doing a spot of videography. I'd been in on the project since pretty much the start, and it was marvellous to enjoy the autumn sunshine and the brilliant colours of a beautiful park and to see how much progress had been made, and how my friend in particular has simply blossomed due to having found her "thing" in life. She sang with joy and authenticity and freedom, and again, I thought, aha, I need to make sure there are no impediments to my own authenticity and joy in singing. 

Inspiration comes from the most unexpected places and I am very grateful indeed to live in the middle of so much of it! I am continually trying to make the most of myself as an artist and a person (more on which soon, I think), and I am so lucky to have had such great examples around me in just the one week!

When I was younger and stricken with near-fatal romanticism, I was hopelessly conflicted as to whether I should be carrying my passport around with me at every moment.  On the one hand, I surely had to be prepared for a tall, dark, handsome stranger to ask me to dine at the Georges V at any moment (I vaguely knew it was in Paris, and even more vaguely realised that it was rather improbable, given that I lived in a small market town in the darker reaches of Humberside, as it was then, but Hope Springs Eternal in the teenage breast...).  On the other hand, I knew with a witchlike certainty that actually having the passport to hand negated any possibility of such a thing happening. 

Draining.

Anyway, living in Germany, you don't actually have that agonising choice.  You're meant to keep such documentation with you at all times, and therefore I generally stuff my passport into the inner pocket of my current handbag and basically forget it.  (Not without, I will admit, the occasional twinge of superstition that worries lest doing so will forever banish the possibility of the attractive-stranger-whisking-me-across-the-globe-for-lunch scenario.)

On this occasion, I was more than grateful, however.  There follows a cautionary tale...

Well, I was setting off across the country.  A good friend of mine was holding a birthday party, and it seemed a great opportunity to enjoy that and combine it with visiting other friends and a voice lesson or two - perfect!  I'd even managed to find cheap bus tickets there and back (this is all a little new here - Germany only deregulated inter-city bus travel about a year ago).   Long trip, and once we'd passed Frankfurt, well, that was it, we were trapped.

No worries, I thought, I had nothing planned . . .

The first phone call came as we were nearing Frankfurt.  I was tempted to ignore it - I HATE phone calls, especially from unknown numbers, as they do tend to be from affiliates of my phone company offering rubbish.  

I was tired and I could hardly hear her voice, and what's more there might have been a slight foreign accent to her German; I was more snappy than I should have been and frankly had it been me I would have given up on me there and then.

Thank goodness she didn't; I got a call back a little later, and because the air conditioning was a little less fierce, the basic tenor of the conversation got through; would I be able to go and jump in (i.e. sing a role I know, at short notice, in a production I don't know) the next night, in a lovely theatre in Switzerland?  That woke me up!  Naturally, I leapt at the chance.  It was a role still fresh in my memory, and vocally an easy ride, so all the possible scary factors were eliminated, and all I had to do was get there and enjoy it.

Of course, confirmation from the theatre (they had to wait until they heard from their poorly singer, who was at the doctor's) came JUST after we'd set off from Frankfurt and were therefore stuck in a hot tin can on wheels for hours.  Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it!

Luckily for me, the theatre came up trumps.  Flights were arranged from my destination back to Switzerland (we'd thankfully gone to email by this time, as shouting over the phone was really not ideal - I had to bellow my email address out in front of all the other passengers, so if I get a sudden extra wave of those "Dear Beautiful Lady" messages, I guess I have only myself to blame); accommodation was arranged for me (the taxi driver who delivered me was MEGA impressed that I'd only been found the apartment that day - there was a huge exhibition on, and apparently the entire city had been hoovering their guest rooms and making a fortune renting them out - not a hotel room within miles to be had); everything went amazingly smoothly, albeit with me wandering through the whole process in a dream - totally surreal to be suddenly transported back over your initial starting point to end up in a strange country being treated like royalty...

I loved it.  As it happened, the singer who was ill chose to walk the role, so I didn't even have to go through the rigmarole of being fitted for a costume made for someone a completely different shape; I borrowed a shapeless black nightie sort of dress and sang the role from the side stage.  Met some wonderful people, enjoyed the performance, and even got given loads of Swiss chocolate.

Ergo, it PAYS to keep your passport always to hand!

And then, having been delivered back to where I was originally headed (got to love having friends who, having offered to put you up, are unfazed when you apologise that you're going to be late, and when they ask by how much, you admit, well, two days...), I had a glorious time there too.  A blur of singer friends and learning so much from my teacher; of coffee in hip cafés (I love Mainz but even I have to admit we're a little short on those); of meeting new people and, well, cooking for them; of long walks in the woods as the spring starts to warm up, including the unforgettable sight of a naked man feeding the ducks - I have included a photo thereof below, for those who believe I simply make all this up - those of a sensitive nature should forbear to scroll down; of great nights with friends which lasted longer than they maybe should have (friend with whom I was staying : "So did you get woken up by the dawn chorus again today, Katy?"  Me:  "Erm, no, we got in after it had finished!"); culminating in a fabulous impromptu concert late at night in a kitchen - if anyone is interested in managing a ridiculously-talented couple of musicians with actual catchy melodies, along the pop / good-to-dance-to lines, and sung by a totally unique voice, just get in touch, my finder's fee is totally reasonable...

I am inspired by the randomness of the above!

 PS I do apologise - there's me with several pretty pictures of Switzerland, and THAT'S what I choose to post?  It did amuse me, however.  And don't worry about the bloke in question being shy or reluctant to be photographed - he'd paraded several times past my friend and me before giving up and interacting with a couple of more grateful birds...

Once again, deep in the mire that the Germans call Endproben.  Those sticky, uncomfortable times before the première, when everyone is tired and emotional and could probably benefit from a week in bed but hey the orchestra (heavily unionised) is called for these rehearsals and so you just have to turn up and either repeat the same scene until you're hoarse, or wait endlessly and fruitlessly to be called...

These orchestral rehearsals, for me at least, are about calculating to a decimal point just how far in advance I should anticipate the conductor's beat.  (Now you see, those who consider singers stupid probably don't know about this sort of thing.)  All to do with physics.  The sound travels out from the orchestra to the public.  It travels at the same rate back to us singers.  Therefore if we wait until we hear the music from the orchestra, the public is going to hear our voice as late, compared to them.  The phenomenon gets worse the further back on stage you are, so there's a lot of thinking, hmm, moving back as I go here, must anticipate the beat earlier and earlier as I walk...  It's a particularly difficult aspect of staging for me, as it's pretty counter-intuitive.  You want, as a musician, to sing WITH the orchestra! 

Add to that occasionally-open side stages, meaning that any singing in that direction at certain times in the production is severely counter-indicated (i.e. all your colleagues say your voice is completely lost if you look left at a certain time).

And the beauty of the props or costume department substituting something totally unfamiliar at the last moment, probably without telling you.  I survived a new main prop - my samovar (sturdy Russian tea-making equipment) fairly unscathed, and even managed to maintain a freeze despite a colleague frustratedly ripping off her shoes in my ear, and throwing them, one by one, over the stage; was however despite everything proud of a conversation with the props department about sticking this new samovar together (I knew they were going to do it, there were a LOT of ribber bands around) where I actually managed to convey my wants / needs in succinct sentences, conveying (hopefully!) the fact that if they get the angle wrong, the spout of the kettle will probably end up embedded in my larynx at some point,

Not to mention the bittersweet loss of the spontaneity of rehearsals.  This is when a production is coalescing; solidifying.  From now on we are performers, but the playful, joyfully free, creative aspect is of necessity curtailed.  Every performance will feel different, of course.  However this loop back in time and memory will always take place on THIS harmonic shift; the envelope will be placed in her hand on precisely *this* chord.  Satisfying to have worked out the ways to get there at the right moment;  sighing for the time when this was all to play for and meant the world. 

Nitpicking is of course necessary at this point.  Doesn't mean we have to like it :-)

All aspects colliding at present.  Which is probably just as it should be at the point of the piano dress.  (First time out with make-up, original costume, lighting (of sorts), technical wizardry, so those are basically the focal points, rather than our singing or the music - hence no orchestra, just piano accompaniment.)

First time in my life I have *fought* to appear unattractive!  Or at least older.  The costume designer (who is also in charge of the make-up concept) was supremely helpful throughout costume fittings.  Her ideas are fabulous; nothing outré, everything suited to both the character involved and the overall concept.  She was fabulous (although maybe slightly bemused) when I wanted rid of a belt because I needed to get rid of my waist as an older woman; accommodated my barefoot ghost-wanderings (did I mention I'm fairly hard to kill here?) and wandered dangerously near obsessive territory when waxing lyrical about Granny shoes purchased unworn in Basel after a gap of nearly sixty years.  (Myself, I can see why they were unworn.  I think costume designers have a different take on fashion.)

Anyway she wanted minimal/nude make-up for us all, and... well.  I didn't.  I have worked hard to bend my body into an older, less sure frame for this; we collaborated upon clothes which hid my figure and projected an unfashionable image; for myself (in all my insecurity) I needed a slightly altered face from which to face the world in this persona.  I shamelessly played the "oh lord if you don't give me decent make-up you're basically telling me that I look about 70 au naturel" card, and in the end, I got my wrinkles.  Subtle, yes, of course, but... hooray.

Which is veeeery weird, because there was me arguing passionately AGAINST looking good.  How does that even happen in real life??   Interesting, though.

What I personally also found to be fascinating (in a sort of geeky technical way) was the conductor's comment that when I was right at the back of the stage, I needed to be more before the beat.   I took it on board by basically working out how far back along I was on stage at each point, and relatively when I needed to anticipate the beat because of that.  And people think that opera singers are stupid!  One of those paradoxical things where, if you stop to think and calculate, you often fall off the gate you're sitting upon because the world just got too damned complicated.  But if you just tell yourself, yup, further back means more anticipation of the beat, and allow your body to work it out on its own, it really does.  Wonderful!

There's more.  Of course there's more.  However a morning call tomorrow (first stage rehearsal with orchestra) means that I probably ought to stop now, and pray for a minimum of sleep.

And also for a proper Ending.  I shouldn't laugh, but I was out front for the last scene tonight, and all the repressed emotional fireworks ended up with ... the curtain falling JUST before the final passionate phrase.  Ill-suppressed sniggers all around, the director calling out plaintively that the Oneging had a couple of sentences still in him...

Ah, just for that, accepted with a grin between good colleagues, it's all worthwhile.  Fabulous!

For a moment today the world fell away and all was pure light and ecstasy... oh this has to be the best job in the world!

I was called for a Sitzprobe (rehearsal with orchestra) of Eugene Onegin - very early on in the process but the conductor wanted to get a couple of tricky scenes worked through.  There was at this point just me and the soprano, and for some reason instead of sitting on the tiered seating behind the orchestra as normal, we were bang in the middle of the players.

I will admit that I'd spent the earlier part of the morning absorbed in Walt Whitman's poetry, and was probably therefore rather more inclined towards wonder than usual - but this was really the most amazing experience.  We'd already gone through a previous scene a couple of times, and then moved on to the bit just after the famous Letter Scene.  

It starts with a sunrise.  Tchaikovsky's writing here is superb - a pianissimo start with a minor chord murmured darkly by the bassoons, rising slowly and inexorably, creeping tone by semitone upwards, in a marvellously long crescendo, to a triumphant and massive C major chord... and I was so flooded with the music, with its beauty and the actual resonance of the instruments all around and through me, that with that final held chord, it felt like the sun had not just come out in my head, but that I had actually disappeared into the light.

This is the scene in question, in case anyone's interested.  I can assure you it sounds even  better if you're lurking amongst the instrumentalists - and afterwards I reflected on just how lucky I was to experience such a thing.  

If I had any doubts that music was my religion, they would have been put to rest today.

(Mmm, I know the firework pic isn't quite right -  but for all the spectacular sunsets I've leaped to photograph here, I don't have a single one of sunrise, which tends to creep in quietly in shades of grey...).

Emerging from the fog, as it were.  I always forget just how all-consuming the first throes of rehearsal for an opera can be.  Especially if, as in this case, the lead role is not yet cast (it's a hellishly difficult sing, and the intended singer pulled out just before musical rehearsals began.  He is a consummate professional, so he must have had very solid reasons, but that still leaves other colleagues (luckily not me: the role I am covering is not so big) a bit adrift in a piece which requires long dialogues with the lead...  Let's just say that doesn't lead to happy relaxation, on the whole.

And I also have to admit to having been nervous before the initial music call.  I hadn't sung for this music director before; and no matter what anyone says, it FEELS like an audition when you sing for someone in a position of power for the first time.  It would of course have helped to have had masses of time to prepare this role, or even to have had a more voice-friendly opera to start with, but hey,  beggars can't be choosers, and at least (despite having missed my very first solo entrance due to still... STILL!!!... having to mentally translate numbers from German to English, rats rats RATS!!) we've got that bit over with and from now on it's simply business.

The interesting bit is just HOW exhausted one feels during this process.  The brain seems to focus itself very narrowly, and everything which doesn't directly concern the learning of this particular music is ignored. (I remember coming across a colleague, who shall remain unnamed, stealing a roll of loo paper from the theatre, in the throes of rehearsals; the (understandable) rationale was that there really hadn't been enough time to hit the supermarket...). 

However I must admit that despite all the stress and uncertainty, I really do love these first few rehearsals.  A question of how your role fits in to the rest (in this case it's quite amusing - the court ladies get to sing some really rather beautiful chords before my character leaps in and spoils it all!).  Total concentration on one thing is rather marvellous.

Even if it means you utterly forget to buy loo roll ;-)

I thank you all for the good wishes, and thought I would post as soon as possible that the concert in Lisbon was, despite me still being full of cold, a great success. We ended up with one of those wonderful standing ovations where people don't just rise dutifully, poked by their spouse, but actually leap spontaneously to their feet.  Absolutely wonderful!!  The venue was glorious - the picture shows the right-hand wing of the exquisite room in the Palacio Foz where we were honoured to perform.  It ended up packed to the gunnels and my goodness was the crowd enthusiastic!  I was particularly moved at the reaction to my rendition of Peter Lieberson's Neruda Songs.  These were the works I have enthused about and absolutely love, but to be honest it's not often that songs composed recently (as in the latter half of twentieth century onwards; these are actually 21st century), never before heard by the audience (I asked.  Definitely not.) and not in the native language get such amazingly positive responses.  I was utterly flabbergasted to be overwhelmed with "Brava"s even before the last chord had faded on the piano...

We were rewarded for our efforts with standing ovations and SUCH enthusiasm.  I was hoping for a video from this but despite having set it all up beautifully, someone managed to knock the tripod while the audience was filing in, and we ended up with footage of the back of various audience members' heads and absolutely nothing of us.  Rats! Still, if the audio footage is decent, I shall put it up (once I have permission from the publisher, which I am still in the process of seeking).  More here, as and when...

I have been thinking about ways of learning, of appreciating music, of absorbing the meaning of a piece.  There are, I believe, two main approaches.  The first is instinctive, emotional, reacting to the tone and energy of the accompanying music; singers who learn like this look very puzzled when asked how they learn their music - once they've sung it a few times, it's obvious to them what goes where!  The other approach is intellectual - counting beats, repetitions, rhythms, imposing order upon seeming chaos; singers who learn only like this tend to look blank only when asked what they do when emotion overtakes them at any given point.

If such things were given to us to choose, I would LOVE to be a totally instinctive singer.  But we don't get to choose, and I'm not.  I over-intellectualise as a matter of course, and whilst my reaction to the music in the practice room is sincerely emotional, I have seldom been able to lose myself wholly in the flow of things when performing.  A snide little inner voice pops up now and again and asks how on earth I know what to sing next, and am I on the first repetition of a phrase or the second...  and this is terrifying!  (This once happened in the middle of a particularly repetitive Handel aria.  I crashed and burned rather spectacularly, and I swore - NEVER AGAIN!).

This tendency of my brain to flip from one mode to the other means that, to feel anything like secure, I have to in effect double my safeguards.  Belt and braces indeed.  On the one hand, there is the need to minutely study note values, counting, working out where you can find the first note of a phrase, knowing what others are singing, knowing what the orchestra is up to in case the cue you were expecting to get from another singer doesn't happen...  Hard work, yes, but if you're not a totally instinctive singer, able to trust your subconscious, utterly necessary.

On the other hand, for a truly worthwhile performance, technical knowledge alone is not enough.  The emotional aspects of the piece have to be considered, explored, dived into, allowed to wash through your spirit; the aim is to understand on a sub-lingual level the feelings which inspire and animate that particular piece.  With any luck, such study will lead to an absorption in the performance of the piece which carries you along to such an extent that the technicalities are irrelevant (or at least required only seldom).

Like a lot of aspects of singing, it's a question of balance.  There is a constant and necessary tension in our art between light and dark (chiaroscuro), between nicely crisp consonants and legato (a smooth line joining all the words we sing, in effect), between vivid energy on stage and finding the right place to deliver the voice to best effect... oh, the list is endless. 

I may be simply in the grip of bog-standard pre-concert panic, mind (useful in that it concentrates the mind wonderfully on what remains to be learned)...  Should anyone be in the relevant cities, forthcoming concerts include the Ateneo de Madrid (23 September) and Palacio da Foz, Lisboa (Lisbon) on 22 October!

So before getting this off my chest, I'd like to clarify that I LOVE the music I sing.  We're paid, on the whole, FAR too little for it to be worth doing what we do without having an unquenchable passion for the music we live through.  Just sometimes, however, it drives you totally bonkers.

The thing is, in order to learn music, it has to be repeated.  Again and again.  And sometimes that repetition gets stuck in the brain...  and a constant soundtrack of one particular piece, however wonderful it started off, can quickly become maddening.  In German they call it an Ohrwurm.  Quite literally, an ear-worm.  Something that has wriggled itself into your brain and can't be got rid of... In this particular case it is a spectacularly beautiful Monteverdi duet (Pur ti miro, from L'incoronazione de Poppea).  Doesn't help that there are repeats in the music itself.  The effect is a gorgeous but unending loop.  I've been living with this for several weeks and it's driving me crazy!  

I've been through this a lot, of course, but (like hauntings, perhaps, if you believe in ghosts), some are more persistent than others. Since starting to memorise this duet, the simple repetition of the melody means that it sets in as soon as sung, and lasts at least the rest of the day.  Which, given that I am practising the repertoire for my next concert pretty much every day, means virtually continuous haunting by this particular earworm.

There's really no cure for this.  You can drive it away temporarily by your concentration being grabbed by something else (a conversation, another piece of music, a great glass of wine), but as soon as you remember it again, it's back.  This effect can last for years; every time I am haunted by an earworm, I remember a holiday in France over a decade ago, when a supermarket visit in the pouring rain instilled the advert for Géant Vert, a French sweetcorn concern, which has remained with me stubbornly ever since... and the ad invariably starts playing in one ear, over and over again.

Worse, it would appear that it is possible to be haunted by two earworms at once.  This is mind-blowing (in my experience they are never in the slightest bit compatible) and even many musicians don't understand why your eyes have crossed and you are incapable of rational thought...

Ah well.  This is simply part of the price we pay to learn.  I am very glad of a couple of concerts coming up for which I have had to learn music new to me, don't get me wrong; it's just that the wriggling of these earworms has been driving me insane - any friends who have found me inattentive during the past few weeks might be reassured by the explanation!!

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!

Euphoria in the practice room!  A small, hard-won but vital epiphany in the way I approach the tonality of this modern piece occurred in the third hour of hard slog today.  The first hour was official, spent with the conductor (who growled at me for coming in early, forbade me to sing unless he gave the sign, then was forced to giggle as he didn't give me a sign for the next, totally obvious entrance, at which point I was silent) and the pianist (who is amazing; I can't believe that he can read all those lines in the orchestral score, given that no proper piano-vocal score exists, fishing out fragments from various instruments and playing them despite them being in different clefs, all on a few days' notice).  From this, I knew exactly where the tonal trouble points were in this particular scene, and lugged my nice fresh score into another room to explore them; a process which is not dissimilar to poking worringly loose teeth with one's tongue.

I would like to point out that I don't usually have such troubles.  Mainly because the composer has usually seen fit to have the orchestra playing melodies or at least chords underneath, which one can interpret, follow, and use as jumping-off points for finding one's own note.  Not the case here.  Much is going to depend on me being able to hit any given starting note cold, which without perfect pitch is - how shall I put this? - bloody terrifying.

Anyway, whilst snarling away at this scene, it suddenly occurred to me that the axes I had been using (an axis being a note around which one can hang a phrase; coming back to it, using the leading note, calculating intervals therefrom etc) could actually (and I would like to point out in my defence that this is NOT obvious!) be poked around to fit the dominant seventh chord of A major (and I know the name only from looking it up afterwards; I have anything but a solid theoretical grounding in music, and recognised the arpeggiated chord from a snatch of "Adriana Lecouvreur" with which I am familiar).  No, not every phrase starts with a note from this chord, but a surprising proportion do, and many others either use the semitone on either side of a member note (known to me technically as "up a bit" or "down a bit", as attested to rather shamefully by my old score) or have such a note as the axis.  I can thus construct a sort of tonal scaffolding to hold these phrases together, thus making me feel far more secure, which can only be a Good Thing.

All I have to do is burn that particular chord into my very sinews.  I started today; hopefully it will become second nature soon - at present I have been waking up imagining the notes G sharp and A, and fumbling for the tuning fork on the bedside table at dawn to check my accuracy; this is simply an extension.  I've already whipped through the score marking the relevant notes in a particular colour.  I just wish that the T. S. Eliot quote "These fragments I have shored against my ruins" wouldn't run quite so nakedly through my brain!

Anyway, it felt good.  I have a definite bipolar relationship with this opera; waves of exhilaration, waves of despair.  My partner-in-crime, whom I met by chance after this revelation, laughed at me for being so excited and cautioned against the inevitable downswing.  Yes, yes, yes; I know.  But I'll take the elation for the moment!

To reward myself I spent the afternoon and the last of the brilliant sunshine that the afternoon unexpectedly brought on my peaceful local river beach, armed with book, remains of a bottle of wine, and palpable lack of opera score: my only companions a pair of small and incredibly grumpy geese, and the first sand of the year between my toes.

As further reward, the sunset, now I am back on my balcony and writing this, has proved rather spectacular.  In one of those wonderfully self-referential 21st-century moments, the photo above shows my laptop perched on my balcony railing, this entry half written, as the sun sets along the Rhine in the background.

Perfect.

As the countdown to production rehearsals for the Modern Opera starts, I have got hold of a fresh new copy of the vocal score.  I needed it because the first one I was given pretty much fell to bits as soon as I opened it (tut tut, Ricordi!) and so I copied just those pages containing my part and scribbled madly all over those in an attempt to drum the thing into my head.  Of course now we've started ensemble music calls, you need access to all the pages.  I got the office to swap the score I was given for another, but the ensemble member who had it previously (and I think gave up the role, declaring it unlearnable) had written all over it in pencil, and rubbing everything out simply wasn't practical in the end.  So, I now have my own personal copy, rather than a hire copy, and can start marking it up again; feels like a fresh start (which I desperately need, because the ensemble rehearsals have made me very conscious of how far I have to go!).

First off, then, putting in bar numbers.  Every fifth bar is already numbered, but it helps me to have them all marked in - I still occasionally have trouble with German numbers when flustered - and with so much textual repetition, it's difficult to pick up where you are by ear alone.  Amazing how even such a simple task can have its problems - I have had to look at my tattered copy a few times to confirm that I have marked the bars correctly, and there is one little 3/4 bar that evidently wasn't important enough to be included in the numbering so I just left it alone.

Next, translation.  Because this is one of my better languages, I would normally just scribble the English underneath those words or phrases I was not familiar with.  However, studying the Shakespeare text and the Italian translation together shows that the latter follows the former very closely indeed, and while it naturally doesn't include everything, what it does contain attempts to mirror the original.  

While it's not quite as bad as sticking phrases through Babelfish automatic translation software from one language into another and back again, simply translating the Italian translation back into English can be ambiguous or downright misleading.  Therefore it makes sense for me to write in Shakespeare's words wherever I can.  With sub-notes to self where the original is a little obscure, and crib notes of the main words and concepts in German, for when it comes to interpretation discussions during staging. (Originally I did this in pencil and for my scenes only; the pencil wore off as I studied the music, and I have now realised that I am to be on stage throughout the entire piece and therefore need to do this throughout.  My writing fingers now have cramp and the sort of reddened depression in the callus on the finger that supports the pen that I remember from long-gone exam days!).

Next, writing in the beats, as the conductor has agreed to beat them (a lot of the tempi are so slow in this piece, he has to subdivide the beats, and it's important for me to be very clear at all times what he's up to!).  Pencil for this, or one of those super new pens which write like ink but are easily rubbed out (just in case the conductor changes his mind; or indeed, another conductor chooses different options.)  I'm copying this from my existing music, thankful for a nice fresh copy, as the beats have been written in, rubbed out, rewritten, argued about, shifted, paper accidentally poked through in frustration, etc etc.

Next to highlight those notes which the conductor and I have agreed are pivotal and have to be spot on.  These I have been practising separately, just to try and fix them absolutely in my voice.  The conductor reckons he ought to be able to ring me up at four in the morning, give me a word and I should be able to hit the correct note.  *I* reckon if he rings me up at four in the morning, I might indeed hit the right note but shan't be held responsible for the words I intone upon such note.

And lastly to try and decipher all those odd little arrows and exclamation marks and scribbles and metaphors, transferring them as neatly (and as lightly, as they can be extremely ephemeral) as possible into my nice new copy.

By which time, of course, I shall have set my coffee cup down in a few places, dog-eared a few corners and bent the whole thing by being too lazy to bring a separate bag into the theatre and stuffing the whole thing any old how into my handbag, and it will be my familiar and inseparable companion.

If only that were all I have to do to actually LEARN the blasted music!!!

Ah, I do so love it when an evening turns out unexpectedly to be a real treat.  I went yesterday to a bar in Wiesbaden not having much of a clue what the music was going to be like.  I'd been invited as part of an English-speaking group; whilst I speak German at work, and try hard to improve constantly, it is occasionally good to natter away with people in my mother tongue - you don't have to THINK all the time.  So if the proposed evening sounds at all interesting, I try to go along (many of them I don't make due to performances or rehearsals - most, like yesterday's, have to be accepted on a provisional basis until I know whether I have the evening free).

Anyway, as I say, I went along for a little conversation in English and because the guitarists involved were relatives of Django Reinhardt, whose music I love.  Because we were pretty late getting there, all the tables were taken.  We squeezed ourselves into a corner at the front on little stools, ordered (very nice) wine, and nattered happily until the concert started.

At which point I found myself about as near as you can get without actually playing the guitar for someone to Lulo Reinhardt, and not that much further away from Mike Reinhardt.  My goodness, but this was a feast for a musician!  Virtuoso playing, my GOD can these guys coax wonderful sounds out of their guitars, but it was far, far more than that - they were really making MUSIC, and having a blast at the same time.  Tossing solo opportunities and flamenco rhythms back and forwards (the concert was billed as Gypsy Swing, and was a glorious mixture of styles), slipping in odd little musical quotations which made me giggle, grinning madly at each other.  At one point they introduced their "special guests", who were young members of the same family, one on guitar, the other on percussion; it was particularly touching to note how they supported them musically, the focused energy and attention almost visible.  I felt completely part of the music they made and could feel it flowing through me.  Didn't hurt that I really was so close that when they took a break, Lulo handed his guitar to me whilst he saw to something else...

I left feeling totally uplifted and inspired (the particular lesson I took from this, as a musician, is that it IS possible to be technically pretty much perfect and yet still perform with boundless passion and energy; something that we do need to be reminded of on a regular basis, as it is not at all easy to get that particular balance right).  I am ridiculously lucky to have had such a glorious experience, and this is definitely one of those evenings that will never fade! 

It never fails to amaze me how few singers venture out from their comfort zone when it comes to listening to music.  I'm not talking today (although I have been known to, at length) about being open to all styles, hating some with a passion, dancing to others, turning the occasional one up to deafening levels and chilling out, but always listening and reacting.  This is simply in relation to classical music. 

I spent this morning listening to some glorious stuff.  Bloch arranged for piano, clarinet and horn.  Mahler, for all the above plus fabulous singer colleague.  Fibich (no, shamefully, I had never heard of him.  Czech, 1850-1900 for those who are interested, lush Romantic melodies) for quintet of piano, violin, cello, clarinet and horn.  Wonderful.

Admittedly, I sneaked into this concert mainly to hear my singer colleague.  I was however captivated, as I almost always am, by the interaction between the musicians in the quintet.  The thought I couldn't get rid of was, damn it, singers should be FORCED to occasionally listen to such recitals, with their eyelids propped open with matchsticks if necessary.  There is no excuse for the sloppiness that sometimes overtakes us on stage.  Just WATCH what happens in this chamber music.  Each musician is alive to the slightest impulse from any of the others.  They are alert, in the moment, reacting, making utterly LIVE music.  (Apologies; it appears to be a night that demands capital letters.)  So often we singers fail to do this.  Some of it may be down to the outward focus on the conductor, but frankly I suspect that some of it is because we forget, or are too lazy.

Not just singers, mind; over lunch with instrumentalists, the odd rather violent disagreement was noted in respect of recent conductor trials.  What is sauce for the goose is apparently NOT sauce for the gander :-)  Interesting, that, if not terribly surprising (whilst orchestra and singers really shouldn't feel like they're batting for different sides, it does often feel exactly like that).  All the singers involved were agreed, however, that conductors should be forced into at least a few singing lessons.  Some are naturally sympathetic to our peculiar needs.  Some, let us say, are not.  It makes such a fundamental difference.

Usual thing with the arts, I suppose.  Seeing things from different angles, changing one's focus altogether, swapping lives, throwing the cards into the air... on the whole, the more facets you have to your particular work of art, the more brilliant and deep the sparkle. 

A night to remember

Yesterday evening I was tremendously honoured to take part in a concert in memory of the late and much-lamented Philip Langridge, at the Royal Academy in London (erm, yes, I know I appear to have forgotten the entry summing up my first season singing in Germany, and subsequent account of my trip back to England; I am hatching something along those lines, but a little detail has been lost in the past week due to being in something of a drug-fuelled post-operative haze. Normal service, i.e. wine-fuelled music-induced haze, will resume shortly).

I was sharing the stage with truly great artists, and to be so near when musicians who knew and loved Philip for many, many years stuck their hearts firmly on their sleeves and performed with such raw emotion and passion was something which I doubt will ever leave me. Philip was deeply loved by all the performers last night, and to leave such a legacy of inspiration is a mark of his worth as a great man. Everyone there, however, would palpably have lopped off their right arms in a second to have him back with us again; he really is sorely missed.

My contribution was to have been a spoken tribute and the mezzo line of Soave sia il vento. As it happens, my neck muscles have finally woken up to the outrage of incision, and have spent the past few days attempting to strangle me (I can't find it in myself to blame them for this, I have to say) so I had to ask a colleague to kindly sing in for me. I was of course disappointed not to sing, but I was still able to speak (thankfully there was a microphone) and I was pleased to have managed to say what I wanted to say about Philip as a teacher and an inspiration without bursting into tears or wandering flippantly off track (I am rather prone to this when allowed to speak in public). I was a little overcome by emotion after my speech, though, and would like to apologise to my colleagues in the trio for stirring up memories of Philip, introducing the piece as one of the most sublime musical moments ever, apparently (... as was whispered between the performers just after I'd said that; oh great, no pressure there, then...), and then buggering off the stage post haste, leaving them with lumps in their throats just before launching into Mozart!

I know I appalled a few people by appearing at all, gussied up to the nines with velvet and diamonds but noticeably throat-bandaged (would have taken all the contents of Asprey or wherever to actually cover the dressings!) and choked, but it would have taken more than recovering from simple emergency spinal surgery to stop me from doing what I could for that concert, and I am so glad to have lived through such an experience!

Pride goeth before a...

yes, I'm pretty certain I mentioned the ability to fall convincingly before. However I thought it would be old news by now, in the last throes of rehearsal and on a stage currently awash with water, blood and grapes. Seems not. While I naturally welcome any praise, it would be nice if the backstage talk was slightly more weighted in favour of my vocal performance, and less in terms of how "quite simply awesome was my fall and how did I do it?" (obviously I paraphrase slightly from the German). Oh well. We're all good at something. Now to work it into all my future roles...

And I should at least sleep well tonight. I've been refraining from too much alcohol in the middle of these rather demanding rehearsals, and piously declined an invitation to a drink with friends after tonight's final Hauptprobe. I cycled home in a self-satisfied haze, only to discover my lovely neighbours gardening on their balcony in the pitch black. A tentative greeting was met with an enthusiastic and unturndowneable invitation to come and see their "garden park" (window boxes on the balcony; red, white, red, herb garden ("lavender, rosemary, sage; sage, rosemary, lavender!") then red, white, red again). Although I am taking the colours on trust as when I got whisked in and presented with what I was assured was a clean chair (and what I equally assured them didn't matter, as most of my clothes were tonight black, and the remaining bits were pretty well covered in blood and whatnot from the stage, it made no difference) and a plastic glass of very nice bubbly (they were very sweetly mortified to have no champagne glasses in their office), it was velvety dark and warm in a summer-evening way; such a pleasure! It's so easy to stereotype nationalities; and an utter pleasure to note that no-one seems to have told this wonderful couple that they ought to be "German" about things. They are enthusiastic, volatile, passionate, tactile, creative... I'm so glad I had the good fortune to stumble across them (trans: I sang so loudly in the flat, they came to see who was making the noise). There's really nothing like a totally surreal evening of nice bubbly in the dark, with conversation trying desperately to explain, in a language that seems further and further from possibility the later it gets, the plot of Salome to evangelical Christians unused to "modern" opera... I love this life!

The machine swings into action. Final rehearsals have started for the Strauss, and from the schedule I have seen, it would appear that they are trying to kill us. Ha! Hardy beasts, Strauss singers, on the whole; they'll have a job!

Tonight was the first Sitzprobe (fistfight with the orchestra on their territory. Hot, very dead space to sing in, and the cacophonous din of an orchestral warm-up exacerbated the headache I had from the overcast weather conditions to the point of becoming cross-eyed). Loved it!! Such beautiful, beautiful music. Of course the thing about Strauss is his orchestral textures. They sound SO different when coaxed out of an entire orchestra; I am very glad indeed that I learned this music so thoroughly, with attention to counting, tonalities, rhythms: everything is needed at this point. What was an obvious cue with a piano reduction, or a particular recording, is not heard with this conductor and her individual interpretation; different colours are emphasized, and the music takes on a life of its own, and at a particular point where my vocal line finally pulls the orchestra into harmony, and rouses it to a climax, and simply leaves it hanging there whilst my voice expands into a desperate high shriek, dropping after an eternity over an octave, knowing implicitly that I have lost, that I am powerless, and feeling the entire orchestra and ensemble stop breathing with me after this... oh, it doesn't get much better!

Of course I am hoping it will indeed get better! I am still not quite 100% after my cold, the ensemble singing hasn't quite settled into my bones, and things I have learned or re-learned from a calm (well, relatively!) sing-through with the orchestra have yet to be digested and processed. But I am savouring every moment of this particular process. (You are invited to remind me of this foolish remark when I am cursing the powers-that-be for scheduling so many rehearsals one on top of the other!!).

Seldom if ever have I actually welcomed a revolting head cold, and my first feelings upon experiencing the familiar acid trickle that heralds the same, a couple of nights ago, were of frustration. I'm in the middle of

rather demanding rehearsals, for goodness' sake, I can't get ill now!

However after today's run-through, in which I acted whilst the conductor sang in my part, I realised that I could learn a lot from this, and indeed that it complemented what has been in effect a self-taught and compact masterclass in the wonders of opera as an art form.

When I first opened the score and started to study this role, I was firstly exhilarated that it used my voice in the way it wants to be set free, and was secondly rather dismayed that the character was so relentlessly forceful and negative. All attempts to vary that, to contrast the anger with vulnerability, were thwarted by close examination of the music itself, which demands a constant level of churning bile. Red and black are the limits of her vocal palette. I learned the role, and leaped into stage rehearsals wondering what would happen.

Immediately, I found that, more than for any character I have ever played, I am using my own current fears and anxieties; that I could allow myself to feel the natural insecurities of every woman of a certain age in our society and use these as the taproot of Herodias's blistering anger. Naked, I could not be more vulnerable; I am forced by the physicality of the stage and by striving for the honest expression of this music (inspired in this respect as always by Philip Langridge, and determined even more after his death to honour his memory by not giving in to the ever-present temptation to cheat!) to show my own weaknesses to the audience. I can't say it's an easy process. I suspect the rawness of such honesty, at least during the rehearsal process, is what has led colleagues to kindly ask in private whether I'm OK, and to worry about me actually falling over on stage, when it was always done for effect...

And then the cold stymied my voice and today I just acted. I found I had the freedom to think about what various bits of my body were doing, and concentrated on the physical tensions between my body and those of the other singers on stage; an interesting experience. However I missed very acutely the energy rush that the act of singing provides, and in doing so realised afresh just how powerful opera can be when the musical and acting aspects complement each other. The sum is infinitely greater than the parts. Add in the visual aspect; the set, the costumes, the lighting; and I have to say I am awestruck by the possibilities of the art form in which I am involved. How lucky I am!

Of course I am only grateful to this cold on the proviso that it clears off completely by Saturday at the latest, and leaves no lasting traces on my vocal cords...

There must be a parallel to be drawn between such musings and my continuing attempts at illumination. However any time I try, the results are worthy of the "Pseuds' Corner" bit in Private Eye, so I've just bunged up top my preliminary line drawing for a congrats-on-the-pregnancy card for my darling sister, and an oddly distorted view of the finished product.

Learning. Always learning.

On responsiveness

I have been thinking a lot about the whole process of opera, sitting watching a very daring interpretation of a classic opera take shape in front of my eyes. It seems to me that so much of what works on the operatic stage is a question of being fully responsive. The director responds to the opera as a whole, and the singers have to find a way to respond to the director's vision whilst simultaneously responding to the music. It is particularly instructive to see what happens when these appear to pull in different directions; some singers stick their feet on the floor in panic, some argue blindly, some visibly pretend to agree (but have their fingers crossed behind their back; my first, belovèd, singing teacher, was somewhat of the old school, and would tell me in all seriousness to go along with whatever rubbish the director came up with in rehearsal; in performance he/she wasn't on stage, and you could happily tootle down to the front of the stage in the middle and sing out!! I shudder to think what would happen to any singer who dared to try this now!). The best, however, dare to be open-minded enough to respond to the director's vision while letting the music flow through, and I have seen them visibly surprised by a fresh emotional response to this well-known music. All we singers know that we're meant to first TRY what the director suggests, and then tactfully suggest that one's performance might possibly be improved by not hanging naked from a rope by one ankle, or whatever - but in practice, few of us have the courage to try whole-heartedly. We should. (This particular director, I hasten to point out, is remarkably sensitive to the needs of singers - sightlines to the conductor, freedom of expression during an aria, even (rather amusingly) "bathroom breaks" are scrupulously respected.)

The conductor, at the same time, is responding to the music, and we as singers respond to the conductor's overall arch of feeling, as well as internalising the tonality of our own music, the way the words and music interact, right down to the persnickety little markings the composer put in there expressly to confuse us... (Of course it's not, technically, ALL about responding - I was reminded tonight, singing a few phrases in, that because I was so far upstage I needed to anticipate the beat even more - the physics of acoustics means that if you're that far back and sing with what you actually HEAR, the audience thinks you're invariably coming in late. It's an interesting part of the conductor's job to judge how to juggle the various voices and instruments so that they present a coherent whole to the audience.)

And of course we should be responding to each other as actors. Singers do this in a very broad spectrum; from the (usually; sorry for the stereotype) tenor who, concentrating on his high notes, ignores with dignity any interaction, to the person (often me) who's so busy reacting to the situation that she forgets to sing on cue. This is, to me, one of the MOST important aspects of an overall performance. It seems from having watched many performances over many years that only those who are responding freely and honestly to their music and their characters release the energy of a truly great performance. And in proportion to how far this ideal situation is realised is the energy of the audience allowed to reciprocate. Which explains the occasional "perfect storm", when the performers feel like the singing happened "through" them, and the audience feels they witnessed something unique and life-affirming.

However I am fascinated by just how strongly I feel about the whole thing; I can forgive anything in the way of a less-than-perfect voice (or body) if the responsiveness is alive; conversely, without that vivid response, what is the point of a gorgeous voice or a slim and sexy physique?

Please feel free to disagree. These are simply musings posted after a pretty late night of fairly non-stop rehearsals. I hope you enjoyed them!

WHAT a day!!

Going completely against the grain, and actually posting a photograph that's relevant to my writing, here's one of the horses' heads I've been working on, finished and ready to deliver (the poppy and leaves are not integral, by the way, but wall decorations in my flat).

I put the final touches to the heads on Thursday, bought extra-large bin bags (heads for the transportation of), and organised a leisurely handover in Frankfurt on Friday, with plenty of time for visiting the butchers who sell lamb and, oh, who knows, maybe a peaceful beer or two...

HAH! So much for leisurely!

First thing Friday morning saw me tearing out large and bloody chunks of my hair, trying to understand repeated phone conversations in German. I'd had a slight plumbing problem, and the tenant's boyfriend had offered to liaise between the owners and the plumbers, which was extraordinarily kind of him. Unfortunately he has a rather impenetrable accent, and I have enormous difficulty communicating with him even face-to-face. Add to this my phone phobia (I have a horror of phone conversations, even in English) and the fact that it was a little complicated (cash required, up to certain amount only, get receipt, doorbell not working so please ring, etc etc), and I was in a high state of stress before I left for the theatre.

Now this was going to be a somewhat fallow time in terms of my work at the opera house; the Offenbach is well into its run, and the Strauss does not open until April. So when last week they asked me to study a Puccini role, just in case and no performances (but I'd get the role learned and coached), I jumped at the chance. I've now had five days with the score, and one coaching, basically at this point note-bashing and noting where the tricky points are going to be. Act I is down cold, the rest still a work in progress.

Because I'm just studying it, I was hesitant about whether I'd be welcome at the Konzeptionsgespräch (meeting where everyone gets introduced, the director explains the concept, and you see the set model and the costume designs for the first time). I went along anyway; I wanted to introduce myself so I could hopefully sit in on the rehearsals, as a way of (a) learning the role and the production, (b) improving my German, and (c) watching the Very Famous Name director at work. Having dressed unobtrusively on purpose, I slithered in and sat at the back, praying at all times not to be chucked out unceremoniously (I hate being unsure of the protocol) and with my poor brain trying once more to untangle accented German. It was over sooner than expected (it will be very interesting!). Due to temporary lack of tenor through illness, it was decided to start in on Act II. At this point I looked around for my friend, who's actually singing the role. Not a sign. Apparently she had a doctor's appointment... yes, you've guessed it, I was asked to sing in for her. I said yes, of course, but I'll need my score, and tried to maintain an appearance of outward calm despite my heart leaping around in my chest like a landed fish; I've never been quite so glad to see someone as when my friend appeared at the last moment, having been delayed unreasonably at the doctor's - I thrust the prop I was holding into her arms, smiled weakly, and spent the rest of the rehearsal slumped in a chair in the corner, score in hand, trying to unstick my shoulders from my ears, where they had become unaccountably lodged. (* - believe it or not, this continues below)

I cycled my slightly wobbly way back home, dealt with two more phone calls despite wanting nothing more than to ignore them and take my score back to bed (interestingly, one was from the plumbing company, saying their lads would be later than arranged, was that OK? - and ironically I understood more of that speech than I had of any that day!). I bagged the horses' heads ready for delivery (had some trouble with the ears, despite the size of the bags, but determination won out) and waited for the plumbers to arrive. Eventually, they did, explaining that they were in my street but couldn't find my building. Aaargh! This is a common problem; the street postal address has actually trailed off to a barred footpath by the time it gets to my block of flats - vehicle access is via another street. I explained all this but either my German or my ability to explain the maze of one-way streets and odd turns that the corrective journey required was insufficient, and I ended up saying oh hang on, I'll come and show you, which necessitated squashing into the van besides a rather pleased plumber and his mate, and eventually parking illegally. They did their thing with machines and gurgling noises, while I muttered Italian phrases to myself, trying to make them stick in my head. Eventually they left, trousering what seems to me an exorbitant sum but I guess that's plumbers the world over. Phew! I was now free to zip over to Frankfurt!

Of course by this time, dusk was falling. By the time I'd dragged my unwieldy burdens to the station, bought a ticket (at the counter; those sneaky ticket machines are NOT going to trick me again!!) and hopped on the train, it was far too late to visit the butchers. Damn! No lamb!! And because it was late, no time to play. We did however manage a visit to an Irish pub, where a pint of Guinness and a plate of chips had to pass as a balanced meal, but I have to admit I was exhausted by the day, and jolly annoyed, once I reached the station in Frankfurt, to have missed the train by thirty seconds and be forced to wait half an hour for the next one - sod's law!

* You'd have thought that was enough excitement! The one really good thing was that I thought I might be able from then on to get away with attending the rehearsals, so I duly turned up yesterday morning. The first session was fascinating, but because it was the middle of Act II, my friend didn't actually sing a note. Then we had a break. I was just finishing my coffee when the assistant director came and said that because my friend and some of the others in the rehearsal had an unrelated performance that night, the director had released them, and could I please sing in? No problem, said I, thinking, well if it's only a question of acting and reacting to the (absolutely bloody wonderful) soprano, I can do that. Back on the rehearsal stage, the director announced that we were going to continue, setting the end of Act II. I can't tell you what my thoughts were - this is a notoriously tricky bit for my character to sing, requiring ferocious amounts of counting in the first bit, and harmonies in the duet which require quite a bit of work to get rock solid. In my one coaching, we'd laughed, repeated it because it was so devilish, and I'd marked it as a place to be worked on carefully... As I took a deep breath and prepared to launch the first, shrieked, phrase, I distinctly remember thinking, hmm, it really wasn't meant to happen like this; if the opportunity arose I was going to quietly impress the director by being thoroughly musically prepared, as always, familiar with the moves from having observed closely, and of course my voice would have been warmed up. The notes started to ring out, and just thought, ah heck, funny how things don't turn out as expected, que sera sera, and bloody hell, it's an odd thing, opera!!