Back to work

Aaaaah, it’s quite nice to follow the European tradition of taking the entire month of August off. Or, in my case, offline. I was working full time to make up for my July holiday, and my move from cramped Brighton to lovely Cambridgeport occupied most of my evenings and weekends. I had to sacrifice blogging, but in return, I got a lot done, and managed to squeeze in some spectacular times: more than one trip to the beach (and many, many fried clams), a day in the mountains, a day with the loons by the lake, a weekend in Tanglewood (albeit in the somewhat uncomfortable quarters of a pup tent), and visits with family and friends. All this, but I’ve barely sung a note.

Now that I’m more settled in my new place (which I’ll swoon about later), it’s time to get cracking on the many projects I hope to accomplish this year, not least the moving of my singing to the next level. September hit with full-force busyness, as I start using my palm pilot for the first time in three months to schedule in lessons, rehearsals, gigs, and even classes. There’s always a little panic as the year begins again, but for some reason I’m not coming to the work with dread, as I often do. I’ve spent much of the past year convinced of my own imminent failure. But despite best efforts to that end, I managed to find some success. I can’t help but have a better attitude toward everything now, even if having that optimism means the risk of diminishing my gallows humor or writing nothing but trite inspirational fluff. I feel like I’m molting off old stumbling blocks, and allowing myself to use the tools I have on hand. Believe it or not, the source for all this comes from opera camp this summer.

I came to the stage in fear. I viewed my colleagues as liabilities, all of them prone to mistakes that would affect my own performance, all of whom would need help onstage to work their way out of near-disasters. I wanted them to be leaders, to take care of me and to improve my performance just by their presence. In my experience learning language, my skills rise or fall to the level of my conversation partners. In rehearsals, I learned new tricks and was deeply inspired by some of my most talented colleagues, but also worried on behalf of the ones who barely knew their parts and wouldn’t allow themselves to get into character. Eventually I figured out that if I wanted a leader onstage, I would have to look to myself. The attitude isn’t every man for himself up there, but more like, how can I help my fellow performers? How can I be the one who raises their performances to a higher level? It will take me a few more performing opportunities to learn how to relax with this idea, but I managed to shirk some of the fear, and remember why I ever found performing fun in the first place.

The more questions you bring to performing, the better it becomes. How do I want the audience to feel about me? Do I want them to be as emotionally involved with the song as I am, and forget that they’re even sitting in this room? Or do I want them to make feel sorry for me, and think about how difficult it must be to sing? How should they feel about my character? What will I do to help them form an opinion about me? (Movement, expressions, eyes, voice, and all of this in relation to other characters.) Nothing was more satisfying this summer than hearing from people that my sad songs moved them to tears, and my character role cracked them up. Directors stressed the importance of committing to an idea – no matter what it is – and sticking with it. Performing is a chance to set aside worries about technique, trust that you know your part, and let your audience enjoy the world you’re creating for them. It’s that easy!

While watching others perform, it was interesting to see what I noticed and what I missed. My eye immediately traveled to each person as they sang their part, and I wouldn’t have noticed if the others were staring at the conductor or fixing their costume or even forgetting their words. I also realized how gratifying it is to watch someone move exactly with the music, or seem to think of their emotion just before they sing it.

But most importantly, I learned that I have to learn the score cold. At times I felt frantic and frightened onstage, and would have been much more at ease if I had come to the first rehearsal knowing not just my notes, but my rests, everyone else’s notes and rests, musical motifs from the entire piece, and even parts that have nothing to do with me. There are so many things to distract you – and so many things that require your attention – that the more variables you can eliminate from the outset, the happier you’ll be. I learned all this by staggering through it myself, and I wouldn’t have learned it otherwise.

An inconvenient day

Whether or not you intend it, you think about it. Six years can pass, many more atrocities can happen, and it’s still there, returning unexpectedly, like cancer from remission.

I was disappointed to read in today's Metro, the redoubtable fish wrapper that it is, that the city of Boston was not commemorating September 11, 2001. (Though the state and other government agencies did hold ceremonies.) And the articles showcased New Yorkers who are still scared, tourism business at the trade center site, and a woman leaving town with "WTC asthma." The homepage of The Boston Globe gave equal weight to the anniversary and to the death of Alex the talking parrot. (Though admittedly, New Yorkers ate this story up as well; it was on top of the most emailed list for the day.)

From what I can tell, Boston barely mourns the 92 Massachusetts residents who died that day. And they view the heavy casualties in New York as just another reason why Boston is a better place to live. Don't they remember that those planes left from this town? Have they ever examined how they failed? How the government failed them?

It was a raw day today, fog and rain abruptly ending thoughts of a lingering summer. Our acknowledgements of this day have continued to shrink, as each year has brought more tragedies and heartbreaks that make September 11, 2001 seem like just the beginning of a long, numbing stretch of events we would have previously thought impossible. Would we have imagined, six years ago, just how high the body count would climb? And that it would be done by our own hand? And what lies in wait for us down the road?

Poor Soul

I'm sure he's in heaven right now, surrounded by Italian virgins. Or maybe surrounded by elephants, for which he confessed a secret enthusiasm, revealed in his songs. In any case, we'll all miss that Lucianone.

"Penso che una vita per la musica sia una vita spesa bene ed è a questo che mi sono dedicato."

PS, if you click on that link, you'll read that they were giving away little commemorative saints -presumably in his likeness - in Modena. To add to your collection.