Saturday Scrap-Bag

     "Scrap-Bag," "Whassup?", "Lately I've Been ... " —just how many titles can I come up with for these blog posts that are, in essence, about nothing in particular; posts I write when I really have nothing to write about? Well, this time I chose "Scrap-Bag," in reference to Louisa May Alcott's book Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, which I have never read and probably never will. You may make of that reasoning what you will.

     Yesterday being grey and damp, it seemed a good day to have my hair cut. It is fortunate indeed that monastic life purged me of much of my former vanity, because my hairdresser basically butchered my hair. If this had happened fifteen years ago, I would have looked in the mirror, shrieked, and worn hats for the next three weeks. Now, I look in the mirror, shrug, and say, "Oh, well, it'll grow out."

     After the butchering, my mother and I went to good ol' Jim's coffeeshop for brunch. (Jim's is definitely the kind of place one would describe as "good ol'," without the "d." You get the picture.) I overheard snatches of conversation from a neighboring booth, between a waitress and her customer.

     Waitress: " ... go to their website ... listed by genre ... just click 'literature' ... yeah, Edgar Rice Burroughs? ... the whole series ... "

     Her customer was reading an obviously brand new hardbound book in dustjacket; the book was still stiff enough that he was obliged to hold it open with one hand while eating with the other. I wished I could see the book's title. One of the Tarzans, do you think?

     Somehow, this incident prompted me to think about what kind of book is most fitting, both physically and subject-wise, for airplane travel. Since I don't own an e-reader, the physical aspects of a book are important to me. Many years of plane trips have taught me that hardbound books don't fare well in a plane's environment; for some reason, the pressurized air in the plane's cabin causes the book's binding to warp. The longer the flight, the more severe the warpage. And it is very difficult to get the binding back to normal afterwards. Some people may not care about warpage, but I am not one of those people. So I opt for paperbacks when flying. As to subject matter, frankly I can't deal with anything too complex or intellectual. Light is best. Amusing definitely helps. Rereads are great, because they don't necessarily demand your full attention; they're "been there, done that."

     At the moment, I'm taking my sweet time reading Elizabeth Taylor's A Game of Hide and Seek.  This novel is considered by many to be her masterpiece, so I am savoring slowly. Besides, Taylor is not the kind of author one can skim through rapidly or casually; she requires respectful and thoughtful attention. If read too quickly, much of her subtlety, and much of the essential beauty of her craft, can fly right over your head, and you're left trying to hang on to plot—a vain attempt, that, since Taylor's novels have little plot. No, she forces you to sit back and savor, which I think is a very good thing in these hectic and stressful times.

     The other night, I watched the Richard Tucker Awards Gala on PBS. For the uninitiated, Richard Tucker was one of America's greatest operatic tenors. The prestigious annual competition in his name grants monetary career awards to singers "on the rise," and the Gala showcases the winners, past winners, and singers who are simply famous, in a concert of arias and scenes with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. This year, the Gala concert was conducted by my former boss, Patrick Summers, and one of the featured singers is a graduate of the Houston Grand Opera Studio, Jamie Barton—so I felt obliged to watch. It was sort of amusing, because I found myself unfamiliar with several of the singers; not even their names rang a bell. Clearly, I've not been "keeping up." I am now very much out of the opera loop. Still, I loved hearing all that music, admiring most (not all) of the singing, and watching dear Patrick conduct. I miss him. Most importantly, I found myself listening to the singers without coaching them in my head! This is definitely progress!

     Well, those are all the scraps I have today. Maybe next time, I'll have a finished, cohesive quilt.

  

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Two

     Several years passed after my Beauty and the Beast experience before anyone made any serious suggestions to me about conducting again. There was one half-serious suggestion, made by the Head of Music Staff Richard Bado, that I conduct second cast performances of Romeo and Juliet, but that was dismissed almost immediately it was brought up. I think my deep reluctance to remount the podium was apparent to everyone.

     Everyone who knew me, that is. In 1998, HGO acquired a new Music Director in Patrick Summers, one of whose first missions it was to start using prompters on a semi-regular basis. I was the first "guinea pig" prompter—I wrote about that venture in an earlier post, in which I mention that one of the duties of the prompter is to conduct rehearsals in the maestro's absence. After serving as prompter for Patrick in a few shows, he summoned me to his office one day and told me, without any preamble, "I'd like you to conduct second cast Elixir [of Love]." As I had no ready answer, after a few seconds' silence he added firmly, "I think you should."

     I don't think Patrick knew of my one previous conducting experience, nor my reluctance to repeat it. He knew I had some baton technique, not only from seeing me conduct rehearsals, but also through my lessons with him on prompting. I knew (a) he wouldn't have asked me to conduct performances of anything if he didn't think I were capable, and (b) he was my boss. So I said yes. I had a few months to prepare, plenty of time to panic.

     I was very, very fortunate that Patrick conducted the first cast of Elixir and that I was his prompter on the show. That was the best preparation I could ask for my own performances. Patrick was more than generous in giving me coachings in our spare time, going through the score phrase by phrase, he at the piano, me conducting. He was so thorough, exacting, and supportive, I just couldn't panic, and though I was a bit nervous before my first performance, I knew I could conduct that score from memory (which I mostly did, actually), and was confident that the orchestra, well-trained as they were by Patrick, would be supportive of me as well, even though I had no rehearsals with them.

     I was also very fortunate in my cast, all of whom except the Dulcamara were either Studio or ex-Studio singers. I knew their voices, their breathing, their musicality, so well from years of private coachings, conducting them was almost second nature.

     Thirdly, I was fortunate that I had a prompter of my own to help keep the ensemble tight between stage and pit.

     My three performances of Elixir went very well. I was happy, Patrick was happy, the cast and orchestra were happy. Maybe conducting wasn't so bad after all!

     To be continued . . . .

Post-performance in my dressing room with family. The tails are a bit big.

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.