Blasts from the Past

     I used to think reunions weren't my thing. I thought they were only for people who were happy in high school and had nothing but great memories—in other words, class reunions were for football players, cheerleaders, class officers, and the "popular set." I was none of those things (bet you could have guessed I didn't play football). No, the only bright light for me was choir. Choir I knew how to do. Choir was my lifeboat in the dark, turbulent waters of high school. But even my good memories of choir weren't enough to entice me to wade through the crowd of "others" in search of a small handful of fellow choir geeks.

     So it shouldn't be surprising that I haven't attended any of my class reunions, and there have been several, both major and "mini." Granted, I sometimes had legitimate excuses; for instance, I couldn't go to the big 20th because I was in Italy at the time, but I did order the book for which I and my classmates wrote short summaries of our lives since graduation. I was rather proud of mine, as I thought it a sort of vindication for the negative social status and miserably low grades that marked my high school career. "Choir Geek Makes Good in Major World-Class Opera Company." It is a sad aspect of my character that puts so much importance on other people's opinion of me. I've never been able to do anything, anything at all, without wondering how it would look to other people. But at least I'm aware of this shortcoming, and it is indeed a shortcoming—it's called pride.

     One of the things that can conquer self-pride is love for others. Last weekend, there was a reunion, not of my class, but of my high school choir. I couldn't participate in the concert they literally threw together willy-nilly, but the temptation to see after so many decades some of my old choral comrades was just too great. So when they went to lunch between rehearsals for the concert, I joined them, literally for just an hour; but that hour was one of the happiest I've had since November 4, 2009 (you're probably wondering what happened on that date, but I'm not telling, and please get your mind out of the gutter!). This sounds so terribly cliché, but everyone looked exactly as I remembered them. That's because I was looking at them through, to quote Frasier, "love goggles." These people made high school tolerable for me, and I loved them for it.

     A couple of days later, I made a date for coffee with one of them. She and I didn't really get a chance for a good chin wag at that flying lunch, but we certainly made up for it over our laid-back coffee at Starbucks. She brought with her a copy of my book of juvenile poems and song lyrics which I had given her as a graduation present. My own copy of the book, and it was the only copy I had, went missing back in the '80s. Needless to say, I'm thrilled to have my old poems and lyrics again, horrible as they are. Believe me, they are horrible. But since I threw out all my adolescent journals during a fit of depression in college, these horrible things are the only written record of those turbulent years. So they are very, very precious to me, like a bratty kid whom you love anyway because he is your child. And my friend was everything I remembered her to be: one of the sweetest, kindest people I know.

     I came away from that weekend with the conviction that there should only be specified reunions of choirs, bands, football teams, pep squads, drill teams, clubs, etc. You can keep the big, general class reunions. But I'm only speaking as one for whom high school wasn't a generally great experience.

    

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.