My 25-Year Love Affair with Les Miz

     In the summer of 1987 at the Palace Theatre in London, I saw the musical Les Misérables for the first time. Twenty-five years ago. Hard to believe. Unfortunately, due to jet lag, I took an unintentional snooze during the whole scene of "A Heart Full of Love," but what I did see I absolutely loved. Not only did I buy the recording (cassettes in those days, pre-CD era) of the original British cast, but I also bought the original Broadway cast recording. And after some length and considerable searching (pre-Amazon era as well), I managed to track down the cassette of the original French version. For this last, I called all the music stores in town, to no avail. In fact, one dealer became downright insulting after I informed him of the fact that Les Miz actually premiered in Paris, not in London as he insisted. "Look, I know what I'm talking about; you don't. It premiered in London." Okay. You just lost a potential customer, fella. No matter. I can't remember where I eventually found the French recording, and I suppose, if I were the vindictive type, I would have marched into that store and waved it under the dealer's nose.

     I listened to the British recording ad nauseum, weeping copious tears every time. (Of course, I have since replaced the cassettes of all three versions with CDs.) When I saw it the second time nine years later, again in London, I wept as much as I did the first time I saw it (and managed to stay awake through "A Heart Full of Love"). I never saw it in New York or on tour. I don't even think I'll see it during this current tour. But I am determined to see the film, which opens on Christmas Day. Judging from the slight stinging I feel behind my eyes just watching the trailers, I expect I will again weep copious tears. One would have to have A Heart Full of Stone not to be moved by this powerful saga; as for the music, the snootiest critic would have to admit it is extremely affecting and difficult to forget. Even this snooty critic has surrendered to its charms.

     Have I read the novel? Sort of. I skipped great chunks, such as the lengthy history and description of the Parisian sewer system. All right, I admit it, I only read the parts that are depicted in the show; but in my own defense, I don't like to read things in translation except for Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. In view of the fact that only my Italian is fluent enough for extended reading, this means that I have never read many of the world's major authors such as Flaubert, Cervantes, Tolstoy, etc. Somehow, though, experiencing foreign literature through their musical adaptations is a different matter; after all, a good many opera librettos are translations of their original sources.

     Anyway, I shall hie myself to the cinema, if not on Christmas Day, then as soon as I am able, armed with a very large box of Kleenex.

    
    

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.

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.