Prompting. That elusive, much maligned, misunderstood, extremely demanding skill. And the people who do it—ignored by some, feared by others, treasured by too few, downright despised by too many.
I came to it late in my career. Until I did, the prompter was not a fixture at the Houston Grand Opera, as it is at the Met and other big houses. Only in the direst emergencies was the prompter's box set up—for instance, when a singer got fired just before opening and the replacement hadn't sung the role in years. Otherwise, the principals and chorus would rely solely on the conductor for tight ensemble with the pit, and their own fallible memories for the text.
When Patrick Summers became Music Director of HGO in 1998, he persuaded General Director David Gockley to begin using prompters on a semi-regular basis, two or three productions per season. It was decided that I would be the guinea pig prompter, probably because I was longest on the coaching staff and also had some conducting experience. I had mixed feelings about it: my greatest joy, and my best skill, was playing. If I wasn't playing enough, I wasn't happy; prompting meant that I wouldn't be playing as much, which in turn meant that I probably wouldn't be happy. On the other hand, I'd be learning a new skill and helping the company. Also, I didn't have a choice.
Prompting lessons were set up the summer before Patrick's first season, with Susan Webb at the San Francisco Opera, and also with Patrick himself, who at that time was SFO's Principle Guest Conductor. They were both wonderful teachers, and I eagerly soaked up everything they taught me about this fascinating and complex skill.
I quickly learned that prompting involved much more than simply hurling out fragments of text; the prompter is the relay man, the liaison, between conductor and stage. It is the prompter that keeps the people on stage attentive and in the musical moment, thus relieving the conductor of some of his awesome responsibility, and allowing him to pay more attention to the orchestra. Inside the prompter's box (customarily situated downstage center) there are small video monitors whose cameras are trained on the conductor, and upon which the prompter keeps a constant eye, while his other eye is moving with the people onstage and his mind's eye is on the score in front of him. His brain is divided into three equal parts: one part stays exactly with the music, the second part stays always ahead of the music, and the third remains ever alert to prevent imminent disasters and to fix disasters already in progress. The best prompters keep an accurate beat going with one hand while cueing with the other, except in very busy ensembles when both hands are needed to cue. A good prompter must learn the best way to get a singer's attention if that singer loses aural track of the orchestra and gets "off," and he must know the best and fastest way to get that singer back "on." I was taught to kiss the air to get a singer's attention, a sound that can cut through the sound of the orchestra, yet cannot be heard by the audience because of the shelter of the prompter's box. The singers told me they felt like dogs being called by their master when I made that sound -- but hey, it worked! As soon as they heard that kissing sound, their heads automatically swivelled in my direction.
Of course, everyone knows that a prompter does indeed hurl out fragments of text. But exactly how much text? Usually the first two or three words of every line. Exactly when (how far ahead)? That depends on the tempo and meter, but always as close to the actual singing of the line as possible: too far ahead, the singer might be tempted to come in early; too late, the singer may not hear it. As often as possible, I liked to say the cue in the rhythm it should be sung; that way, you ensure that the singer will sing both the correct text and the correct rhythm. This rhythmic cueing is especially helpful in complicated ensembles involving many singers, with or without chorus; a very good example is the gambling scene in Act III of La Traviata, which was the first opera I ever prompted. That gambling scene is indeed a trial by fire for any neophyte prompter!
Aside from textual and musical cues, the prompter is often called upon to remind singers of their staging, use hand signals to tell them when they're sharp or flat, or even to make offstage sounds from the box (for instance, I made the whipping sounds during the flogging scene in Billy Budd ; and, in one production of Traviata, I had to emit a wild, drunken laugh during the offstage chorus singing in Act IV).
For the most part, singers were very grateful for my presence in the box, once they got used to me and figured out how to use me. Some, however, told me right at the beginning of staging rehearsals that they hated prompters and didn't want my help; I'd only distract them. Of course, they were soon set straight by the administration—the prompter is a fact of life, and you the singer are under contract. In other words, be prompted or be fired.
In the matter of musical hierarchy, the prompter is second only to the conductor in authority, must be present at every rehearsal, and takes the baton in the conductor's absence. He is the first authority in matters of language and diction, even before the principal coach, and must correct mistakes as soon as they're made. He has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders.
As for me, I very much enjoyed this new part of my job—at first. But after a while, I began to squirm from not playing enough. Eventually, however, other members of the music staff learned this rarified skill of prompting and were able to share the responsibility. In hindsight, I'm very glad to have had the experience.
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