A Woman or a Two-Toed Sloth, It Matters Not

     About ten years ago, a young female pianist/coach, who was at that time in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, asked me if my being a woman was in any way a hindrance to me in the opera business. I remember being a bit surprised at the question, as it had never been asked me before. However, I didn't have to ponder over my answer: I told her frankly that my being a woman was never an issue, at least, not to my knowledge.

     Several years before this event, an internationally known woman conductor came to Houston to conduct one of our main-stage productions. I was Assistant Chorus Master, and had charge of the chorus for most of the rehearsal period while our Chorus Master was out of town on another job. The working relationship between the conductor (who insisted on being called "Maestro" rather than "Maestra") and me was quite amicable. She respected my abilities, and I respected hers. However, her relationship with the orchestra was not a happy one. I wasn't privy to the details, but apparently her behavior towards them and towards one player in particular prompted a letter of complaint to the HGO administration from the orchestra as a body. They felt she treated them as second-rate (this was the Houston Symphony, mind you, one of the finest orchestras in the country). My respect for her lessened considerably, though she and I continued our outward professional relationship. After the closing performance, I went backstage to say goodbye to her. Her very last words to me (and I paraphrase, due to the intervening years and my fuzzy memory) were, "Power to women!" and she made a fist and raised it in the air. I confess, it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. The very first thought that came to my mind was, "That's not why I do this."

     When HGO asked me to conduct a mainstage production, I knew it was because they felt I was able to do so. I accepted because I knew they had faith in me, and because I felt I should meet the challenge. I also knew that they would have asked me if I had been a man, if I were from Zimbabwe, if I had seaweed instead of hair, or if I were a two-toed sloth. All they cared about was whether or not I could wield a decent baton and do a good job. (Well, actually, I would have my doubts about the two-toed sloth.)

     My being a woman was never an issue. The issue was my ability. Also my professionalism and my respectful treatment of others. My gender was never used by anyone as an excuse or a platform, nor did I myself use it as such. And I did what I did because I loved it and knew, with hard work and perseverance, I could do it and do it well.

     And I should say that, had that woman conductor I spoke of earlier been a man, I still would have respected him less for his treatment of the orchestra.

Saturday, and I'm No Longer at the Opera

     For some inexplicable reason, I woke up this morning thinking of Massenet's Manon. Specifically, the Saint-Sulpice scene. No music, I couldn't remember a note of that scene, still can't, just the dramatic situation. I then thought, "How does 'La Rêve' go?" It took a rather long moment, then that plaintive introduction by the strings came into my head and an imaginary tenor voice began, "En ferment les yeux ..."

     I was surprised and a little dismayed that the aria took that long to come back to me. It is one of the most famous arias in the French repertoire. How many gezillion times in my 25-year opera career did I play it in auditions? How many tenors have coached it with me? How many performances of Manon did I see or prompt?

     Then I realized it was nine years ago I did Manon at HGO, and no tenor in the Studio sang it after that production while I was still there. So it's probably been nine years since I last heard "La Rêve." Nine years, it suddenly struck me. That's a long time. In the opera world, nine years is forever.

     I realized, too, that I left that rarefied world eight years ago and the invisible line connecting it to my spirit is growing thinner and more fragile with each passing year. I still keep in touch with many of my former colleagues, singers, orchestra personnel, etc., thanks to social networks, and though I treasure those contacts and intend to preserve them for as long as possible, my mind and spirit are elsewhere, and that the music is no longer a major part of my consciousness is an inevitability I'm learning to accept. Like the letting go of piano repertoire, the letting go of opera repertoire has to be complete before I can let the music return, purified and free of the shackles of my former coach mentality. I still can't listen to opera without coaching in my head, which spoils the joy of listening to it. It may take a while longer before I can listen without criticizing every single phrase, every word. But struggling to remember the tune of a famous aria is a good sign. It means that Leticia the Coach is beginning to fade away, eventually to be replaced by Leticia the Plain Ol' Music Lover.

Jussi Björling (1951)



The Freedom of Routine

     A Facebook friend of mine sent me a private message the other evening at around seven o'clock. It was a long message, requiring from me a rather detailed response. I wrote back that same evening just to tell her that I would write her a proper response the following day, as "I have to shut down my computer now, per my self-imposed schedule." The next morning, I found a response from her, asking me to tell her, if I were willing, why I have a self-imposed schedule. I thought it an interesting question.

     I have noticed in the past few years that I feel bit discombobulated if my daily routine is disrupted. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I've become a slave to routine -- but on further reflection, I believe rather that my routine is my freedom, and anything that disrupts it infringes on that freedom. I realize this may seem completely upside-down to most people. But, to paraphrase a well-worn adage, one's man's prison is another man's freedom. Let me try to explain.

     Most of my readers know that I worked in opera for many years, most of them at Houston Grand Opera. Now, I don't know how other companies operate, but at HGO the schedule for any given day during production (i. e., the rehearsal period and performance run of a show) is determined only the day before: every afternoon, the following day's schedule and assignments is printed and distributed. This means that, during production, one is unable to make plans outside the opera house more than a half-day in advance. (Doctor's appointments and such are the exception; one fills out a release form to be approved by the administration.) Furthermore, one is basically "on call" -- extra rehearsals, time changes, and coachings often come up with little warning during production periods.

     The first ten or so years, I was perfectly fine with this scheduling policy. Opera was my whole life; I had no friends outside the business, no steady love life to speak of, and I considered anything other than my work to be an unwelcome distraction. Only in my last few years in Houston did I feel suffocated by the capriciousness and unpredictability of the production schedule. This had little to do with my reborn faith and monastic vocation, though I was frustrated that I couldn't attend Mass as often as I liked. No, I felt that my creative capacity, which I knew extended beyond opera, was being stifled by the demands of my work. Quite simply, there were other things I wanted to do, that I wanted to do since childhood.

     Monastic life taught me the value of routine and the freedom that can be derived from it if used correctly, in the right spirit. The horarium, with the Divine Office as its skeleton, is strictly adhered to but never suffocating. When the bell calls you to chapel to pray the Office, you must stop immediately whatever you are doing and obey "the voice of God." This isn't in the least frustrating or maddening -- because you stop out of love. That's what I meant by "the right spirit." Everything -- whether it be prayer, study, meditation, cooking, laundering, gardening -- is done for love of God and for his glory. And it is this love that gives you freedom. It frees you from selfish ambition and the pressure that it bears; it frees you from being dissatisfied with the results of your labors because it also teaches you that the means is of equal importance as the end, and that effort is its own reward. I wish I had learned this while I was at HGO. I think it would have made those last years easier.

     Paradoxically, I found my creativity thrived within the confines of the horarium. Because I was learning to let go of ambition and success, my poetic muse of old reawakened, I learned basic bookbinding, and I also rediscovered a small talent for drawing and composing. These gifts were still there, lying dormant for so many years, and I was grateful that God gave me the chance finally to use them, but also that the horarium kept me from becoming bound to them.

     With my latest calling as co-caregiver for my father came the necessity to impose some semblance of a routine upon myself, if I was to remain reliant on prayer for strength and patience. Though my father could sometimes be unpredictable as to when he'd wake up in the morning, I found I was fairly safe if I set my alarm at 6.30 for praying the Office of Readings and Lauds. If Dad got up before I started, I'd get his breakfast and settle him at the table, then start the Office. If I heard Dad get up after I started, I heeded St Vincent de Paul's advice and made the getting of Dad's breakfast my prayer for the morning. The rest of the day, unless Dad had a doctor's appointment, easily accommodated the other hours of the Office, plus praying the rosary. I made myself take my evening shower, and go to bed, at the same time every day. Routine, and having more or less set times for prayer and meditation, kept me sane. If I didn't have those things, I'd have become a slave once more to caprice and unpredictability. 

     Now that my father has entered eternal life, and it's just me and my mother at home, I continue to keep my routine and to enjoy the sense of peace and freedom it gives me. I shut down my computer no later than 7pm, because I know I'm perfectly capable of playing with it till the wee hours, and if I allowed myself to do that, I'd never do anything else -- in the same way that working at the opera allowed me so little time to do anything else.

 

Reunion

     Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in New York City called Saloon. It was conveniently situated across from the Metropolitan Opera -- one could go there for a late supper after a show, if one was not especially particular, just hungry. Since I've never lived in New York, but have only gone there to play auditions for the Houston Grand Opera and the HGO Studio, or to see a show at the Met once in a blue moon, I've actually eaten at Saloon more often than at any other New York restaurant. I realize Saloon is long gone, but then I've only been to New York twice since I left HGO. So I'm really waxing nostalgic right now.

     Back in my pre-monastery dark ages, when I was still secular and pagan (!), I was watching an episode of Sex and the City, in which Carrie goes to Saloon after a long absence to see if a particular waiter with whom she had a tryst was still working there. As I watched, I realized she was sitting at the very table where I had a post-opera supper with a singer friend some years earlier. This friend is one whom I rarely see, and when I do, it's usually only for a few hours or a couple of days, so each reunion is very precious. Consequently, I remember almost every detail of every one. It wasn't difficult, therefore, to write a poem about that late supper at Saloon.

     REUNION

     Tonight, at least,
     I see you -- in a candle's light suffused
     by ruby glass, the undulating arc
     cocooning us while headlights pierce the streets.
     The noisy years between remembering
     and living flesh are silenced by the voice
     I hear this moment, and I catch its words
     like colored moths, to pin them in a frame
     when daylight comes.

     Tonight, at least,
     you know me -- not the ink of written word,
     the masquerader hiding in plain sight,
     but sound and breath that waited out the page
     for temporary incarnation.  Yet
     what I intend to say is left unsaid,
     gray fumes dispersing in the wavering light.
     I only say the words that can survive
     when daylight comes.


     INCONTRO

     Stasera, almeno,
     ti vedo - nella luce di una candela soffusa
     da un vetro rubino, l’arco ondeggiante
     a proteggerci mentre i fari trafiggono le strade.
     Gli anni rumorosi tra il ricordo
     e la carne vivente sono zittiti dalla voce
     che ora sento, e ne catturo le parole
     come falene colorate, per appuntarle in una cornice
     quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Stasera, almeno,
     mi conosci – non l’inchiostro d’una parola scritta,
     la maschera che si nasconde in piena vista,
     ma suono e fiato che attendevano fuori alla pagina
     per provvisoria incarnazione. Finora,
     ciò che ho inteso dire è lasciato non detto,
     fumi grigi che si disperdono nella luce vacillante.
     Solo pronuncio le parole che possono sopravvivere
     Quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Italian translation by Federica Galetto
     © Leticia Austria 2011
     [first published in Italian and English in La Stanza di Nightingale]

The Music Audition

     A friend of mine brought to my attention this amazing article from Boston Magazine, about a percussionist auditioning for a coveted job with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Reading it, one of the greatest truisms of music (and theater) sprang to my mind: auditions are hell.

     I've already shared my own experience auditioning for the Houston Grand Opera Studio in a past post. It was my great good fortune that I didn't have to do many job auditions throughout my career, but I did do a great many competitions. In fact, sometimes life felt like one big competition. As a singer I also did many competitions, as well as my share of auditions for roles, choruses, summer programs, and the like. I can tell you, I found competing/auditioning as a pianist ever so much easier; probably because I knew I was a better pianist than singer. I can also tell you, when I landed a spot as a pianist/coach in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, which led to a music staff post with the parent company, I was ecstatic that I no longer had to audition or compete for anything! However, in my capacity as a music staff member, I either had to play for or judge the auditions of singers and potential HGO orchestra players. I was also permitted to hear some pianists' auditions for the Studio.

     As far as singer auditions are concerned, the most "touch and go" ones were those for the children's chorus. My heart went out to those tykes who walked through the tall, heavy metal doors into that vast, echo-y rehearsal room, their sheet music trembling in their hands like leaves in the wind. They'd hand me the music, looking at me with eyes glassy from nerves, then turn to face the man sitting behind a table wa-a-a-ay at the other end of the room.

     "Hello," he says pleasantly.

     "Mmb," the child replies.

     "What would you like to sing today?"

     The answer was never "Tomorrow" from Annie. Opera chorus children do not belt, thank heaven.

     Auditions for the adult chorus were always fun, because you never knew what you'd hear. People came out of the Houston area woodwork: many could carry a tune quite passably, but didn't have the vocal "chops" to sustain hours of quite strenuous singing; some were sufficiently trained vocally, reasonably intelligent as far as musicianship and languages go, and could sight-read well—they were clear "yesses"; but there were always a few that defied all logic, that tested one's ability to keep a straight face ("Did she just sing steal my breath or steal my bra?"), that, when they left the audition room, caused me, the chorus master, and the union representative to look agape at each other in wordless incredulity.

     Auditions for the Studio are, of course, a much more staid process. However, it was astounding to me (given that singers at that level of experience really should know better) that there was always at least one who handed me an aria on single, loose, one-sided Xeroxed pages—and of course, the aria was always at least seven or eight pages long. So I would fan out the pages as best I could on the music rack, but as I finished playing each page, I would toss it on the floor. When the singer finished the audition, I would then get up off the piano bench, take my time picking up all the strewn sheets, and hand them back to her (it was always a "her"), smiling saccharinely. This behavior on my part may seem a bit excessive to some, but every pianist will tell you that giving a pianist loose pages is a cardinal sin.

     Then there are what are called "house auditions"; these are scattered intermittently throughout the year and take place onstage in the actual theater, with piano: singers from all over the country and the world, usually recommended by their agents, but sometimes invited personally by the administration, go to Houston to try for a particular role or to do a general, "get-to-know-you" audition. Surprisingly few are ever actually hired from these; it is sadly true that there are many singers but relatively few good ones, and even fewer great ones.

     Hearing and judging auditions for the HGO orchestra was not one of my favorite tasks. I felt I just wasn't knowledgeable enough in that area to make truly sound judgments. But there have to be two HGO music staff members on the audition panel, in addition to the conductor and two (?) current orchestra players. The auditions are "blind," as described in the Boston Magazine article, in order to preserve complete objectivity on the part of the panel.

     Singer auditions are not blind, for the obvious reason that stage presence and physical expression play a big part in the performing of opera. Pianist auditions are also not blind, the reason for which should be apparent in the next paragraph.

     I always enjoyed hearing young pianists audition for the Studio. Having been through the process, I would mentally play every note with them, empathizing. When it came time for them to demonstrate how well they could sing all the cues while playing, some did very well while others sang too timidly to be heard well. (A coach certainly must sing cues in private coachings, but also in chorus rehearsals, quite often in stagings when there are cast members missing, and in the conductor's musical rehearsals with individual singers. I once had to sing the entire role of Norma in a piano dress. So sing out, Louise, and never mind if it ain't pretty!) The auditioning pianist must of course also show that he can follow a conductor, and sometimes he will be asked to conduct while the conductor plays, to show that he is capable of conducting offstage banda and chorus when needed (this is why pianist auditions are not blind). Finally there's sight-reading, because playing long days of singers' auditions, as coaches are called to do, inevitably means having to play at least one or two unfamiliar arias. It's a complex audition, because coaching is a complex job that requires far more than just playing well.

     Whew! Just writing about all those auditions makes me tired! Even though I'm done with all that stress (but experiencing a different kind as a poet sending my work out to editors), my spirit is with all those who are still coping with it. Auditioning is a necessary evil, the musician's and actor's version of the dreaded job interview. The key to doing it well is, of course, practice. Work. Study. Every day of your life. Practice always gets its reward.

Blogging A to Z: "O" is for October

In the autumn of 1993, HGO opened the season with a musically and theatrically stunning production of Elektra. It starred Hildegard Behrens, Josephine Barstow, Leonie Rysanek; Christoph Eschenbach conducted the Houston Symphony Orchestra (for many years, HGO used both their own orchestra and the HSO; now they use their own orchestra exclusively, and a very fine one they've become, too).

Here are some entries from my journal written during the rehearsal period. I'm afraid I devoted a lot of ink to recording my own personal experience in playing the score, but I never intended my journal to be just a record of backstage goings-on. Admittedly, I now rather regret not writing more about the artists and productions, as my memory is lately disappearing along with my hair.


1 October 1993   Barstow's first music rehearsal today. I was fine for the first scene, then I went steadily downhill from there. By the offstage chorus stuff, I was playing like your average pig. How embarrassing. I had worked on the stuff after the murder of Klytemnestra all this week except yesterday, which I devoted to Chrys' earlier scenes. It just goes to show, you can't skip a day on any of this.
        Tomorrow, my "day off" (ha!), I'll spend practicing till 2pm when Barstow comes in to go over some music with Richard. I want to be solid for Behrens' rehearsal on Sunday. L said she saw Behrens in the library in New York just recently, wearing her full-length mink and tennis shoes.
        What a wonderful place this is! [I wrote this in a place called Epicure, on West Gray, a very konditorei-like place run by a certified Konditormeister from Central Europe.] In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic types come in and read, or in my case, write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple just came in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. They always have good music playing over the speakers; Sunday mornings, it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie.
        As I get older, I find that I really have to warm up well before I play, so I've been doing about 15 minutes of Hanon before working. Today, I warmed up in one of the rehearsal rooms, and people kept poking their heads in with an expression that said, "Who the hell is doing Hanon, of all things?" But I've found it to be very beneficial--it exposes every flaw, it forces the fingers to be even, and it forces (if you will) you to relax, because one can't get through a section of Hanon being tense. When I was a kid, I could barely get through the first six exercises withot tiring and having to stop. Wimp. Now it doesn't bother me at all to play through the whole first two sections non-stop. Playing opera scores can be deadly for the technique, so one needs this solid foundation.

3 October 1993   Finished rehearsal a little while ago, so I felt I deserved a dessert and coffee. Behrens is in great form and is a very nice lady.
        I played very well (what a relief!), especially Elektra's opening monologue. Maestro said "Thank you" twice to me, and before we went in the room to start, he actually gave my cheek a little fatherly rub! I was astonished.
        There was only one moment where I screwed up rather royally, and that was the horrendous orchestral interlude right after Orest tells Elektra who he is. The first 8 bars were fine, then came the part where the violins jump up and down and up and down; I felt myself start to falter and I emitted an agonized yelp. Thank God Maestro laughed. I worked so damn hard on that passage. I can play it under tempo (big deal), but up to speed, I need three hands, or at least an extra pair of eyes. It's like flying blind, those leaps, and you have to keep the middle melody going too, switching it off from one hand to the other. It's a nightmare!

4 October 1993   Just finished staging rehearsal with Behrens and Barstow, their first two scenes. After playing the section Richard and I call "the Jaws music" (Klytemnestra's entrance), I got an emphatic "Very good!" from Behrens! Then, of course, in the euphoria of my success, I screwed up the scene after the Junger Diener's aria. But I redeemed myself with the "digging" interlude, which I thought I played very passably. It's scary--this score is just now starting to feel comfortable for me. I thought it would never happen.

5 October 1993   Behrens is a fascinating woman--small, slight, with that dramatic face. She comes to rehearsal in her little flat black shoes, long, filmy dancer's skirt over tights, and a rather frightful looking red chenille kimono-sleeved top that she's cut off at the bottom, leaving the ragged edge to curl and loose threads to hang about her waist. She wears her hair long, loose, and straight, so that from the back she could be taken for a bohemian teenager.
        Barstow is a trim, compact figure in her cotton t-shirts and trousers, pattering about in clean white sneakers, her frizzy mass of red hair pulled back in a tail.
        The two women are complete opposites in rehearsal. Barstow stops often, asks questions, discusses, and probes. Behrens is quieter, listening to the director with her great face in repose, sitting on the floor, or standing in a dancer's feet-apart stance, hands one over the other in front. Every once in a while, the face breaks into a smile, bones softening and shifting underneath the deep-set eyes. But for all her repose, you know she is constantly alert and thinking--you see it in the slight furrowing of her forehead or the set of her jaw.
        Rysanek starts rehearsal soon. At 67, she is a true Grande Dame of the Theatre.
        For me, the real opportunity is not seeing these legends perform on stage, but watching them work. It's one of the aspects of my job that I love most. Playing for Eschenbach is another. For such a small man, he radiates a presence and charisma both on and off the podium that is very daunting. The stern face with its watchful, penetrating eyes belies the gentle man inside; the heavily-accented voice is always soft, but somehow commands attention and respect.

7 October 1993   I have a session alone with Barstow today, to help her with memorization. She's not off book yet, and Maestro has complained to Gockley, who promptly replied, "All right, we'll fire her." Richard intervened, saying, "Let's wait a few days; we're giving her an hour every day with a pianist."
       Barstow's last show here was Rosenkavalier; she had done the Marschallin before, but in English. So poor Jay Rozendaal had to prompt the show. He had never prompted before in his life, and the stress manifested itself in a horrendous backache. I hope I won't have to prompt this show. I would die, I would simply die.
      Caught some of the Klytem./Elektra scene, which Richard played. Those two ladies are firebrands! Of course, everyone was paying court to Rysanek, it being her first day, but Richard told me that after I left the room, Behrens sang her end of the scene aria in full voice (she always marks in rehearsal) and absolutely nailed it, causing Miss Rysanek to burst into applause. Miss Behrens beamed in triumph.

31 October 1993   The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street--all the buildings have been restored and painted stark white with black trim. The shops are all upscale, but not too; and of course, there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two kinds of bookstores: one large discount, the other small independent. Two kinds of movie theaters: one arthouse, the other multi-screen mainstream. The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea to Cafe Express to moderately priced Chinese and Italian. You can buy futons, antiques, house-roasted coffee beans, apple strudel, camping equipment, and evening gowns. Or, you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure 3 or 4 times a week with a book or a journal. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are studded with small white lights at Christmas.

Blogging A to Z: "M" is for March and May

A few memories of Marches and Mays at the Houston Grand Opera.


3 May 1993   Things are really jumping at the opera! The second cast of Aida is up and running; we fired Thomas Booth after the piano dress and hired Michael Sylvester. Then the tenor in Barbiere fell ill; Kip Wilborn was whisked in, he sang Sunday matinee from the pit; today we start staging him just in case he has to go on. Now it seems that Bartoli, God forbid, is getting the same bug. I hope she stays on because Tamara is in no shape to step in, vocally. Someday she may be a good Rosina, but not this week.

9 May 1993   I wish I had gone to Wednesday's performance of Barbiere. Apparently, it was a night to remember. Palacio had been ill for the past week or so, so we brought in Kip Wilborn to stand by. Anyway, Palacio was really sick by the Wednesday night performance and was removed by David Gockley after the first scene, and Kip finished the show. Then during the curtain calls, a piece of equipment that hangs on the DL wall fell and hit a dresser. He was rendered unconscious, suffered compound fractures in his leg for which he had to have surgery; furthermore, the accident triggered an epileptic seizure, of which he hadn't had one in ten years, and which caused temporary short-term memory loss. But he's on the mend now, thank God.

16 May 1993   I suppose Frida is going OK--the stagings are sometimes a zoo; the director, the choreographer, and the puppet master all doing different things at once, everyone's talking and putting in their two cents' worth, and who the hell is in charge? Even the music rehearsals--Ward had to command quiet more than once, which rarely happens in a music rehearsal, at least in the opera world. Things like ensemble and integrity of tone are apparently of no real value to anyone but the music staff; the actors don't seem to care. And that bitch-on-heels of a director is driving me nuts.

27 May 1993   I must say, Ward has been wonderfully patient during these Frida rehearsals. This cast is so unbelievably chatty! I guess in opera, we're used to a certain code of behavior; we're not used to everyone talking all the time, especially when the conductor is running the rehearsal. The other morning, we had a brief music rehearsal of the finale and Ward was making a change in a certain spot. As usual, as soon as they stopped singing, the cast broke into general discussion and murmurings; then one of them piped up to Ward, "Could you repeat what you just said, please?" Ward asked her in return, "Were you talking?" "Yes." "Then I won't repeat it." I nearly guffawed!
     Then there's the girl who is habitually late, or meandering around the sixth floor without telling stage management where she is. I was supposed to have a coaching with the three calaveras, and she was the only one missing at the appointed time. When she sauntered nonchalantly into the room a good five minutes into the coaching, Shawn, the ASM, told her she was late, to which she replied, "I've been here the whole time." She doesn't get it. Merely being in the building doesn't constitute being on time for your call. Space cadet.

18 March 1994  First day of Traviata chorus stagings. Harry Silverstein is the ideal director to chase away the 10 a. m. drowzies. The man is nuts.
     During break, a small group of us went out for a smoke by the stage door. A white stretch limo and a Wagoneer pulled up to the curb; from the second vehicle emerged Cecilia Bartoli, arrived to rehearse the recital she's giving tonight; from the limo emerged an obvious companion of hers--an absolutely gorgeous male speciman, tall, slender, broad-shouldered, dressed in shades of muted blue, hair slicked back into a ponytail. A walking advertisement for Drakkar Noir. I'm afraid I gaped a bit, and I might even have left a small pool of drool on the pavement.

15 May 1994   We closed Turandot last Tuesday. I finally, finally got the Act II procession right, banda-wise. John smiled at me on the monitor; I wished he could see me smile back and hear my "thank you." The banda players were very complimentary afterwards, shook my hand and told me I did great.
     But oh, the agony I went through during rehearsals! The second orchestra staging was the worst. Understand, first of all, that I and the poor banda were situated in the catwalks, six floors above the pit. John kept picking on me incessantly over the monitor; he wanted every note perfectly in line with the orchestra, pick-pick-pick, I'm behind one bar and ahead the next, over-and-over-and-over, pick-pick-pick. Finally, it was intermission before Act III, and I went out to the loading dock for a much needed smoke. As soon as I sat down with my smoking buddies from the chorus, I burst into tears, babbling, "It's too hard, we're too far from the pit, it's never gonna be perfect, he's just got to accept that! I'm trying my damnedest, but it's never gonna be perfect!" They tried to console me, but I kept crying, non-stop, shaking all over. A nervous wreck. (However, you will recall, dear Journal, that this is the time of year when I usually have a meltdown. End of the season, and all that.) Top of Act III, I had to conduct chorus offstage left, which I did with the tears still spouting and the nose running. "Has Leticia got a cold?" "No, she's crying!" Back upstairs in the catwalk, I was still crying. The banda were very sympathetic. They knew what my problem was, since they could hear everything John said over the monitor. I took up my baton for our next entrance, my hand was shaking, and I could barely see the monitor through my tears. Somehow, I made it through, but I was still crying when I got home, and kept it up till the wee hours. I wanted to strangle John. He knows how hard it is; he conducted banda for Julius Rudel at NYCO in the early years; he knows what it's like to be constantly picked on. Now he's on the other side of the monitor, and he's doing it to me.
     But when he smiled at me onscreen during that last performance, I felt our old good feeling was restored. He's given me a lot of grief during the past five years, but deep down we have a solid respect for each other.

Note: Over the years, John DeMain and I forged a wonderful working relationship. He could be tough sometimes, but I wouldn't have missed those productions for anything in the world.

Blogging A to Z: "J" is for January, June, & July

Okay, I can't come up with a satisfactory "J" topic either, so I'm posting more journal extracts about my experiences at the Houston Grand Opera--this time, from entries written in January, June, and July.

20 July 1991   Here I am, recording the events of the past few days!
     Annie Get Your Gun going well; good reviews.
     Lohengrin preparation going very slowly; late start.
     Hoffmann preparation not going at all.
     Jean Mallandaine officially ousted from her postition as Head of Music Staff--and from HGO altogether--replaced by Richard Bado.
     John DeMain officially resigned, but will do some shows over the next 2 years. Smitten with his new daughter.
     Shauna Bowman Unger brand new mother of brand new boy.

28 May 1993   Frida is a mess and everyone who's seen a run of it says it's boring and too episodic. Ward is ready to kill both the accordian player and the guitarist. X, who plays a few of the smaller roles, has been a pain-in-the-ass diva. The production meetings have gone on till 1 or 1.30 in the morning. All in all, a pleasant and relaxing experience in the world of Musical Theater.
     And tonight we do it in front of an audience, Lord help us.
     The only really good thing that's come out of this is that my working relationship with Ward has gotten much easier and more comfortable. He really is a nice guy. He's incredibly tense and nervous about this show, which is perfectly understandable, and he's reached the point where Robert Rodriguez (the composer) seems more of a nag than a help to him.
     There are definite advantages and disadvantages in having the composer in on the rehearsal process. One of the advantages is that he tells you how the piece should go. One of the disadvantages is that he tells you how the piece should go.
     There have been several little scena's during this production period, one of which occurred between Richard and X (pain-in-the-ass diva). Richard is conducting all the off-stage singing. Now unless I'm wrong, and please correct me if I am, the off-stage singers are supposed to watch Richard, who is watching Ward on a monitor (the reasoning behind which is that a monitor can mysteriously go out, but a live backstage conductor can peek through he set if need be). X, however, chose not to watch Richard, and he, after conducting to the back of her head several times, told her, "If you continue not to look at me, I'll have the sound man turn off your vega (body mic)." He related this incident to me and Pat Houk and Jim Ireland. In the meeting following that rehearsal, Jim informed the director, "Please make it clear to X that regardless of what she's used to doing, as long as she's working in this house, she'll do as she's told. We'll replace her if we have to; that's never a problem." In that same rehearsal, X had bitched at one point about singing in the dark (the lighting was by no means set yet) and when we repeated the scene, she walked on stage holding a flashlight to her face.

18 June 1993   Production threw a party for Jim Ireland to celebrate his 50th birthday. I played for Ward and Richard; they sang a parody of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" ("When Irelands Eyes Are Flashing"), after which, I ate half of the available amount of guacamole, then left. I hate parties.

3 June 1996   I love coming here to Panini. I sit here eating my mezzo sei or mezz'otto or mezzo nove (those ae my favorites), and when I'm done, Ellie or Vittorio brings me my doppio macchiato, and they either yell to me from behind the counter, or if there are no more customers, they sit with me and chat. Facciamo quattro chiacchiere. Around 1.00 Ellie brings her soup to my table and eats, while Vittorio stays behind the counter. Or if he's not there she sits with me till a customer walks in, then she mutters under her breath, "Accidenti!" ("Damn!") and gets up to attend to him. When it's very busy, Ellie works the register and Vittorio takes the orders and hands out the sandwiches as they're ready, callng out in his sing-song Caprese accent, "Number twaynty-sayven! Oo ees number twaynty-sayven?"

30 July 1996, (in New York performing our production of Four Saints in Three Acts for the Lincoln Center Festival)   In the morning, went strolling along the water with Sandy Campbell, Barbie Brandon, and Audrey Vallance. Then to Little Italy for lunch and browsing with them, plus Kathy Manley, Brett Scharf, John-the-Acrobat, Pat Houk, Kim Orr and Kimberly Lane. Afterward, Brett, Kathy, Sandy, K. Lane, John, Barbie, and I wandered around Greenwich Village. After an hour or so of very hot walking, Brett, Sandy, John, and I went on to Lincoln Center, stopping for a rest in the park before rehearsal. There was a woman on the next bench, must have been around 150 years old, with an unbelievable cartoon profile and a shock of white hair. Four or five dogs ran round her playing, their leashes trailing free behind them. Every two minutes or so, she would call out, "Donny!" and make this extremely penetrating whooping sound. "Has anyone seen a black dog on a leash?" she would call out at the top of her lungs to the park at large. We left her still calling for Donny, and went to rehearsal. On being released early, Nathan Wight, Kevin Moody, Mark Swindler, Susan Stone, and I went up the Empire State Building. Incredible--the lights of New York beneath a full moon.
     Monday, cast free day. Went with Jonita to play for her Sarasota audition, took her to lunch at Sarabeth's, then to Patelson's. In the p. m. to dinner at Carmine's Bar (W44th) with Richard, Barbie, Mark S., Kevin, and Denise Thorson. Fabulous meal; the chicken cacciatore was top-notch. All of us but Richard went on to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with the extraordinary Nathan Lane. Wildly funny--at least, we thought so; but the family in front of us, obviously tourists from some podunk Bible Belt town, sat frozen as statues through the whole show; not one of them cracked a smile.
     Tuesday--two sitzes, morning and afternoon, then with Eric Edlund and Derek Henry to some beer joint run by Trappist monks (or were E and D pulling my leg?); then tried to get tickets for Blue Man Group, waited for returns, but no luck; so down the street for a wonderful dinner at Time. A nice evening, despite the Blue Man disappointment.

1 August 1996 (still in New York)   Very early dinner at Pasta d'Oro, then the opening of Four Saints, which was highly successful. Afterwards (the show only runs about an hour and a half), Nathan Wight and I went to see Cold Comfort Farm. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

28 January 2002   Another relatively light day at work. We had a Mice and Men notes session over which Cesca Zambello presided (the original director of this production, but she just came in for the final orchestra stagings). It is a well-known fact that Cesca hates prompters, and she tried her damndest to get rid of the prompter (me) in this production, but Patrick was adamant. So today, with her sitting but three feet away from me, I bellowed out cues in my most authoritative manner, revelling in the knowledge that I was annoying the crap out of her. I can be ornery. When the situation warrants it.

Blogging A to Z: "I' is for Intermission

No, I am not going to write about intermissions. This post itself is an intermission. I can't seem to choose a satisfactory "I" topic, including "Intermissions," so I'm taking an intermission from the alphabet challenge to do one of my journal retrospective posts, which is what I do when I can't think of anything else to write.

Here are some journal scribblings from some past Aprils when I worked at the opera:

7 April 1991   Cecilia Bartoli absolutely delightful! Couldn't be more than 5'2", girlish, vivacious, genuine, and funny. And adorable on stage. Doesn't have much English yet, but everyone in the cast is Italian and the director, though British, is fluent. I had forgotten that this is her American operatic debut. What a coup for HGO!
     Last night at about a quarter to six, the power went out in the Wortham and we had to rehearse a couple of blocks away, on the the Music Hall stage. The balky upright piano was on the house floor, way in the corner off DL--that was the closest it could go. Ward was also on the house floor, conducting at the center of the apron; so, in order to see him, I had to turn my head all the way sideways. Plus, the singers were marking, and from that distance I couldn't hear a damn thing. It was not fun. So of course, when Ward yelled at me, "You're behind!" I could have punched him.

8 April 1991   Yesterday was probably the most bizarre day I've ever experienced at work. By the time I went in, which was about 1.00, not all the power had yet been restored. We had lights, etc. on the sixth floor, but no plumbing. One had to use the facilities in neighboring buildings. Which was easy enough to deal with, if we were a simple 9 to 5 workplace. But last night was final orchestra dress for Aida. So, due to insurance considerations (no lights in the lobby), the invited audience got uninvited; and, due to the absence of lights in the dressing rooms, we scrapped costumes and makeup. Bottled water and porta-potties were sent for. We had no lights onstage except work lights, no video or sound monitors, no intercom system. And conducting backstage without a video monitor was an adventure. It was like opera in the old days.

23 April 1995   For some stupid reason, I decided to dress up for the show today. I pulled out my straight black skirt and silk blazer, panty hose and spectator pumps. My feet hurt, my sleeves feel snug, I can't bend at the waist, but hey, I look good.
     Now that this season is nearing the end, I've been giving considerable thought to the advantages and disadvatages of my firendships with Jen, Ana, and Mary. They're all younger--about 8 to 10 years younger than I--and they still, especially Mary and Jen, have one foot in college. What a difference those ten years make! There have been many occasions when they went out after an evening rehearsal (around 10p) and asked me to go with them; but frankly, after a long day of rehearsals, there's nothing I'd rather do more than go home and crash. They do party a lot. It'll catch up to them. They'll learn. Mary would say to me, "We're going to a movie after this; you wanna go?"
     I answer, "I have a 10 a. m. rehearsal tomorrow." 
     "So? So do I. Besides, you're always up late anyway."
     I could say I'm too old to carouse every night and expect to have all my brain cells working during the day; I need to concentrate for these rehearsals; and there is a big difference between staying out late and staying up late. But I just smile and say no.
     Well, let them enjoy their youth. The day will come soon enough when they'll have to muster all their discipline and sacrifice their nightly partying for their art. Ana is a bit more mature. She knows when to rest. Jen would rather be at the beach. Mary would finish off a bottle of wine one night and wonder why her voice sounds fuzzy the next day. But they have good hearts, all of them.

5 April 1996   Piano dress (Norma) last night was certainly an event for me. Carol (Vaness) didn't want to sing; she didn't even want to mark. So I sang the entire role for her from the pit while she walked it onstage. It was the MOST FUN I've had in a long time! I marked a couple of high notes, but most of it I sang full voice and was surprised at how un-tired I was afterward. Joe gave me a good technique!
     I also had to conduct the banda, which plays between the cavatina and cabaletta of "Casta Diva"; so when it came time for them to play, I left the pit and ran backstage, still singing. My banda players realized then, with a shock, that I had been singing the role. It was very funny.
     Afterward, Carol saw me backstage, grabbed me by the shoulders, and gave me a shake, saying, "Why the hell aren't you singing?"
     I was too chicken to tell her that I felt safer being a coach.

18 April 2001   There have been quite a lot of goings-on with Don Carlo, but suffice it to say that this production has been a true and extreme example of Instant Opera. My job as prompter has never been so arduous; not even Resurrection was so nerve-wracking, because we had sufficient rehearsal time.

My Greatest Inspiration

     For most of my life, I have been a victim of what I call "lazy ambition." My head was always full of lofty musical goals, most of which I knew I was capable of attaining, but a deplorable lack of motivation kept me from attaining them—that, and being by nature a yellow-bellied chicken. All the more peculiar, considering I was also competitive to the point of pettiness; I resented the accomplishments of other people with talents like my own, thinking, "That should be me getting that job/award/compliment, I'm a much better pianist than he/she is!" Meanwhile, my piano was getting dusty from lack of use. Perverse, I know.

     In school and college I was also unmotivated but, while I had musical aspirations aplenty, I had zero scholastically. Deep down, I knew I was a lot smarter than my grades showed; I simply didn't care. The classic Underachiever.

     After being accepted into the Houston Grand Opera Studio, my primary goal was to land a job on the HGO music staff. But it had to do with simply earning a living, not so much with realizing my potential as a pianist and coach; although indirectly, by virtue of the fact that I put in more practice time than I ever had in my life, I did make some advances in that respect. However, whatever motivation I had managed to fire up subsided quite a bit once I did land the job. Within five years, it came dangerously close to burning out altogether. My playing grew more and more mechanical, my coaching dry and superficial. I was becoming complacent, both as a musician and as a person, and began to question why I was in opera at all. Some of my colleagues exhorted me to conduct, but after just one perfomance, I discarded the idea.

     My life changed quite suddenly around my 36th birthday, when I met the great love of my life: a wonderful, talented, and intellectually brilliant man I'll call "C." Unfortunately for me, C was and still is very happily married and a father, so I have never told him my feelings, but am perfectly content and greatly privileged to share with him a friendship based on common interests and deep mutual respect. For the past sixteen years he has simply been The Distant Belovèd, and while I have come to know and accept his faults, I've chosen to hold up his many merits as inspiration by which to better myself. His intellectual curiosity, which is insatiable, has stimulated my own and spurred me on to expand my tastes in reading, art, and music, as well as my knowledge of Italian, which is his native tongue. He has made me see, all unknowingly, what a waste I made of my mind the first thirty-six years of my life.

     So I began studying like a fiend, setting goals and attaining them. Improving my Italian was my first priority, and to that end I went to Italy twice to do a total immersion program. My biggest personal project during those first years after meeting C was writing a translation of Torquato Tasso's play in verse, Aminta. Not an easy task, that, even—as C himself told me—for an Italian, as Tasso's language is very archaic. To make the task even more challenging, I decided the translation should be in prose and in period English, which meant I had to limit my vocabulary and idioms to those in use before 1600. It took me about two years to come up with a satisfactory draft but, with C's help on a couple of particularly difficult passages, I did accomplish what I set out to do. I had and have no intention of publishing it (who am I, after all, in the academic world?); I only wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. And it was fun!

     There were other projects—translating more plays, studying Latin, poetry, and art, taking up drawing and bookbinding. A whole exciting world opened to my eager eyes and, more importantly, I was ready to see and learn.

     Of equal if not greater consequence was the influence C had on me as a musician. After meeting and working with C, my coaching underwent a marked improvement. My playing also took on a depth it didn't have before. I had a new enthusiasm for my work, a desire to be the best coach and pianist I'd always known I could be. I wanted to be worthy of the respect C had for me as a musician, and I began to think of all those wasted, gray years of old as my life "B. C."—"Before C." Now I had discovered what I could accomplish with true motivation, there was no turning back. I even made another attempt (actually, two) at conducting, with the added encouragement and help of HGO's Music Director, Patrick Summers, but finally and firmly concluded that it was not for me. I wrote to C about it and he agreed, writing back that he thought my "true destiny was to be a pianist/coach."

     Though my present venture as a poet began with writing spiritual poems in the monastery, C has been my primary muse. My ongoing collection of love poems, The Distant Belovèd, written for him, is one of the things I'm most proud of in my life so far. Not every piece in it is "up to snuff" by my poetic standards, but every piece is straight from the heart. I've promised myself that someday I'll send it to him, as thanks for everything he's unwittingly done for me.

Eric Owens: A Kid in a Candy Store

One of the most rewarding aspects of being a coach, especially one connected with a fine training program like the Houston Grand Opera Studio, is working with some of the top young talent in the business. When they come to the Studio, these singers are at a very crucial and exciting juncture in their development: most of them are fresh out of conservatory or graduate school, but not yet ripe enough for a full-fledged professional career and all the pressures such a career entails. Their voices are still developing, their techniques still settling, their artistry and dramatic skills still in their infancy. The majority remain in the Studio for two years, some for three. It was always thrilling for me to watch them grow during that time, as singers, artists, and human beings.

A good percentage of Studio singers, I would say about 90%, go on to have viable careers in opera. Of that percentage, out of the fifteen years I was with the Studio, there were a handful of singers of whom I could confidently say were extraordinarily and uniquely gifted. The voice itself, surprisingly, wasn't the single most important thing for me. Neither was that mercurial quality called "drive," nor a reliable technique, nor dramatic instinct, nor superior musicality (not the same as superior musicianship, which is, alas, even rarer). All those things are givens in anyone who ultimately enjoys a major operatic career. No, what struck me as extraordinary in these few singers was a certain quality that is difficult to articulate - and since the word "passion" has become almost meaningless in its overuse, I will avoid it like the plague it has become. Instead, let me simply tell you a story.

In 1996, the Houston Grand Opera brought its production of Four Saints in Three Acts to the Edinburgh Festival. In its cast were several Studio singers, one of them the now renowned bass-baritone Eric Owens. After the Festival, some of the singers including Eric, and I, as their pianist, stopped for a couple of days in London where auditions had been set up with a few General Directors. The day before the auditions, I and another singer we'll call "Jim" took Eric on a whirlwind tour of the West End. It was Eric's first time in London and he was as excited as I remember being on my first visit. When we got to Piccadilly Circus, Eric espied a Tower Records and asked if we could go in. Jim and I remonstrated at first, saying there was so much more to see in so little time, but Eric kept begging, "Please, please, puh-leeeeze, can we go in? Just for a few minutes?" Now, there are music stores in every city all over the world, but Eric's boundless enthusiasm for music was such that the very sight of CDs for sale was irresistible to him. Me, I could have passed up that Tower Records and waited till I was back in Houston to shop for CDs. After all, London awaited! But this was Eric's day, so we indulged him, and he came out of the store happily dangling a bag full of treasures. A couple of hours later found us at Covent Garden. Eric all but went into a rapture of glee at the sight of the opera house and demanded I take a picture of him in front of it. "Someday. Someday - !" he said. Years later, when Eric did indeed make his debut at Covent Garden, I thought back to that moment and thought, "You made it, Eric. And you deserve it."

Eric's vocal gift is obvious and indisputable. His musicality and musicianship are impeccable. His theatrical instinct is strong and growing ever stronger, along with his gift for communication. But that utter, complete, almost childlike, absorption in music - and I'm certain that music is always playing on his subconscious' turntable - is what makes Eric extraordinary. Throughout his two years in the Studio, and especially on that day in London, I fervently hoped that that particular trait would stay with him always, would never grow dim as it does in so many musicians. I knew that if it stayed as vibrant as it was then, it would on an unconscious yet potent level inform every performance throughout his career, and in turn stir even further in his listeners the fervor that brought them to the opera house and concert hall in the first place. It would mold him into an artist of profound and unshakable integrity, one that would always place the music before everything else, keeping him its devoted servant, because I believe that true greatness comes only when one realizes that the thing one serves is far greater than oneself.

I've read a few articles about Eric in the past few months and, judging from his own words, I know he is still that kid in a candy store I knew in his Studio days. That extraordinary spark, given to so few, hasn't dimmed one jot. Keep it burning, Eric.

Just What Exactly Goes on in That Prompter's Box?

     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.

On What an Opera Coach Does

     Some years ago when I was working for the Houston Grand Opera, I was asked by the editor of the company's official magazine, Opera Cues, to write an article discussing exactly what was involved in my job. My official title was Assistant Conductor/Assistant Chorus Master; the editor was interested primarily in the first part of that title. In all major American opera companies, "Assistant Conductor" doesn't necessarily imply that that person is a conductor per se; he/she may or may not actually conduct performances. Rather, it is an all-embracing term, just as maestro is in Italian. An assistant conductor is a pianist and a coach; someone who has various skills, including basic conducting skills, with which to execute numerous jobs in the opera house. "Assistant Conductor" is the formal title used on paper. Around the theater, that person is usually referred to, simply, as a "coach"; in an opera program, on the page listing the cast, etc., he/she is usually listed under "Musical Preparation."

     Here is the article that I wrote for Opera Cues:

     "I work at the opera."

     "Oh, really? What do you do, exactly?"

     "I'm a coach."

     "Oh." Puzzled look.

     And that's where I usually leave it, unless I'm pressed for further information—in which case I feel compelled to ask, "Are you sure you want to know? Have you got an hour?"

     Don't get me wrong—it's not that I don't like talking about my work; it's just that it's hard to describe in twenty words or less. Being a coach, especially one employed at a major opera company, is a multi-faceted, highly specialized job, the qualifications for which are daunting enough to send some pianists fleeing to other lines of work; nor are all of them willing to remain behind the scenes, or to expend their skills playing music that wasn't written for the piano. Still others start out believing that opera is their calling, only to discover that it's more demanding and time-consuming than they had bargained for, so they leave the business in favor of another career. I myself have had fleeting visions of donning a MacDonald's cap. But only very fleeting. Despite the suffering we may undergo learning a Strauss score, or sitting through a three-hour supernumerary rehearsal and playing maybe ten notes, those of us who do stick with it take great pride in "playing" our part in this amazing art form.

     After a few dogged years of freelancing (which means spending more time driving from job to job than actually playing the piano), I was very fortunate in 1989 to be accepted by the Houston Grand Opera Studio, one of the best apprenticeships in the country, not only for singers, but also for young coaches. In addition to taking language classes and conducting lessons and being coached by more experienced colleagues, it is very much on-the-job-training, doing all the things regular music staff members do, only in lesser amounts and always under the supervision of the Head of Music Staff. Those who rise to the challenges and successfully make it through their apprenticeships are ready to be full-fledged music staff members at any opera house.

     So what exactly does a coach do? One of my favorite duties is working one-on-one with singers, helping them to learn new roles, rework old ones, and sometimes to prepare oratorio solos or recital programs. This of course means that we coaches must be familiar with the "standard repertory" (a mere five hundred years' worth) and all the different vocal styles and musical traditions associated with the various eras and composers, e. g., the vast differences between Monteverdi and Verdi or Piccini and Puccini. We are not voice teachers, whose main concern is vocal technique; however, we have to know enough about technique so that we can offer a singer well-informed criticisms, such as, "Your open e vowel loses focus in the middle register"—which, by the way, is a common problem particularly in female voices; but let's not go into that.

     Speaking of open e vowels brings us to language. Knowing the correct pronunciation of Italian, French, and German is absolutely essential, as well as having a healthy knowledge of grammar and vocabulary. Proficiency in Russian, and nowadays Czech, is helpful but not obligatory—a good thing, since my Russian is limited to da and nyet and my Czech is zilch. Fluency is a nice bonus, but, life being short, one is better off just knowing one or two languages as intimately as possible, definitely Italian since it is the most extensively used. Singers should do their own translating, although they sometimes need our help with more obscure words or cross-eyed syntax. Diction, however, is beaten into them (er, that is, fine-tuned) by the coach. Also fine-tuned are notes and rhythms, interpretation, intonation, phrasing, musicality, and—well, everything. Furthermore, in helping a singer learn a role, the coach must sing all the other roles (while playing) so that the singer can learn his cues. (Did I mention this was a tough job?) Hopefully, this whole process will enable the singer to go to his first rehearsal with confidence and aplomb and ultimately deliver a fine performance.

     The first rehearsal of a production can be a bit unnerving for the coaches. Another of our duties is to play for all stagings in the rehearsal room, as well as technical rehearsals in the theater. If the conductor is an unknown quantity to us, we pray to the powers above that his or her beat pattern is clear and that we won't get dirty looks if we stray slightly from the tempo; otherwise, we're in for three or four weeks of Rehearsal Pianist Hell. Fortunately, in my own experience at least, that has rarely been the case.

     Before all those rehearsals and coachings even begin, there is our own preparation to worry about. Depending on the difficulty of the score and whether or not we've played it before, we can spend weeks or even months translating, studying, and practicing. I spent four months learning Elektra, for example, admittedly only a one-act opera, but chock-full-o' notes that don't lie easily under the hands. Operas, after all, were not written for the piano; we cease to be pianists and in effect become orchestras with only ten fingers. Needless to say, above-average technique and musicianship are definite assets. And because we are the "orchestra" in rehearsals, we must spend long hours studying the orchestral score, comparing it with the piano reduction in the vocal score so that we know what instrumentation we're trying to simulate at any given moment; also to correct errors and add important things from the orchestral score which have been left out of the piano reduction.

     Basic conducting skills are necessary, since we are often called upon in performances to conduct off-stage instruments (called "banda") or chorus. This involves gluing your eyes to a television monitor, which displays the (hopefully) friendly image of the maestro, and relaying his (hopefully) clear beat to your banda or chorus. Personal note: I defy any of my colleagues to tell me that this is a gratifying task. To quote one of them: "It's either completely wrong, or nobody notices it." At its worst, off-stage conducting can be stressful and thankless; at its best ... nothing comes to mind.

     Sometimes we do come out from behind the scenes to play a keyboard part in the orchestra, or to play recitatives. (Another personal note: I love playing recitatives!) Then there are various kinds of auditions for which we function as accompanist: those for the company itself (called "house auditions"), those for the Studio, and also those for chorus. The latter two fall into the category of "cattle call" auditions and require the pianist to play up to five or six hours' worth of arias in one day. I'm frequently asked by people not in the business, "Do you practice these pieces or rehearse with the singers beforehand?" Ninety-nine percent of the time, no. As I mentioned before, standard repertory should be as familiar to us as the Pledge of Allegiance, so no matter what piece of music the singer puts in front of us, we can probably play it in our sleep (and I'm sure all of us have, at one time or another). Every once in a while, though, someone will sing something totally obscure, usually with about two-hundred notes per square inch for the pianist, in which case we mentally utter a string of swear words and call upon our sight-reading ability.

     In many cases, all of the aforementioned skills and qualifications constitute only a starting point for those coaches who decide to branch out into prompting, chorus preparation, or conducting. Some people consider such a decision to be a definite move upward, implying, perhaps unintentionally, that being a pianist/coach is something that should eventually be risen above. I beg to differ. Although I myself have "branched out" into chorus preparation, then prompting, and most recently conducting, and have enjoyed all three, I always return to the job I love best. Coaches, after all, play a major part in providing the very foundation upon which a performance's musical and linguistic values are built, and without the rehearsal pianist there can be no rehearsing. Nuts and bolts. We are essential.

     So the next time you're at the opera, and you open your program and see those names listed under "Musical Preparation," give a silent round of applause. We'd appreciate it.

Opera Cues, Vol. 40, No. 4, Summer 2000

On Being in the Houston Grand Opera Studio

     Well, it was somewhat different in 1989 than it is today. First of all, it was called simply the Houston Opera Studio; they added "Grand" years later, I suppose to clarify that it is indeed the training program of the Houston Grand Opera. The second big difference is that back then, the Studio was a joint program of HGO and the University of Houston; its directors/founders were David Gockley (General Director of HGO) and Carlisle Floyd (UH). Studio members took their language classes on campus with UH faculty (they had their own private classes apart from the university students). Studio singers also sang roles in UH opera workshop productions, for which the Studio pianists served as coaches and repetiteurs. To complicate matters further, the singers studied voice with Elena Nikolaidi who, due to her advanced age and lack of a driver's license, had to have all lessons (for which the Studio pianists played) at her home, twenty minutes from UH and fifteen from the opera house. All this was in addition to the members' work with HGO: singers, as they do today, performed small roles and covered principle roles; pianists served as assistant coaches on various productions as assigned.

     Needless to say, there was a lot of driving involved. A typical day for me would be to go to the opera house in the morning for a coaching, then drive to UH for Italian class; after lunch, to Niki's (Nikolaidi) house to play a couple of voice lessons; dinner; then back to UH to play the last hour and a half of the opera workshop rehearsal; and finally, back to the opera house to play for a two-and-a-half-hour chorus rehearsal. Somewhere in there I also had to find time, either at UH or at the opera, to practice the shows I was assigned to. By the time I got home, around 10:30, I'd usually be too wound up to sleep right away.

     The Studio terminated their affiliation with UH in the early '90s, so now the members have all their classes and lessons at the opera house, which makes their lives ever so much easier.

     My first year began with the 1989 fall repertoire, which consisted of Giulio Cesare, The Mikado (with Eric Idle as Koko -- pinch me!), and the premiere of Tippet's New Year. I was assigned to the first two, thank goodness; knowing now how stressful it can be to work on a newly written opera, if I had started my first year in the Studio with one, I don't think I would have stayed for a second year! It was also fortuitous for me that Cesare was to be conducted by none other than Nicholas McGegan, with whom I had done Saul a few years earlier, so I knew exactly what to expect musically. Since I felt so comfortable with Handel, and also since Mikado is a very easy "play" pianistically, I wasn't unduly nervous about my very first assignments with a major company. (Sadly, McGegan's mother passed away just before tech rehearsals, so Craig Smith came in to conduct performances.)

     I remember waiting to play the second half of a run-through of Cesare. It was only a rough run in the rehearsal room with piano, and the singers were marking (not singing full out), but the sheer beauty of the music suddenly brought tears to my eyes. It was at that moment I knew I was in the right place, doing the right thing. All the doubts I had had till then about my own abilities shrank beside the pure love I had for the music.

     Later that first year I played for Rigoletto and Butterfly, then they contracted me to stay through the summer for an unforgettable production of Carousel. What made this show special was that we hired one of Agnes de Mille's dancers, Gemze de Lappe, to remount de Mille's original choreography. (The dancing you see in the 1950's film is not hers, and really can't compare, in my opinion.) Playing dance rehearsals for Carousel was one of the highlights of my career, mainly because of the thrill seeing that incredible choreography come to life, but also because of Gemze herself -- such a lovely person. It was a pleasure and honor to work with her.

     My memory of my second year is rather hazy; I just know that I worked as hard as I could, even giving up my one free day a week to practice. Being in the Studio, whether you are a pianist/coach or a singer, means that you're constantly scrutinized and evaluated. You are essentially being paid and given free coachings and lessons so that you may become the kind of singer or pianist/coach any opera company in the world would be happy to have work for them. You are accepted to the Studio in the first place because the staff of HGO believe you have this potential.

     All my hard work paid off -- near the end of my second year, I was asked to join the  music staff as an Assistant Conductor for HGO, and as a full-fledged Coach (faculty) for the Houston Grand Opera Studio.

 

The Move to Houston

     This will be a short one, due to my father's illness.
     I didn't keep a regular journal around the time I auditioned for the Houston Grand Opera Studio; for that reason, and also because my memory has gone bye-bye, I don't exactly recall the timing of events. I know I had to do two auditions, because there was no vacancy for a new coach in the Studio when I auditioned the first time. What I can't remember is exactly how long it was between auditions.
     But I do remember that first audition quite clearly: I had to prepare the Composer's Aria, the Act II Finale of Figaro, and the whole first act of Boheme. I had to be ready to sing any of the parts while playing, show how well I followed a conductor, and also sightread. To start the audition, I had to play a solo piano piece of my choosing to demonstrate my basic technique and musicality. I chose the first two movements of the Beethoven Op. 109 Sonata.
     My flight into Houston was a bit late, and the auditions were running a bit early due to a couple of cancellations; consequently, when I got off the elevator on the sixth floor of the Wortham Center, Shauna Bowman, the Studio's administrator, was right there waiting for the next victim. Which was me.
     "We're running ahead. Are you ready to go in right now?"
     Maybe someone else would have answered, "Actually, could I just have ten minutes to warm up?" But I, knowing my nerves and not being a big warmer-upper, said, "Sure!" Better just to go in and do it before I had the chance to get nervous.
     Anyway, it went very well (by the way, my sightreading piece was an ensemble from La Rondine), and they did ask me to come back and audition again when they had a vacancy. Some months (or maybe a year?) later, I got a call from Shauna saying that one of the Studio coaches decided not to stay a third year (three years is usually the maximum a coach or singer can stay), and could I do another audition in a couple of weeks? Sure!
     The real reason for the second audition, since they already knew my playing, was so that the Music Director of HGO, John de Main, and the co-director of the Studio, Carlisle Floyd, could hear me and give final approval. And approval they gave.
     I moved to Houston in the autumn of 1989 to embark on what was to be one of the greatest and most rewarding adventures of my life.

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.