Even when we're not writing on our blogs.....

......we are still writing our own stories:

This Is Your Life (and How You Tell It)
By BENEDICT CAREY
Published: May 22, 2007
The way people talk about their pasts reveals a lot about how they approach and write the future.

Vocal Technique

When I was a horn player, I looked down my nose at singers. All insane, always onstage, all concerned about their image, all with their hearts on their sleeves and their brains at the shrink’s. Why couldn’t they get over themselves and just start acting like musicians? When would they learn to put aside their emotions and get down to the business of creating music without all that drama?

Now that I have switched over to the dark side, I can duly confirm that singers are all insane. (Note: oboists are insane too, it’s the air pressure.) The emotional life I had observed is essential to becoming a good performer. That is where we find not only our courage but our musicianship. Yet by trying to be in touch with our productive emotions (joy, passion, humor), everything else comes to the surface too. We can use this situation to become mesmerizing performers, whose emotions are universally understandable. Or else it can take on a life of its own….

There’s a girl in my studio who embodies all that can go wrong with a singer. Her name happens to be Amanda (no, really, it’s not me!). In class last night, we watched as she talked herself into an emotional trash heap: her posture grew more rigid; her bony hand flailed about, wiping her eyes and shaking her fist; her mouth opened up like a wound and spewed curses. The girl is clearly manic depressive and needs help. But she is an example of the type that we find frequently among the musical kind, especially singers. There’s always an element of Amanda in us, and if we’re not careful, she comes charging out with a fury.

As I write, I am 10 days away from another big recital. Right now, I can either freak out that I’m not prepared, or enjoy themusic I've chosen. The battle is waged in the practice room, where I run between the two extremes, and wonder how I’ll manage to stay positive. In any case, I thought it might be interesting to write down what I know about singing:

Much of proper singing occurs outside of the mouth or the throat; the rest of the body expands (or contorts) to create resonating space for the sound. When I sing, I expand my lower ribs (much like the kind you eat), and let them stay expanded when I produce a sound. Beneath the skin, which is fortified by a thin layer of flexible aluminum (helps the support), the body is nearly empty. On the inhale, the heart floats up in the oxygen, and steel wires descend from beneath the collar bones to the soul, which sits on top of the pelvic bone. The soul is soft and unassuming, resembling a skinless, boneless chicken breast. The mechanism produces pressure, which my chords use to moderate air supply and produce sound. As long as only the heart and body do the work and the brain doesn't interfere, it all works out beautifully.

So that's how I sing. Now you can do it too.

Reemerging, Take II

Corraggio Amanda, back to writing!

For about the past six weeks, my head and body have been in too many places for me to be able to sit down and focus in this space. But I am determined that this blog not become a time capsule that perfectly preserves March 19, 2007, or one of the millions of abandoned blogs out there, when in fact, there's much to write about.

I should at least finish my Tennessee story, if only for posterity's sake. But lately I've been considering my grad experience, and thinking about the unexpected position I've come to after this journey. I won't reiterate here my anxieties about my singing or career prospects. They're still there, and informing the picture I'm trying to envision of myself now that I'm close to getting my piece of paper. School has been a disappointing failure; school has been a rewarding triumph. I am a better performer than ever; I can't compete. The gains I made musically were worth the costs to me personally; I miss some parts of my old life, including the part about having a lot more money than I do now. During my studies, I received messages that strongly suggest I bag this whole dream and stick with my day job; I've received other messages that give me hope and encouragement, and confirm my ambitions.

But since the beginning of March those negative voices have spoken louder - as they often will - and I find myself coming into the practice room with a sense of dread. I can work through it, remind myself of how beautiful the music is, and how personal it is to me, but too often I'm spending my energy on fighting my demons. I've even started to fall into the pattern I was in towards the end of my life as a horn player: feeling guilty when I'm not practicing, and feeling inadequate when I am. At the same time, I know perfectly well that life is too short for all this whining! In fact, more solemnly, I can't get out of my mind the deaths of two young people I heard about by chance: Scott Parkinson, with whom I played in a quintet with at Chautauqua in 1993, and Giavanna Kersulis, a BU alum who was on her way to stardom. I'm wrestling with the fact that I am jealous of both of their accomplishments, even though they would gladly trade their fates for my humble destiny.....

Reading about them online, I feel as if I'm going through their old clothes.

If I can do something as shallow as turn from mortality to vocality, I'd like to finally write down an experience I had earlier this month that steered the course of my singing a bit.

Jerry Hadley was at BU for a couple of weeks, giving master classes. I was surprised to walk away from those classes brimming with emotions; usually the affairs inspire only some thoughts about vocal technique and quite a bit of boredom. I first heard him work with a girl in one of my classes, who is capable of producing some ethereally beautiful sounds. She also makes some flatly unattractive noise, and like many of us, radiates insecurity and fear when she performs. After she sang her aria he introduced what would be his running theme for all his classes: listen to your own emotions that this music inspires in you, be yourself and communicate them. You no longer need to think or worry about technique.

He had her say the text in English, slowly, and think about a time in her life when she was in the same position as the character she was portraying. Teachers always urge us to inhabit the role by imagining what it might be like to go through what the character is experiencing. But why do that when it's likely that you've felt something just like this character in your own past? After all, opera does have a rather strong human appeal....

He then got her to sing the aria without the "singer's stare," that glassy-eyed, "I'm concentrating" look that is free of emotion, connection, or ease. We all adapt it as we try to zone out and counter nerves. But isn't it more pleasant for performer and listener alike if we forget about technique altogether and let ourselves revel in the emotions that attract us to music in the first place? Her second performance was riveting, leaving her and all of us near tears.

In another class, as he was coaching my handsome scene partner, and he addressed the entire class. I even took some notes, just a few words that strucka nerve:

Every one of you has this gift from God, and you are worthy of that gift. Do you hear me? You are worthy of that gift. And no one can take it away from you, because it's a gift from God. Therefore, you are invincible. There is nothing more that you love doing, because you are most you when you do it. If people tell you negative things about your singing, if they reject you, it's all lies. Your love of singing threatens them, you're doing something and experiencing things tehy wish they could, they are jealous and must protect themselves. If you really want to do this, nothing will stop you. The minute you take no for an answer, you are dead in the water. Your job is to sing as beautifully and as honestly as you can. In old meanings 'perfect' actually meant compassionate.

In another session, each singer was transformed. I couldn't help but watch them and let myself believe the conceit: during their performances, each singer was no longer my rival or friend or colleague. Each became the most beautiful singer in the world, the most beautiful person, and I wanted nothing more than to feel the emotions they felt in their songs, and be close to them and feel their sound resonating on my own face and heart. Afterwards, having brought new depths to their sound and their performances, they floated back to their seats, taking with them a new gift to share with listeners.

I could have sung for one of those classes. There was time once, and I even left the room to warm up. But I lacked the courage to speak up and ask him.

Where'va ya been?

There were many alternative titles to this entry:

Far and Away

Verfluchte Ruh

You Can Get There From Here, But Why Would You Want To?

'Hi!' Has Two Syllables

Macaroni is a Vegetable

WalMart: The American Piazza

Civic Life in the Big Box

Not a Chance in the World

In addition to the usual excuses (one full recital coming up, in addition to a lecture recital, concerts to plan for BEMF, yet another summer audition, aargh!), I hit the road a few weeks back to participate in a singing competition. Yes, opera has come to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, a dismal place about 30 miles from Nashville, a dismal place in and of itself. I hesitated to go (aren't all competitions rigged?) but decided that the experience was worthwhile, I could always network, and the odds were actually in my favor to win (I was one of 28 semi-finalists, 18 actually competed).

So we were off! Of course, I went about things slightly unconventionally. Apparantly, that first weekend in March, tous le Bible Belt descended on humble, sprawling, Murfreesboro. There was not a hotel room to be had, I was told, and public transportation between nearby cities quite literally does not exist. So, I took the logical step of arranging to stay in the home of strangers. And I trusted that everything would be okay. Right?

Oh, one wrinkle. I would have to travel back and forth between Nash and Murf. To do this, one required a car. I, staunch New Yorker and something of an environmentalist, have not owned or driven a car in ages. I can't remember when I last drove to the drug store near my parents' house. Of all the unfamiliar things I would encounter on this trip (new people, cities, state, experience, Civil War prespective....), I most feared the driving.

"Buy the full insurance, buy they most coverage they offer." On the phone with my Dad from the DC airport, I had accidentally let him know about the car, and I was listening to him disintegrate as I told him I would spend three days driving. It gets a little tough to buck up your confidence when your parents are convinced that your every encounter with the modern world will likely lead to your quick and violent demise. (I'm not kidding. Before my first solo car trip of 2 hours, my Mom prayed on her knees for my safety. When my brother was once minutes late for his curfew, my Dad call area hospitals to see if a kid named Matthew was there - there wasn't.) Mom, Dad, love you!!!

Anyway, after a day of travelling; anxiety about one too many new encounters; dismay with the bland, uniform, Applebeed look of the American highway; wonder at the caramel-chewing drawl of the Tennessee twang, I said to myself: "I want lasagna."

And the lord provideth! The competition hosted a dinner for the singers and donors who sponsored prize money, which featured a big tray of veggie lasagna, which I spooned it up with them all. I had been advised that the occasion was casual, but casual down South means just wearing smaller diamonds than usual. I found a nice old man named Bud to talk to, to lose my self-consciousness in my clunky shoes and wool sweater.

Around 8, I was ready for bed and dreading the long drive back to Nash to stay with this couple I had never met. "Skip it," offered Bud. (His name, by the way, is pronounced with two if not three syllables: Buuuh-öööööö-ehd.) He offered for me to stay at his house, a huge McMansion in a gated community just about a 10 minute ride away. Faced with a choice between a long ride to a host I don't know and a short ride to pops, I chose the latter, and set aside my lasagna and headed out with Bud.

Speaking of ready for bed, I'm going to have to finish this when it's not 1:30 in the morning. For now, four video clips from the Stones River Civil War Battlefield and a quick tour of Bud's abode can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/thewooddove

Sometimes, you just have to respond

I know my Dad won't think it's a good idea to publish this, but I'm feeling sad about this news, and I want more people to know about it. Below is my response to a message from the BU Dean of Students. I encourage anyone who is interested to weigh in as well.


Dear Kenneth Elmore:
In the 2006-2007 academic year, four Boston University students have died. I am disappointed and heartbroken to receive the same, barely-edited, boilerplate email from you on every occasion. Obviously, Boston University is not doing enough to keep its students safe, and these deaths deserve more than an email and a statement on the availability of resources. You and your staff must make a public effort to start a dialogue with students about safety issues, and begin to change the culture that leads to these accidents.

This is not a public relations issue, nor is it merely, as your emails suggest, a matter of consoling ourselves after yet another tragedy.

I urge you to address this more responsibly. Students' lives evidently hang in the balance.

Sincerely,
Amanda Keil
(CFA '07)

--- Dean of Students <dos@bu.edu> wrote:
Fellow members of the Boston University community:

Today, I must write to you with terribly sad news. Early Saturday morning two Boston University students died in a tragic, accidental fire in an off-campus residence. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of these students and those who knew them - we share their grief and sadness. Our community has suffered two great losses and I can only imagine the feelings of the families and loved ones of these young students; I wish to extend my deepest condolences to them. Our thoughts and prayers, too, are with another BU student who is being treated for injuries suffered in this fire. At the request of these students' families I am not releasing their names at this time.

I encourage you to take advantage of the broad network of available University professional and peer resources, as needed. Support for students, faculty, and staff is available throughout the campus. Tomorrow, University chaplains are available from 1:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. in Marsh Chapel's Robinson Chapel for anyone who feels the need to gather for group or personal prayer and reflection. In addition, we have counseling services available through the Behavioral Medicine Clinic at Student Health Services.

You may speak with a member of the counseling staff by calling (617) 353-3569 or by going to 881 Commonwealth Avenue, West. Residence hall directors and resident assistants from the Office of Residence Life are also available at our campus residences, and can be contacted by calling or visiting a residence hall office. As always, I am grateful to the chaplains, counselors, residence life staff, and other members of the community who made arrangements to provide support today.

The death of any member of our community is a tragedy that saddens us all, no matter the cause or reason. Our campus should join together to seek support and sympathy during this difficult time. Please let me know if I or a member of my staff may be of assistance. This tragedy has received a great deal of media attention; I encourage you to let your loved ones know that you are safe.

Sincerely,
Kenneth Elmore
Dean of Students
dos@bu.edu
617-353-4126

Destino

Grab a hanky, roll your eyes, and clutch your sides: Amanda's feeling maudlin and philosophical again. (In actuality, I thought of this story weeks ago; it takes me some distance to go from thinking to writing.)

One day, while passing on my daily trot to work, I had a thought. It's worth mentioning that the trot itself is not too shabby.......




.........and almost looks like a city. And brings me to the historic Fort Point neighborhood, which hosts Boston's artist community.

Anyway, something made me think of a conducting student I once knew named Tom Whatshisface. He was a large Welshman with all the joviality of Jove: a fair round belly, hands like bear claws, and a doughy face that was always ready for a laugh. One day over a cuppa in the caf (or, more likely, a pint in the pub), he told some of us youngsters about his path. It started with a stipend to study composition in Poland. From there, he made his way to a teaching position in Greece, which he gave up to follow a girl to Norway, where he continued his music studies and cultivated an interest in Arabic liturature (!). He picked up and went to the Sudan for a while, studying and travelling, eventually going back and forth between Wales and Holland (was it for another girl?), and then Wales and the States, where his conducting studies had finally taken him.

I listened with greed. My semester abroad had given me a hunger to not only see the world, but live in as many places as possible. I wanted to know his secrets- how did he manage to accomplish so much, live in so many places, have so many lives?

We met over lunch and he gave me more of the details. But he told the story without joy, and with a distant look. The cosmopolitan life is not as easy as it sounds, apparently, and there were bumps in the path: one of the girls got pregnant along the way, and the subsequent marriage and divorce and leftover child are the banes of his existence. He spoke with nostalgia of the people he left behind, and likely will never see again. He doesn't feel as if he has roots anywhere, and expressed that all those years in different places were just wasted time in the end, as professional contacts in one place don't mean a professional life somewhere else.

I remembered Tom when I was thinking of this: What if your dreams are really blind alleys? What if you trust your instincts, but it turns out that your instincts are dead wrong? What if happiness eludes you while you're busy chasing happiness? These thoughts came to mind as I headed to my practical day job, having given up who knows what sorts of destinies.

Truthfully though, these melancholy thoughts seem less relevant to me right now. It is deep winter, and bone-chilling cold has finally joined us. Valentine's Day in Boston literally looked like Hell frozen over. But there's a warmth that's thawing out my stubborn anxieties, and I think I'm ready to give my intellect a rest, and let my instincts lead me. At least for matters of the heart......

Ages ago I heard a radio interview with a woman who had had an extraordinary career in publishing, but did not fulfill her original dream of having a family. "I sometimes think that if I had made other choices I could have gone on to have a family and children and all that," she concluded. "But if I could do it all again I would do it the same way and even make the same mistakes. I would do it knowing what those mistakes were and what the consequences would be, because I believe in following your heart."

Enough with the morality, just check out this guy. He has a way of making T stations look the Baths of Caracalla.....

Procrastination

Ay! Translating to do, emails to write, schoolwork to finish, concerts to organize.... but why worry about all that? I went a bit nuts tonight: instead of working, I went grocery shopping and came home and cooked. Why am I feeling so homespun right when I should be an aggressive, go-getter, ambitious musician?

No matter. Now, mushroom barley soup is cooling in the fridge, along with wheat berry and butternut squash salad, blood oranges, fresh blueberries, rainbow kale, roasted sweet potato, and miso soup with soba noodles.

I guess I'm into comfortable, pleasurable things right now, which also explains my great joy in seeing this on a bumber sticker tonight:

You can also order this on a T-shirt or thong. Harry Potter fans will instantly recognize the Dark Lord's name; but do they know that even he has his own fans: http://lord-voldemort.org/

Ha! (now off to work....)

I O U A Post

Meanwhile, it is all too amazing just how funny this is:

SHEEPISH

by Paul Rudnick
The New Yorker, Shouts and Murmurs
Issue of 2007-02-12 Posted 2007-02-05

Charles Roselli set out to discover what makes some sheep gay. Then the news media and the blogosphere got hold of the story. —The Times.

Enough already. I’m Troy, a gay sheep, and I’ll tell you the truth. Although I’m conflicted about calling myself a gay sheep, because I don’t like to think that my sexuality defines me; let’s just say that I’m a sheep who happens to be gay. Being gay is just a simple biological fact, like having a fleecy undercoat or bleating while you’re being shorn, or getting aroused whenever you see a bulky turtleneck sweater.

When I was growing up, I assumed that I’d be just like everybody else, and that someday I’d be bred with a ewe and slaughtered. But, of course, those other feelings were always there; even when I was only a few years old I would gaze at another male lamb and think about sharing a stall, with just enough hay and maybe a nice mid-century trough. I tried not to focus on my urges, and whenever my mom caught me rubbing up against the fence post that I called Skipper I’d pretend I had lice. But as the years went by I started to act on my desires, first with Ed, who was a ram, if you know what I mean. Later, I became involved with Rick, a sheep my own age, although after our encounters Rick would always claim that he was drunk on compost, and he’d butt me with his head and insist, “Dude, let’s go get us some mutton.”

Finally, my dad found me with Rick, and he flew into a blind rage, yelling that he had no son, and that if I was lucky I’d end up as a cheap Peruvian cardigan worn by a truck-stop hooker in Alaska. And so I ran away, and I went wild. I experimented with everyone and everything. Bulls. Mules. Duck, duck, goose. I found out exactly why they’re called the Three Little Pigs. Call me Old McDonald, because I had the farm. I even made some adult films, and maybe you’ve heard of them: “Wet Wool,” “Lassie, Come Here,” and the mega-selling “Hoof and Mouth.” Then, one morning, I woke up next to a horse, a hen, and an ear of corn—that’s right, all the food groups. And I was disgusted with myself. What was I, livestock?

And so I re-joined my flock, up on Brokeback. I didn’t expect to be accepted; I just needed some time to graze and grow. I had some terrific long talks with a wise old mountain goat, who told me, “Look, you can be anything you want to be—gay, straight, pashmina, whatever.” And I found my faith again, when I realized that, hey, there were sheep on the ark. There were sheep in the manger. And at the Last Supper there was stew.

At long last, I found the strength to come out to my family, my friends, and even my co-workers, to say right out loud, I’m Troy and I’m gay, but I hope that isn’t the most interesting thing about me. I’m just like you: I like to stand around in the rain and get caught in barbed wire and defecate while I’m asleep. And the amazing thing was—it was no big deal. Everyone nuzzled me, and my mom said that deep down she’d always known, and that she’d hoped that I’d grow up to be an artist or a performer or a cashmere crewneck. Of course, Little Bo Peep, my shepherdess, got a little teary at first. “Are you sure?” she wondered. “I mean, you’re so masculine.” And I informed her that being gay doesn’t mean you have to act like a hummingbird or a Chihuahua. And then she asked, very confidentially, “Is it true about Elsie the cow? And Ellen?” And I just rolled my eyes and said, “Darling.”

Right about then is when I met Doug. I saw him across the pasture, and I just knew. I assumed there’d be talk—he’s a black sheep. And, I’ll confess, I used the oldest line in the barn. I sidled right up to him and I said, “Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” And he looked me right in the eye and murmured, “Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.” And I replied, “I can see that.” We’ve been together ever since, and we don’t care what anyone thinks. Because, baby, at the end of the day we’re all just animals.

Meet Amanda and Duncan. You'll find them in this week's style section, which I admittedly glean on occasion to compare the couples' ages to my own. There is usually a strong crowd of thirtysomethings, and fewer and fewer young chickens, which is reassuring. (Amanda in the picture is 33. Duncan is a yucky 46.)

Anyway, this is lovely portrait of a good looking couple. Besides the fact that she is a fellow member of the Worldwide Amanda Association (the WAA), I was drawn to her distinctive look. Maybe it's just the sunlight on the hair, but those cerulean eyes, that ivory skin, evoke to me a lady descended from royalty, a princess or a goddess from antiquity.

But then, I broke the spell by watching their little love video. True, this is invariably the most boring crap on the web. The Times films the couple recounting how they met, mixed with shots from their vacations and dopy footage of the pair fawning over each other. But Amanda, really, must your voice be so whiny? Must your comments be so dumb? Must your posture be so bad? You have a name to live up to! Next time, I'll leave the back story (complete with voiceover) to my little imagination.

Ouch

Wow, nearly a month without writing, that hurts.

In reality, cherubs, I've been biding my time a bit, getting ready for my next and final and most demanding semester. To facilitate this process, the night before my first day of classes, I decided I would achieve fuller zen if I clocked my head against a brick wall and took a trip to the emergency room. Seriously. The fresh wound on the back of my cranium completes the scar triptych I had begun at the age of 5 (when I expressed my dismay at someone changing the TV channel by flinging my head against a wall and smashing my barrett into the skin) and revisited at the age of 13 (while ice skating, I learned that a mild concussion is an effective way to come to a complete stop).

But after trauma and drama, kindness from strangers, my cut and my face bathed in salt water, eight staples - that's right, staples, not stitches - plugged into my scalp, I was cared for and brought home with a tenderness that made the distress evaporate, and let me sleep dreamlessly.

Besides that excitement, I have also been figuring out how to make good on my New Year's resolutions. I was considering posting that weighty list for your amusement, but I felt too embarassed. Really! After sharing all sorts of inner thoughts in this space, it just seemed like too much to broadcast my innermost insecurities. I have a few sundries to offer, and then, I will tell you a few of my resolutions, which I decided to phrase as Quaker worship queries, rather than the customary list of commands.

* * * * * * *

Top 10 things I like about Boston:

1. It's not too far from New York.
2. You occasionally run into New Yorkers.
3. The pizza, transportation system, provinciality, lackluster restaurants, limited culture, cold weather, and eerie lack of diversity make me really appreciate New York.
4. In their heart of hearts, Bostonians want to be New Yorkers.
5. When I say I'm from New York, Bostonians occasionally look at me as if I had just said that I am from Heaven.
6. Civic life takes place behind closed doors.
7. Like New York, you can talk to yourself on the streets (in Boston because they're so empty, in New York because they're so crowded!)
8. The backwards ways of doing things reminds me of Europe. (New York isn't European
   at all.)
9. New England apples are just as good as New York apples.
10. Although it's more difficult to meet friends in Boston than in New York, once you do meet them, it's easier to keep them.

* * * * * * *

Read this and write. The rightfully hyped Orhan Pamuk describes in his Nobel acceptance speech his singular motivations for writing, and gives a glimpse into the experience of creating art using only yourself. I found some parallels to the study of music, and it made me want to be more diligent about my writing as well.

* * * * * * *

A little while ago I steamed up some artichokes. My Chinese roommate, unfamiliar with the plant, peeked into the pot and thought they were little animals!

* * * * * * *

This month's break from the conservatory treadmill has been a relief. I had become too deeply conscious of the negative concerns of performing and studying: competition with others, proper deference to instructors who might eventually be career builders, self criticism at the expense of any self praise, etc. For various reasons, I am beginning to rediscover a love for the art itself, a passion that is easy to lose sight of.

With that, here are some questions, musical and otherwise, that I want to think about this year:

• When I perform, how do I want the audience to feel?
• What would happen if I trust that my technique is strong enough to allow me to be musical?
• Do I believe that the composer's intent is still clear, even if the performance isn't perfect?
• What kind of character do I want to be? As a performer? As a friend? As a person?
• What is my role in this city?
• What traits do I hold dear, and which I could cultivate in myself and others?
• How would it feel to perform without doubts or questioning, but instead with pleasure and empathy?
• What if a lifetime is long enough for a dream or two to become reality?

Christmas in Boston

Ahem. Before my rapidly-fluttering sentimentality takes wing, let's take another look at life in Boston, shall we?

"For preventing disorders, arising in several places within this jurisdiction by reason of some still observing such festivals as were superstitiously kept in other communities, to the great dishonor of God and offense of others: it is therefore ordered by this court and the authority thereof that whosoever shall be found observing any such day as Christmas or the like, either by forbearing of labor, feasting, or any other way, upon any such account as aforesaid, every such person so offending shall pay for every such offence five shilling as a fine to the county."

From the records of the General Court,
Massachusetts Bay Colony
May 11, 1659

Excuse me? This Irish-Catholic stronghold, this bastion of New England moral uprightness, this WASP-nest actually banned Christmas?? Yup, for 22 years under Puritan rule any such celebration was outlawed, and it was only in the mid-1800s that it was no longer considered a dishonor to God to forbear labor and raise a glass of spiced wine. The Puritans wanted to distance themselves as much as possible from old England, and, more importantly, the custom of poor people wassailing the wealthy (i.e., assailing them for food and alms through carols and cajoles) was getting out of hand.

What's odd is that at Christmastime, it seems like everyone in Boston celebrates Christmas. A creche appears on the Common with no conciliatory menorah; tourists from the bible belt book their holiday here, in the one Northeastern city that feels righteous enough to them; groups of carolers stroll through downtown singing of Christ and redemption. When I spent a few frozen hours singing 'Rudolph' and 'Silent Night' around Faneuil Hall last year, I would not have been surprised if our wide-eyed listeners had fallen to their knees and received the eucharist. Can you picture the same on 34th Street?

Oh, there I go again, Annoying NYC Lady, comparing Beantown to the Big Apple. But the odd lack of diversity (or rather, presence of a rigid class hierarchy) makes Boston a largely Christian town. I freely wish "Merry Christmas" to most every white or black face I see. If I'm wrong, well then, they ought to know that they are merely guests here in the Divine Commonwealth.

In any case, those party-animal Bostonians apparently put the 'ho' back in holiday after the ban was lifted in 1681, as evidenced by this loud tongue-clucking:

"The generality of Christmas-keepers observe that festival after such a manner as is highly dishonourable to the name of Christ. How few are there comparatively that spend those holidays (as they are called) after an holy manner. But they are consumed in Compotations, in Interludes, in playing at Cards, in Revellings, in excess of Wine, in mad Mirth ..."

- Reverend Increase Mather, 1687

So while you're enjoying your tasty Compotations, listening to Chopin Interludes, playing strip poker etc. etc., I offer you some mad Mirth from the archives of the You've Got to Start Somewhere Department:

Victorian carolers Amanda Keil (left), Ellen Peterson, Cyndi Geller, and Justin Dilley visited Globe Santa and his sleigh to sing a carol in Faneuil Hall Sunday. (Christina Caturano for the Boston Globe)

Can I confide in you?

I've had more than one occasion to look a companion in the eye and recite the following:

Wenn so lind dein Auge mir,
Und so lieblich schauet,
Jede letzte Truebe fliehet,
Welche mich umgrauet.

And yet, I've never brought myself to finish the verse:

Dieser Liebe schoene Glut,
Lass sie nie verstieben!
Nimmer wird, wie ich,
So treu dich ein andrer lieben.

But maybe I will sometime. Maybe I will.

(That's all I'll reveal! Gentlemen, start your Googles!)

fall

Oh cherubs….

My writing will have to be on hiatus for a while, as I wrap up this semester; meet application deadlines; prepare for, travel to, and execute auditions; catch up on missing work hours (from all that travel), and perform my little gigs in town. But in what seems to be a trend, I am also reckoning with some other obstacles.

I do well with the return of autumn. The refreshment of cold air, the comfort of long sleeves. While summer boils our senses and exfoliates our cares, autumn’s intellectual sunshine brings us back into balance, and our lives resume their rhythm.

So I’m fine until around mid-November, at which point nervousness seizes my gut like algae infecting still-water. It might happen only because I’m in school, and the cloistered fish-tank of vocal studies can make anyone claustrophobic. But these past couple of years, along with a aspirations for the future, I’ve nurtured a healthy crop of my own neuroses. At home with my parents over Thanksgiving, sleeping deeply in my childhood bed, I was in the eye of the storm. But the instant I’m back into the fray, my nerves spring to life, despite my best rational efforts to keep them at bay. As these feelings are better explored in my offline journal, I will sign off (did I mention I have a presentation tomorrow and I’m also supposed to get some work work done?) and lighten up. And there are plenty of things out there that make me laugh....

Or even better....

Vittoria! Vittoria!!

By now, we’re all back to business as usual. But there was a day or two just a little while ago, when it felt like Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and a kid’s birthday.

American Democrats had a successful election.

Who can remember that such a thing is possible? And the occasion just kept getting better: I went to bed and we had won the House, in the afternoon we were toasting Rummy and Coke, and the next day the Senate was ours. Do I hear impeachment?? It’s been a long presidency, and I will continue to count the days until it ends, but at least now there is the faintest flicker of the notion that there might be some hope in the next two years.

It will be rough going, and this success didn’t happen because of middle America’s sudden rapture with the donkeys (that sounds nearly biblical, doesn’t it!). The Republican base fired Congressmen who have blood on their hands and are riddled with scandals. I’m worried about the Democrats: they haven’t articulated a plan for all our ills, and they are quick to bicker amongst themselves. But this election was indeed a referendum, and I’m hopeful it will give our new leaders the energy boost and the legislative power to act and make changes. I’m also hopeful that the momentum that made these campaigns successful will carry us through the next two years, and even beyond….

Let’s just hope they don’t blow it.

You Can't Get There From Here

I’d like to finally write down some of my impressions of Boston, which have been percolating in my brain since I moved here some 15 months ago.

Europeans will often comment that Boston is a very European city. I am still trying to understand the source of this impression. Maybe it’s the visible Puritan elements that remind them of old London. Or maybe it’s because this is a much more pedestrian-friendly town than, say, LA. Or maybe it’s the besneakered Midwestern tourists traipsing through downtown, much like you’d find in most European destinations. Or maybe it’s the crappy transportation system.

“But wait!” Perhaps you’re saying. “I thought Europe had terrific public transportation??” Aaah, that might be true in, say, Norway, or even France between strikes, and certainly in Germany. I’m thinking more about… Italy. Boston puts the ever-striking Italians to shame.

Like the Roman subway, the local Boston train network is practically useless. A 10 minute car drive is a 45 minute train trip. Just as in Rome, stops directly in downtown are plentiful and convenient enough, but when you wish to travel just a bit further, you start to run into trouble. Because Boston is actually a collection of several sovereign little towns (Cambridge, Brookline, Somerville, etc.), train service is determined not by geography but by politics. Certain distant commuter towns have direct service. A local poor neighborhood has none. Although I am directly across the river from Harvard Square, to get there by train I travel all the way downtown and all the way out in a different direction.

And then there’s the pricing system, which can only be described as Byzantine, another European twist! $1.25 is your basic fare. But once you cross the town line in some places, it’ll cost you twice that to get back. Or sometimes $3.00. By me, the train is above ground. Rides are free when you head “outbound,” but cost the regular fare heading “inbound.”

Outbound and inbound sound confusing? East or West, Uptown or Downtown tell you something, but Bostonians prefer to keep newcomers confused. Inbound means heading into downtown. But what if you already are downtown, and you just need to go one more stop? You get confused, take the wrong train, and try better next time.

Then of course, there’s the schedule, or lack thereof. Sometimes the trains appear two, three, or even four in a row, like elephants. Sometimes there are simply none.

And the journey itself has let me learn how to find my inner Zen amidst chaos. My train line is between two colleges and close to Fenway Park, which means it’s packed with students during the school year, and students plus rowdy baseball fans during the season. And when they only run one trolley, or the wait tops 15 minutes, we’re talking really packed. Tokyo packed.

And bear in mind that the trains are above ground in my neighborhood. This means they can run into traffic with cars, and you get to wait outside in the unfriendly Boston weather. The train system is nicknamed the T. For all of it’s attractive qualities, I’ve nicknamed it the mofo. (Only when I’ve been waiting for 20 minutes in the sideways falling rain, I don’t say mofo.)

Now, this series of Boston impressions won’t be all complaining, I promise! I actually am trying to fall in love with the place, really, I am.

Three Thoughts for Three Decades

So fine, I turned 30, it’s done, and there’s nothing I can do about it, okay? I am happy to have gotten this particular landmark over with – at least there’s another 10 years before I have something else to dread. In my early 20s my elders counseled me that that was one of the most challenging times of life; but now, every 30+ person I know speaks with a gleam in their eye of good things to come. What the heck, I’ll believe ‘em. Some thoughts:

One rainy Saturday, many years ago, I was eight years old and engaged in my favorite activity: rifling through my mother’s belongings. Silk scarves, old photo albums, two-dollar bills, cook books, perfume, hair curlers, and necklaces made her dresser drawers a knick-knack lover’s delight. I was happily burrowing through a pile of hippie beads when I stopped in my tracks. A photo lay on the table, a photo of me when I was probably around four. I sat down on the bed. I started rocking back and forth, and singing to the picture. And I started crying. Mom came up the stairs. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” “Oh,” I buried my face in her lap. “I want to be young again!” I remember how her stomach bounced as she laughed her head off.

Two points: 1) I’m a born discontent; 2) despite those tears some 22 years ago, my youth has managed to stretch this far, and I don’t see a good reason for it to end anytime soon…

Nearly 10 years ago, another rainy afternoon, and I am standing in a cement basement, once again in tears. (I guess that’s my leitmotif!) This particular basement is in Vienna, the home of Klimt’s masterpiece, the Beethoven Frieze. It remains the only piece of fine art that has moved me to tears. The work illustrates Wagner’s programmatic interpretation of Beethoven’s Ninth: humanity’s journey from hostile forces, to poetry, then to music, and finally to happiness, celebrated as an embracing couple surrounded by a choir of angels: dieser Kuss der ganzen Welt. From beginning until resolution, waifish genies float above each frame, eyes closed, arms outstretched. They represent humanity’s yearning for happiness: die Sehnsucht nach dem Glück.

Sehnsucht is a beautiful German word (yes, such a thing exists). The sehn means to yearn and is also related to ‘ardent’ or ‘passionate.’ Sucht means addiction, and also comes from suchen, ‘to seek.’ So much in two syllables! Since that musty day in the Viennese basement, I have kept an image of a Sehnsucht genie posted on my wall by my bed next to my pillow, letting me contemplate my own Sehnsucht before I fall asleep. She reminds me to focus on my goals and dreams, but I suppose her presence is also a bit sad. Yearning for happiness implies the present lack of happiness. As these pages reveal, I know how to find many things in life to complain about. Yet, turning the corner around this decade, I somehow have less inclination to whine, and more Lust to look ahead, and remember all the good things along the way (like a trip to Vienna).

Not long ago a friend remarked that a “transformation” happens in one’s early 30’s. He didn’t elaborate, and I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s a beautiful thought. It might be psychosomatic, but I’ve been feeling on the verge of something lately.

Schicksal is another fine German word. It means ‘destiny,’ but the root suggests it comes from the verb schicken, ‘to send,’ as if destiny not only guided but physically sent you along your path. Earlier this month, destiny sent me to read a magazine article by Milan Kundera, discussing, among other things, Flaubert’s shedding of his lyricism (and romantic prose) at the age of 30, when he sat down to write Madame Bovary. I don’t pretend that greatness is around the corner for me, I’m just curious to see how it all turns out. Ten years ago, I couldn’t have imagined that my life would look the way it does right now. Ten years from now, I will be doing things, living somewhere, meeting people, and being a person I can’t begin to imagine now. Only one way to find out what it will be.

Yonder.

A Crisis of Faith

I am about to finish my second degree in music, my masters, which I've wanted for ages. There are times when I am motivated to the core to pursue the musical path I've had in my sights since I was a child. Yet...

Now is the season when thousands of voice students and para-professionals across the country prepare applications to young artist programs and summer festivals that enable them to build their stage resumes. I am gamely entering the fray, encouraged by my teacher but soundly discouraged by the prospects. There are around 200 programs internationally. There is fierce competition to get in. A few I've looked into accept 25 singers from 500 applicants, or 1 in 20. And although there are larger programs that bring in a range of participants, they often cost upwards of $3,000.

But that's not the problem. It's the process. Who you know is more important than what you know, and you certainly still have to know your stuff. And the countless deadlines, and the fees, and the applications that bark: Incomplete applications will not be processed; Please be advised that sending an application does not guarantee an audition; and Age limits: women- 30, men- 32. Demoralizing to say the least.

This morning, I dawdled over my doggerel instead of running off to practice, as I usually make myself do in the mornings. I could picture a productive day at home, trying my hand at writing and seeing where it takes me. Writing is much like practicing music: by the time we get to the finished product, all the hard work has been done, and we are left with the result, as perfect and flawed as it will be at that time in the development of the person creating it. A musical performance involves a great deal more of spontanaeity than a finely tuned piece of prose, but also much more risk. And not just a risk of mistakes: the difference between a competent performance and a transcendent one can be measured by a hair's breadth.

Writing is more forgiving, and allows so much time for the development of the writer before a "performance:" the publication or revealing of his work. It also seems to allow for broad range of aesthetic tastes. A singer with an unattractive voice faces an uphill batle with any and all audiences. A writer with a repugnant style will still appeal to some people.

I found myself in a foul mood this week, and felt immediately better when I relieved myself of its source. I had begun a book of short stories by Ha Jin, and quickly abandoned it when it filled me with despair. Story 1: public mortification and stomach-turning suicide; story 2: gang rape; story 3: a pig fight that mortally gouges the flesh of a young boy. I'm old fashioned, but I like my art to be beautiful.

I fled to Truman Capote, who I had managed to never encounter before, and I'm a much happier girl. Phrases like "bouncy bon voyage oompahpah" or simply "Holly rubbed her nose" let me paint my own pictures and imagine the characters as if they were my own creation. It's an element that music and writing again have in common: setting the audience at ease and transporting them to a different, and often idyllic, place.

So now it's 8:30 on a Thursday night, I've frittered away good practice time by sitting here writing about writing without ever really writing (this blog is little more than scantily edited stream of consciousness) and wondering if I am coming close to developing my voice, but only to discover that that voice could be better off as soundless words on paper.

And the winner is.....

I still can’t decide!! I’m making too big a deal of this, I know, but it’s fun. The majority of ya’ll seem to prefer ‘Wise,’ but my only hesitation is that I don’t wear that expression on a regular basis. Hmm. But a certain salty soprano wins the prize for putting the most amusing words in my mouth. She suggested that the ‘Wise’ photo looks as if I’m saying:

“I am seven feet tall. And I will kill you if I do not get the role I desire.”

HA!

But moving on, (because it’s not really ALL about me…) I’ve been meaning to post an email from a wonderful tenor I met in Seattle, whose big heart and boundless humor are matched only by his beautiful voice. I still choke up to read this. He touches on some of the things that I find most compelling about performing and studying music: how you open yourself to others in a way that doesn’t happen in daily life, and how the act of recreating art from an earlier time is not only thrilling, but a way of creating another world. Or rather, I feel, speaking with the dead.

Also below is Kevin’s portrait, when he miraculously matched the color of the dining room wall in my apartment in Seattle.

Dear Friends,

As I write, I am on the plane heading home. So much of me is still attached to each of you. Perhaps the only thing sadder for me than the end of the music is that awful feeling of letting go of people I have come to admire, people who have touched my life in some new and deeply meaningful way. Being a professional musician has so many glamorous benefits. There are the beautiful cities, the splendid costumes and of course, the glorious music. There is the excitement of travel and the anticipation of making those new relationships that lift us up to a higher, more beautiful level of being. What a gift it is to have music in our lives, and what a responsibility it is for us to preserve this great art, and to continually renew it either by recreating the past, or creating something new and significant for another generation.

These ten days past have been not only rewarding for me, but revelatory. I was able to rise to new challenges, conquer some old fears and most of all, to cement more than a dozen new friendships. At the moment, I confess that I am sad that time and place and art like what we have just experienced has now faded into the atmosphere. A darkened stage is the loneliest place I know. But I rejoice in the good will and the love that I came to experience with each of you, and in turn, I hope that there was something in or from me that made a difference for good in you.

I have a firm faith in the art of music as a catalyst for change. I believe with every fiber of my being that we, the purveyors of that which is good, just and beautiful were placed on this mortal coil to do good, to soothe pain, to challenge evil; to protect that which is eternal and to heal through sound. Music, like the spirit, never dies. Instead it continues onward into the cosmos on an infinite journey. Those sounds which now seem to have died have taken on a new life, and hopefully they will fall on receptive ears somewhere, somehow beyond our knowing.

To our wonderful faculty, thank you for the knowledge and the patience and for and for giving us the freedom to fly on our own. I can speak for us all when I say that your gifts to us are immeasurable.

To each of you: Borys, John, Yulia, John, Doug, Thea, Beth, Jennifer, Katy, Ilya, Amanda, Matthew, Amy and Jason; thank you for the music, and thank you for the love. Thank you for the gales of laughter and serious discussions. Thank you for the girl talk and even for the occasional admonition. You’ve all written a chapter of my story, and I have been blessed beyond measure to have shared in your lives. Perhaps it’s a bit corny to quote song lyrics. It’s almost as if I’m signing your yearbook or something. But I think that the songwriter said it well when he said: “Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But, because I knew you, I have been changed, for good.”

With the deepest affection,

Kevin

It's all about me

Friends, please let me know which is your favorite Amanda! Leave a comment below, or email me. Thanks!

Bedhead

Tilted

Straightforward

Eager

Wise

Let me rephrase that.....

After re-reading my somewhat gruesome previous post, I realized I should clarify something: I’m actually starting to like auditioning! After I left the audition I wrote about before, I felt jumpy, that’s true, but fairly pleased with how things turned out, and knowing that I couldn’t have done better than I did. The self doubt etc. comes when I think thinks went poorly, but mostly I’ve learned not to worry about it. After showing up and finishing off, there’s nothing more I can do about it.

That audition even earned praise from the chair of the opera department for my poise. But as for my placement in the opera program? The lowest rung of all: a performance class with no chance of being considered for one of the productions. I was stung, but my teacher was pleased. Apparently, not all voice majors are accepted in the class or the operas, and it was something of a coup for a singer from the historical performance department. In general, opera singers view the early music singer as an ugly, retarded second-cousin. I’ll learn something from this class (and maybe my younger colleagues will learn something from me), and it’s a smaller time commitment that frees me up for other things……

………such as more auditions. It is the beginning of audition season now, as every youngish singer in the country chases after summer programs, young artist apprenticeships, and any other opportunity that will get them onstage. I’ll join that flock, and meanwhile, I’m auditioning for local things around Boston. Quite a few, I must say, and some particularly exciting ones. I have my eye on a role I feel destined for, perfect for a tall mezzo, at a place where they just might want to have me….. I won’t even describe it, for fear of jinxing it. Whatever happens, I am learning to audition, and that’s valuable enough.

* * * * *

“A lot of good voices went down with those towers.” It was days after September 11, 2001, when learning how to sing seemed like the most frivolous thing in the world, but I had dutifully come in for my voice lesson. My teacher was explaining that the World Trade Center was a favorite place for singers to temp, where the financial giants paid the best hourly rates to help working (and aspiring singers) in the lean months. (At the time my teacher was in remission from cancer. It would soon return with aggression, and he would die within 30 months.)

There must have been singers who were just returning from summer programs, or singers who perform during the year but work in offices during the slow summer. Singers just about to quit their jobs for a chance to sing, singers just out of college trying to work to pay their debts before pursuing their career — later.

Whatever my failures or disappointments, I accept them gratefully, as I’m sure these colleagues would have done.