My Fair Lady (Oper Köln)

It's official!  (The above is a link to dates and to a little video made of our trip to Oman with this production.)  Apologies for vagueblogging previously, but I hadn't got a signed contract in my hand, and I am a little superstitious that way.  I love Mrs Higgins; I LOVE this cast, and I can say with my hand on my heart that I am happy.  Not everyone gets to feel this in their working life!.  

This beautiful, serene scene is proof that the last few weeks have been so worth it, and stands in stark contrast to the flu ridden, carnival infested, estranged weeks of rehearsal.

The estrangement was not at all Oper Köln's fault; their opera house is being refurbished, and they have been banished to a large blue tent for performances, and various far flung buildings in odd parts of town for rehearsals.  I was constantly lost, and I wasn't the only one.  Our rehearsals were made all the more . . . interesting, by the insistence of the Opera House in Muscat on all references to alcohol being removed.  This production, in common with many, had been rather high proof, and it proved a challenging experience trying to extract the booze without altering the spirit of the original production (it had been put on a couple of years ago, then Muscat wanted it, but in English; hence my engagement, along with a cast of fabulous native English speakers).  We had two weeks; this is an incredibly short amount of time to whip into shape something where four of the major players were making their role debuts and the entire thing is being constantly reinvented, yet is constrained to stick as closely as possible to the director's original vision.  Not helped in the slightest by various illnesses including the flu (which got me for the first time in about fifteen years; it was Not Nice) devastating the whole company.  And the fact that carnival was swirling drunkenly around the flats that the opera house had rented for several of us right in the middle of town . . . wonderful if you're in the mood; not so much if you have rehearsals morning and evening, and could have done without the party music until 5.30 a.m.

We struggled through it, anyway, and were rewarded (before heaven; how nice!) by our residence at the fabulous Royal Opera House Muscat.  This amazing building was only finished in 2011, and is beautifully detailed and so well thought out.  The only thing I found a little odd was the lack of clocks in the dressing rooms / make up rooms etc. (My very sweet Arab dresser promised to pass on this tidbit to the management.) Other than that, they'd even painted lines along the bottom of the walls directing you to stage right or left (for those that don't regularly work in such places, I would just say that the backstage areas of opera houses are generally the most labyrinthine and impenetrable places you've ever wandered around lonely as a rather bewildered cloud).

I suspect we were all a little nervous as the first night approached; we hadn't even had a proper run through before the dress rehearsal.  However I have to say I have seldom worked with such a marvellous cast of colleagues, and I was thoroughly impressed by the level of professionalism and sheer artistry shown all around.  Having been warned that the Muscat public was a bit cool, prone to clapping mainly Arab productions, we were flabbergasted to get a standing ovation, with the entire public leaping to its feet within seconds of the curtain going down at the premiere, and laughs in all the right places.  Glorious!

OK, so we didn't have a heck of a lot of free time, but what a wonderful place to perform.  And the hotel provided the best buffet I think I've ever snarfed, including an Arabian pudding called Umali which I swear was laced with crack or something, as EVERYONE who tried it came back for second helpings, and third, and...  even those who, like me, aren't that bothered about sweet stuff!  (And who, for reference, no longer have waists...).

I'd be back here like a shot if invited, if only for the glorious feeling of walking across the courtyard to the catering room in the interval, of necessity in costume, and having waltzed past the security detail in camouflage, to step outside into the richly smelling, warm, luxurious evening; so different from the German cold, which shuts down the senses one by one.

Should anyone be interested in photos of the production, there are some lovely ones here.  

This was really meant to be the other way up.  Starting from the inception of this not-totally-sane venture and following it through, in a scientific and disinterested way, to its culmination.  However, heck, firstly it was me, and secondly it was me actually in the middle of all of this, never mind writing about it, and the possibility of commenting on what I was far, far too busy experiencing just went right out of the window.

So what am I actually talking about?  Well, an opportunity came up to learn a role in a Brecht/Weill piece on a terribly short timescale.  And the chance was a little random in the first place as my agency had recommended me on the basis of the wrong opera!  I'd sung Mrs Peachum in the Britten version of John Gay's "The Beggars' Opera" when at music college.  Great stuff, but musically absolutely nothing to do with the Brecht/Weill version of the same piece, which uses the same situation and characters, but utterly different music and dialogue.  (Not that the latter would have helped anyway, because the version in question was in German.)

I'd been very excited when I first got the call from the theatre.  It's a great theatre, very near me, and I'd been wanting to sing for them for ages.  When it became clear that they thought I'd done this particular role, however, I explained that I hadn't, and directed them back to the agency.  I said how disappointed I was, and that I could probably learn the role in an emergency.  Upon talking to the lady at the agency, she said in no uncertain terms that they wouldn't let someone loose on such a role at such short notice unless they'd performed it on the German stage previously, and that they'd recommended other performers, and, well, that was that.  I sighed and carried on.

However, ten days ago I got a slightly panicked call from the theatre again; evidently the other performers couldn't do that particular date or something.  Long story short - they begged me to do the role.  The message landed in my voicemail at 10 p.m.; I spent an anguished evening asking friends and colleagues for advice (I am very lucky indeed to have such a great network of contacts willing to help!).

It was a very finely-balanced decision; definitely not without the bounds of possibility, but requiring unstinted focus until the performance and a huge amount of trust in myself as a performer and as a German-speaker.  Needless to say, I didn't get a huge amount of sleep that night, but at some point in the morning, as the dawn was starting to break, I just thought, BUGGER IT, I'm doing it.  

The bloke had said he'd ring me at 9 a.m.  When he did, I said I was actually standing at the stage door of the theatre and maybe we could discuss it in person.  Within minutes we had an agreement and copies of the score and libretto and a DVD of the performance were in my bag as I headed back home.

At which point the fun started!  Naturally, the entire process was a gut-churning mixture of adrenalin-fuelled excitement and soul-destroying dread, involving the detachment of much of my brain from functioning life for the duration.  Contact with friends and family was severely curtailed (sorry, everyone!).  Food and exercise had to be plotted in as necessary; I would have forgotten them for the most part, but was conscious that they were necessary to the higher functioning of the organism as a whole, and they therefore had to be allowed a certain percentage of brain function.

A few "highlights" of the intervening days:

-  the realisation that despite having looked over the score and thought, oh that's OK, the rest of the cast being actors meant that the whole shebang would have to be sung an octave lower than my normal tessitura.  *gulp*

-  waking to the incessant noise of the words I was trying to drum into my head.  Failing to fall asleep because of the same.  Repeat unto insanity.

-  realising with cold horror quite how much stage business there was to get my head around, quite apart from words and music.

Oh yes, it was . . . interesting.  I enlisted friends and colleagues, scribbled upon reams of paper and doodled upon scrolls of wallpaper which I then draped around my flat (see photo above for one of these in its growth stages!).  This really is when you realise how lucky you are to have people who support you, calm you, slap you gently back into reality, feed you, encourage you and remind you to actually breathe.  Thank you, everyone!!

Anyway, yesterday evening was the performance.  I'd had a run-through on a rehearsal stage the previous afternoon, with a couple of my colleagues who were nice enough to give up their time.  Their generosity of spirit reassured me hugely; this was mainly an acting role, and in true Brechtian spirit, the production involved a nod to the fact that the audience knew that we were in fact actors playing these roles, rather than actually "being" the characters.  Far too complicated right now to explain coherently what I mean, but in practice, I was reassured that if absolutely necessary (i.e. totally drying or venturing into completely the wrong scene), my fellow actors were free to feed me lines, and I to ask or to shout out that I couldn't hear the bloody prompter and that they weren't paying me enough to jump in etc...

The colleagues I met were superb.  Much reassured on the acting front, I was still pretty nervous about the one classic ballad I had to sing.  Doesn't matter how many arias etc one has memorised and sung on stage, the fact remains that when you transfer anything learned on to the stage, there is normally a bit of a memory blip whilst doing so. Well, there is with me, any rate.  I was a bit worried; this is a classic Weill ballad, the audience might well know it far better than me, and the logistics (pretty much darkness apart from a follow-spot, huge movements of stage machinery behind me) meant that any prompts would probably be inaudible and any words scribbed on fingers unseen.

Suddenly, there was nothing more to be done.  I was out on stage.  And BUGGER ME IT WAS FUN!!!  Feathers flew everywhere (I really, really hate having feathers up my nose, but in such a role it was permissible to fish them out again, and with something like five changes of feather jacket, a few here and there were probably unavoidable).  Most of the words came out in the right order (I rather think a further post is demanding to be written concerning acting on stage IN GERMAN - but it's going to have to wait; it would make this post interminable).  The ballad somehow got sung.  I managed to spit out the important verbal cues, and to be roughly where I was expected to be at certain moments.  I might have trodden on a couple of extras, but they forgave me (happily, I'd worked with one of them before, and she must have given me a good report - thanks, Alice :-) ).

When push came to shove, I even got the bloody ballad right.  Not the best singing I've ever done in my life, but the words came out, and I meant them, and - for me at least - they were not overshadowed by a whorehouse in all its glory being rolled out and used to the max behind me...

I ended the evening sweating and triumphant and happy; I am a couple of new friends up from these colleagues, and have gained a world of experience from being allowed onto the stage as an actress (there is an amazing freedom of timing, of improvisation, of expression, to be found.  As an opera singer, my constraints are usually slightly different).

So, still floating on a tide of adrenaline, and happy as a sandlark, and yes (this usually freaks anyone who isn't in The Business out), all that work was just for the one performance.  Still you never know; anyone need a Frau Peachum in the Brecht/Weill "Die Dreigroschenoper"?  Correct pronunciation of "Brecht'scher Verfremdungseffekt" guaranteed ;-)

Given how much of a cliché it is for opera singers to float around in satin ballgowns, dripping with jewels and made up to the nines, I can't believe that I have never once gone on stage in a fabulous meringue creation!  

So when I was rung up a couple of days ago and asked to leap in as an alternate for a small role in a Verdi opera (pretty urgent as the scheduling difficulties had evidently only come to light on the first day of rehearsal), I immediately accepted, thinking, aha, even in Germany in this day and age, surely this role is a shoo-in for cinched waist and fabulous décolleté (well OK if I'm honest, considerations of it being actual paid work, and keeping myself off the streets, also contributed to some degree to my decision).

So the first thing I did upon arrival at the rehearsal stage this morning was to trot hopefully over to the wall of costume designs.  It was filled with drawings of absolutely gorgeous ball- and evening dresses.  Hooray!!  Pay dirt!!  I eagerly scanned the bottoms of the drawings, where the character names appeared.

Tight black leather trousers and jacket... *sigh*.  I am sure it will look fabulous, but there's my ballroom dreams shattered once again...

Not the only things that were shattered, mind.  I came out of the morning session absolutely in a heap.  Having been laid up with a cold for the last four days, and only getting the score yesterday evening, I wasn't expecting perfection.  However a combination of the increasingly oxygen-free environment (it's never particularly pleasant down there, but when the entire chorus, soloists and production team are working hard, the available breathable air soon appears to vanish), a hot and sweaty rehearsal costume, and - basically - not knowing what the hell I was doing (in terms of character, music, staging - in fact, admit it, the entire bloody opera), took it right out of me.

Still, can't complain.  Great music - and all I have to do is cram it into my reluctant and stuffy brain (note to self: does not work properly in the aftermath of a cold).

Speaking of cold - and this of course is not helping either my voice or my return to full health - this was the view as I cycled in for rehearsal this morning.  No, I didn't mess around with the colour balance - it was minus 4 and everyone was suddenly frozen!

Back in rehearsal, as the weather slithers greyly and inevitably towards winter, for a revival of Mainz's Eugen Onegin, with me gladly resuming my role as the increasingly demented nanny, and one question looms large in my mind;  why the bloody hell did we put so much blasted KNEELING into this part??  Argh.  

 

I am very nearly there* with regard to my knee, but the act of sinking to my knees and staying there currently makes my body very uneasy, and I don't believe a chorus has EVER lasted as long as the eternal peasanty jubilations in Act I ...

* I hope!  Mind you, I was most chuffed today, having run into (almost literally; I was on my bike and it was raining...) a lovely choreographer I know, who seemed to assume I was built of the same essential stuff as dancers ("Broken knee?  Oh no, no, that won't have stopped you for long...").  I was immensely flattered.  It's not, of course, true - dancers will regularly practise and perform through unbelievable pain levels, and generally only give up on limbs when they actually crunch and fold underneath them...  I am in awe of such bloody-minded and strange creatures.

So where did *this* damn bruise come from?

One of the most intriguing aspects of rehearsals has to be the appearance of totally inexplicable bruises and scrapes.  I was going to say "unexpected appearance", but after a few productions I've come to expect them.  I dare say that in the days when we just got happy and fat (if there were any such), lumbered on stage and sang looking up to the audience from the sweet point on the stage, this wasn't the case, but nowadays... oh yeah. 

I approached the rehearsal stage rather carefully today, having managed to hurl myself rather spectacularly from my bike a couple of days ago.  (Nothing serious; skinned knee and elbow.  Can't imagine how I have got away unscathed in four years of cycling here previously, especially given the prevalence of lightning-quick toddlers darting through parked cars.)

Anyway, scraped knees and elbows are pretty much par for the course, given that cycling has been my chosen mode of transport for more than four years now.  However, looking them over, it was rather amusing how many other unnoticed bashes and scrapes they joined and blended into happily on a social level. 

I mean, seriously, how on EARTH did I get a dark-blue double-centred bruise on my upper thigh in the last couple of days??  There's no way any of the action in the opera I'm rehearsing (usually the culprit) or anything that's running is to blame.  

Just has to be the rehearsal genie to blame.   Not going to go there as concerns howling with laughter and throwing oneself all over the stage at the slightest opportunity.  Absolutely nothing to do with this particular topic.

Definitely.

And that's all I have to say . . .

And it starts again... god, I LOVE the rehearsal period!  Today I spent quite a bit of time lying on my back in a box, with the lid inches from my nose, sweating like I never have before (cycling home yesterday evening, I passed a time/temperature display hanging outside a chemist's.  22:57 / 33°C, and so humid I couldn't apply make-up this morning because I was shimmering with sweat even before breakfast time...). 

First blood was drawn, I think on a spar of wood I misjudged slightly.  Only a rap to the knee, didn't even notice until someone pointed out I was bleeding onto the floor.  (Quite impressed with myself.  Never before managed to draw blood on the first day of rehearsal.)

My rehearsal costume drew wolf whistles; my favourite comment was a dry "Kein' Oma mehr, gell?" (Not a granny any more, huh?) - that much, it has to be said, is true.  Another small role, but oh what fun to be had with it.  The skimpiness of the dress and the height of the (vertiginous) platform stilettos stem from the character being seen as basically created following a man's wishlist... after the battering my ego took as a disabled old woman, it is going to be HUGE fun to be (for ONCE!) the saucy turn in an opera not distinguished by its comedy (the role is Marta, in Boïto's Mefistofele.  No, you won't have heard of it...)

My back aches already from hurtling around on the stage in those bloody shoes (the director asked me to run quicker one too many times; for information, snarling the equivalent of "You put them on, Sonny Jim, and THEN tell me to go faster" is not terribly effective with directors with a great sense of humour - they just laugh . . .).  I'm missing the communal theatre outing tomorrow due to agreeing to rehearse for the director's sake.  My feet hurt too.   Rehearsal clothes often smell.  There was NO air in the rehearsal stage.  Etc etc etc.

And yet, THIS is where I live, and this is where I come alive!  Line up a fabulous director, brimming with ideas and energy, and wonderful colleagues across the board, from new and interesting to old friends whom one can be horribly rude to at will . . .   Ah yes. I am very much looking forward to this fascinating process once again!

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!

Yesterday I acted my socks off.  Quite literally.

(I do apologise that I am writing again so soon after my previous (probably rather odd-seeming) musically mystical offering, but hey.  How often do you get to spout such a line?  Couldn't resist.)

This has all to do with my character in Eugene Onegin.  We (the director and I - more about him later) have had such fun with her.  I have been through a gradual descent into dementia, made all the more mind-bending by taking place within a journey that replicates another...

He's set the beginning of the opera in a train journey to St Petersburg that takes place after most of Acts I and II, when the family moves to St Petersburg.   I start off very uncertain and forgetful, wandering along the train in search of.. the loo?  The past?  Whatever.  The future is utterly uncertain, the present very insecure, grabbing hold of at least the certainties represented by (in my character's case) a samovar - the only way to make the past something remembered and solid.

And then the layers of memory kick in, and, wandering unsafe and uncertain (and probably still looking for the toilet!), she sees Lensky and Onegin...  The past comes to the fore once again, everything returns to the crystal clarity of what she's currently seeing... we're in the past/present (and if we're of a philosophical or over-thinking bent, we're buggered once again).

In this opera I had assumed from what was written that I would be out of the picture pretty much by the end of the first act.  Which is when my singing role comes to an end.  Nope.  Carry on, much wandering around in my nightie etc.  Well, fair enough.  Thought I'd got a promise that I was DEFINITELY dead by the time the family had reached St Petersburg in the third act, however (this would have perhaps released me to bow, after the première, after the break, therefore getting to tootle home at least an hour before the others!),

Turned out, yes I did indeed die , but I still have to wander (once!) across the stage.  As a ghost.  And in the slow, slow movement, reach out once to lightly touch Tatjana - and remind her with an invisible frisson that she has no-one in whom to really confide any more.

Except, ohhhh the WRONGNESS of crumpled socks when you're a ghost.  Tried it once, then went to the director and asked if I couldn't do this being-dead thing barefoot and upright, practising gliding along etc etc.  And the director agreed.  Wonderful.  Hence acting my socks off :-)

(The socks in question are hand-knitted, most likely by one of the prompters here, who always has knitting needles in hand.  As I have never knitted a sock in my life and have no intention of starting, I present a photo of a very weird pair of gloves under construction. They were for my mother at Christmas and I was making them up as I went along.  I can tell you that crocheting gloves is a jolly strange business, when you have no pattern...)

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...).

On the Importance of Posture

Thing is, you see, I thought I knew all about posture.

When I was in music college, I paid my way by working as a secretary in the School of Dental Hygiene (yep, just as fascinating as it sounds) on weekday mornings, and studying singing the rest of the time.  The sheer psychological / physical effort involved in swapping hats over and over again (as a secretary you are (a) often sitting hunched over a hot keyboard all the time you're there and (b) expected to put yourself aside to make your bosses' lives as smooth as possible; as a singer you need to be upright yet free, and frankly to put yourself first) was not doing wonders for my shoulders, which were often to be found stuck to my ears.

So I took advantage of cut-price Alexander Technique lessons and gained back the physical freedom of childhood (yes, I had to work at it, but my goodness, the work paid off).  The feeling of free and easy bodily balance, both when static and in movement, was so exhilarating that I resolved never to lose it.  Ever since then I have been aware of slight imbalances and tensions, and have corrected them at the first signs, however long it took.

The results aren't bad, either.  It helped my singing a lot, and I often get compliments on my good posture.  Or people thinking I'm a lot taller than I actually am (well I put that down to posture but it could also be my addiction to vertiginously high heels...).

I was even aware of the psychological aspects of posture, especially since having watched this excellent TED video (WELL worth your time to watch, whatever your calling in life).

So basically tootling along feeling pretty pleased with at least that aspect of my existence, and probably looking irritatingly smug about it.

Then...

Well, this week has seen the start of the Onegin rehearsals, and I have thrown myself into the challenge of portraying an old lady with the onset of dementia.  From the start I knew that I wanted tension in my fingers, producing slightly clawed "arthritic" hands, and a slight forwards stoop to my shoulders.  I welcomed slightly uncomfortable shoes from the costume department (the designer was rather amused that I asked to be made as shapeless as possible but drew the line at my hopeful request for a bosom drooping down to my knees) and allowed my neck to express a fear of the world around me.  I am experimenting with just how much to slow my movements down.  Subtle things - really trying not to "portray" old age as such; aiming rather to allow the audience to feel the aches and physically sympathise.

I think it's going pretty well, actually.  I mean, I can consistently apply the above and yet still sing freely (ahem, when the Russian words don't fly off into the ether, that is).

EXCEPT - my goodness I really hadn't banked on those small and totally physical shifts having such a pronounced effect on my mood.  Despite enjoying the rehearsals immensely, I could feel misery creeping up upon me virtually by the minute.  And it was a vicious circle; as the insecurity descended, my shoulders stayed stooped even when grabbing coffee with my colleagues in the canteen.  I found myself avoiding eye contact even with friends, and feeling, for no good reason, utterly desolate.

This was just a few days of submissive, beaten posture, worming itself into my psyche and trying insidiously to destroy my confidence.  It really is that powerful.

Very luckily for me, my best friend is something of a yoga expert, and recommended various postures as defence.  I incorporated those into my (shamefully spotty) yoga practice, and felt the results straight away.  For those interested, they were downward dog for quieting the mind, back bends and raised arms for optimism and energy, and various power postures.

So that particular crisis has been averted, and I am left in awe of the sheer power of the mind/body connection, and determined to counteract my bad posture while acting this role with supportive postures before and afterwards.

However as I look around me I see - everywhere - bad posture.  People slumping over computers, slouching tiredly in the bus, scuffing the pavements as they scuttle past me in town...  How much misery around us - and in us - is due to this correlation?

So please, if you haven't done so already, take the time to watch the TED video I linked to above.  Or if things are chronically bad, do search out an Alexander Technique practitioner - or maybe Feldenkrais if Alexander Technique is not for you.

Sorry if this comes across as evangelical, but this week has been something of an eye-opener for me in this regard and I simply want to make as many people as possible aware of the clear and present dangers of bad posture.

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Photo is, as always, completely unrelated!  A rainy day coming through the graffiti-enhanced underpass looking out onto the Rhine, with a neon-turquoise-lit cruise ship as focal point.  I like that tunnel!

Well WELL.  This promises to be a lot more interesting than I had feared!  We had the concept speech for Onegin today, so from now on it's all go.  I've just about got the words nailed (although some of them currently feel about as safe as nailing jelly to a tree) and have sung through the role enough times to feel vocally secure (it's not that it's at all a difficult sing, it simply doesn't sit where my voice blooms naturally, so have had to work on keeping my voice even throughout the registers).

I have to admit, however, that I was a little - no, a lot - nervous about portraying this character.  What I tend to do really well is stand on stage and scare people.  Or cast spells on them, or seduce them, or any combination of the above.  I'm fairly tall, and I hold myself naturally pretty upright.  Which is great if you're cast as the regal lead role - and an interesting challenge if you're portraying the old nanny at the end of a life of servitude.

I had been playing around with ways of showing age without "showing" age (and naturally still being open and relaxed enough to sing properly), wondering exactly how old the director would want me to be, and hoping desperately that he wouldn't simply say "Right.  Sweet and doddery old retainer - GO!" and concentrate entirely on the leads (it's in my opinion unprofessional but, erm, has been known on occasion!).

Now I can relax, and breathe, and launch myself into what, with the right support, will indeed be a very exciting challenge.  The director had some great ideas for the whole piece, and had evidently thought very thoroughly indeed about how each and every character fitted in.  Funny how you instinctively relax when you realise the person in charge knows exactly what they're doing.  And just how quickly that realisation sets in.

So.  What he wants from me is an old woman whose mind is starting to fray but who is trying not to let it show (apart from anything else, she's terrified that if she's no use any more, she'll simply be chucked out by the family.  Historically not an unreasonable fear.).  Total vulnerability.  No over-the-top wandering around with outstretched arms looking mad, no wild-eyed panic (shame, I'm not bad at that!), no explicit "Ooh look - dementia!".  Nope.  This is going completely against physical and mental type, and doing so subtly and to the side of the stage.

The journey begins!  Wish me luck...

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 ;-)

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... ;-)

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?

As rehearsals start to sketch out the trajectory of this piece, a sense of... well, really, I can't say getting deeper into character; it feels more like finding more and more points of reference in common with my self.  I suspect that lots of this is due to having a bloody good director.  (As a performer it isn't always obvious why the director is needed, if you're the opinionated type.  However they are crucial in bringing together the individual interpretations into an organised and coherent whole, not to mention being able to see the entire picture from the outside, which we as performers of course can't.)  It's an enthralling process.  I am constantly reminded that, however angst-ridden or awkward or painful the individual moments, the thrilling fact remains that I have a chance to interpret one of the great roles professionally.  Lady Macbeth is a dream for an actress (at least an actress of a certain age and inclined towards charisma rather than sweetness) and however off the wall the production or music, she is MINE to inhabit for the moment. 

The brain is at full throttle.  Apart from the obvious difficulties of trying to remember the virtually impossible music, without a prompter for whatever reason, I am attempting to hear and respond to the other singers' lines, whilst using my entire body energies trying to sit on a hideously raked stage without slithering inelegantly to the floor (OK inelegant but darned good fun:  tried it a few times when not required to sit in one place, and it was great!!).  On top of all that, it seems that, even more in such modern music than usual, the inherent possibilities of the vocal line show themselves up only when one starts to inhabit them physically.  I am subject to constant mental tweakings (oh yes, so HERE I might well be crying; would suit the break over the lower passaggio, and the meaning, let's see whether the conductor thinks it works) and the huge, HUGE revisions and forward-forecastings-in-case-of-trouble that are part and parcel of our work.  These are often tried out en route home, startling the poor innocents I pass on my bike...

However it has to be said I am proud of myself in respect of my approach to changes here.  I was DETERMINED to keep my mind open, and try everything without automatically condemning it.  (Sounds bad, but with all the Regietheater over here in Germany, you get a LOT of singers who have cynicism built into their very bones.)  And at a couple of points where it would have been (for me as an actress) disastrous to carry on, I was able, through diplomacy and appealing seriously to the fabulous stage instincts of the director, to effect enough of a revision to be able to stick closely enough to the original text to satisfy myself.

In other words, a decent start.  Must remind myself of this when I am panicking blindly about not having the music down pat (I pride myself on being professional enough to turn up to first stage rehearsals off copy. ALWAYS. )  It WILL WORK!!!

Thanks firstly to all those who were worried about me after the last post!  I think it's going to be OK now, but it's great to know that people occasionally read my ramblings...  

The costume designer turns out to be very pleasant, and I think we'll be able to come to a decent compromise.  So far, I have agreed to an elegant trouser suit (those who know me well will gasp at the idea of me wearing trousers; I think this is a fairly important concession from my side); boots are under negotiation, and I don't think she knows what I am capable of when fighting over the issue of blouses.  Smiling, we shall conquer... (I hope!).

And however intense and stress-inducing the opera itself is, and however much I am panicking about entire scenes where I currently can't remember more than two pages of the blasted music at one time, hope is not lost so long as you can laugh.  And that we did, in spades:  hard not to, when the serious and passionate clinch between you and your stage husband gets spectacularly derailed by an undignified three-foot slide down a steep rake, landing with a pained "ooof!!!" on her part and extremely unprofessional giggles on ours, on a previously "dead" mezzo lying unsuspecting on the floor.  I do so love rehearsals!!!