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.

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.

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.

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