Have Voice, Will Travel

    I’ve been to Leipzig three times in the past two days, supposedly one of Germany’s most beautiful cities. But I wouldn’t know - I was just changing trains on the way to and from an audition (making a detour to Berlin just for fun, hence the third visit).

   They say you’re not supposed to tell anyone where your audition is before it happens - superstition - so most of my friends only knew that I was headed east as I embarked on yet another quest for gainful employment.

    Spring having just sprung, the ride was quite pleasant, looking out the window onto fields budding with crocuses, fluffy clouds in the sky, and a really confident feeling in my gut. It’s been a while since I headed east - in fact, since I settled in my apartment in Frankfurt’s Nordend, I’ve seldomly ventured outside the boundaries of the city ring. I like it here. But traveling for auditions, and then traveling for the work is all part of being a so-called professional opera singer. I like that, too, even though it seems like sometimes I’m just running to stand still (see previous blog entry on this topic).

    As the train chugged along, I was taken on a bit of a trip across memory lane:

    •Eisenach

   I auditioned there in Spring 2004, met with a former Kammeroper colleague, even got to watch a bit of a rehearsal (which made me glad I didn’t get the job in the end). They had just cut their opera chorus, and finally the entire opera department all together - take note, this is the future of opera in Germany! 

    •Gotha

          Here, I was lucky enough to be the featured soloist in a gala concert with the Coburger Philharmonic Orchestra. I messed up the words of one of the most famous opera arias ever composed - “Quando M’en Vo” from La Boheme by Puccini. Nobody in Gotha would have noticed, but some Italian president of some Italian thing was there. He noticed.

    •Erfurt 

          This is where I got lost on my way from Eisenach to Coburg, where I auditioned two days later. I decided to make the most of my blunder and have lunch in the pretty town square, which is where I was when my agent called and said it didn’t work out with the theater in Eisenach. Although I should’ve been relieved, I was quite upset and disillusioned. After all, how was I to know at the time - just when I may have thrown in the towel - that my next audition just down the road a piece would lead to a contract. One never knows, do one?

    •Weimar 

    It was here that I had my first ever “house” audition in Germany. I had already auditioned for the studio in Zürich, for a couple agents, and for the studio in Düsseldorf (which I ended up getting), but never for a Festvertrag. I don’t remember much about the audition itself except that it was raining.

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    So, the next time I head east, I hope to have the time to finally take a wee tour of Leipzig. With any luck, as a matter of fact, the audition will be IN Leipzig. I’m glad that this time I took a few pictures of the town I was in (see photo above - now can you guess where I was?). Even though the audition didn’t work out, I’ll have more memories to take home with me than just the train station and the rain.

    (Actually, this audition turned out to be a very pivotal one in my operatic career. To find out why, read “Operatics Anonymous”, coming very soon to the Grahamophone!!)

Biellmann, Bikram and Me

 In the wake of the Winter Olympics, I am reminded of the analogies that I often make between figure skating and singing opera. The costumes, the makeup, the routines... the fans, the judges, the doting mothers and coaches. After months and months of grueling preparation, your performance can be rendered worthless in a matter of seconds by missing one high note or one triple axle. 

    Competition is fierce in both fields, but in opera the guidelines aren’t as clear as in figure skating. Sure, there are factors to be considered -- intonation, phrasing, diction, beauty -- but already I digress into the subjective. What is beauty? 

    Doing some “research” a la YouTube for an upcoming audition (audition is just another word for competition, except that it hopefully ends up in gainful employment, as opposed to a certificate and a handful of cash), I watched many interpretations of the same aria by several renowned singers. 

    Granted, a large percentage of people leaving comments on YouTube are complete idiots. Nevertheless it was perplexing to see how diverse the comments of each performance were. Some worship Damrau, while others rave about Dessay, Studer, Moser, or Popp -- all legends in their own right. While we certainly have our preferences, none of these singers is the quintessential soprano (sorry, Cheryl!).

    In figure skating, on the other hand, one of the spins is actually named after an athlete. Denise Biellmann did not invent the pirouette named after her -- holding one leg behind the head with both hands -- but she is the one who made it famous. There is no Callas crescendo, Pavarotti portamento, or Studer staccato. Perhaps in the early days of opera, techniques may have been named after singers. The opera tradition is about 200 years older than figure skating, after all.

    Still, we could learn a lot from our figure skating counterparts.

    Every time I take a voice lesson or coaching, I am reminded of how lazy I am. I should practice more. Do you think Dorothy Hamill, Katarina Witt or Johnny Weir let a day go by without doing some time on the ice? This guilty feeling is something I’ve always had to battle. But the fact is, I can get by on little practice (or what I consider to be little practice - surely, there are singers out there more sloth-like than I) and still do rather well. Complicated harmonies and high noodly notes come easily to me. But to really be a contender, I need to work on the other stuff: the legato, the middle voice, the performance practice (articulation, ornamentation, etc.).

    Well, truthfully, my next audition will be the one that most resembles an ice skating competition. Let’s face it -- no matter how smooth my legato, now matter how florid my coloratura, if I don’t get those five (count ‘em, merely five) high F’s, I may as well be Nancy Kerrigan flipping double instead of triple, getting silver instead of gold. And believe me, there will be plenty of Tonya Hardings waiting in the wings to break me at the knees if I succeed. 

    I find myself not only worrying about executing the musical tasks, but also obsessing about what I’m going to wear, hair up or down, nails painted or plain... In fact, I find it a bit difficult not to get all Tonya Harding on the asses of my competition.

    This is where I am inspired by another sort of competition. Bikram Choudhury certainly did not invent yoga, but he has cultivated a following which has made his one of the most popular forms of yoga taught around the world today, and therefore it is named after him: Bikram Yoga. And just to corner the market, feeding upon human nature, he decided to make a competition out of it.

    Slightly preceding the start of the 21st Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver, the Sixth Annual International Yoga Asana Championship occurred in Los Angeles. Shrouded in controversy, 21 men and 30 women (one of whom takes the same class as I do, right here in Frankfurt!) convened to contort and twist themselves to victory. Many people are opposed to the idea of subjecting yoga to competition, claiming that it goes against yoga’s core philosophy of self-realization.

    I scoff at my hot yoga teacher (Bikram yoga is practiced in a room heated up to about 100 degrees Fahrenheit -- and yes, he is also good looking) when he makes comments about sending me to the championships or signing me up for teacher training. In my mind, I am nowhere near being qualified for either one, nor does my life revolve around succeeding in yoga. As time goes on, however, I notice that my dedication to my yoga practice almost surpasses that of my singing practice. I think if I were to enter a yoga competition, I would sincerely concentrate on the task at hand, and at being the best I can be. How the other people perform would be of no interest to me.

    While I’m in yoga class, although I do observe the techniques of others more advanced than myself (like Allie, who went to the world championships), I never feel the need to gloat about being better than others. Although my eagle pose is to be envied, my Dandayamana Dhanurasana (standing bow pose, pictured above -- yoga’s closest equivalent to the Biellmann pirouette) has a long way to go. 

    I guess there’s no reason I can’t apply my yogic ideals to my operatic ambitions. Ultimately, I’m going for gold. And with any luck, I’ll get it.

Lost in Phonation: Part Three

Lost in Transportation

    I don’t remember where it was, but I read in some magazine or newspaper the other day that pretty much everyone has their horror stories about traveling - about the time they missed the connection making them late for whatever, or about the reservations being mixed up. Or about two fellow passengers talking loudly and incessantly (see Lost in Phonation - Part One), or about the time homeland security checked your luggage without your knowledge and neglected to put your left shoe back in the suitcase (happened to me earlier this week). But the point of the article was that we always manage to come out on the other side and live to tell our tales of inconvenience. A matter of perspective, I suppose if you arrive at your destination alive and with all limbs intact, you have had a pretty nice ride.

    Still, there is no worse form of quotidian stress than that of getting from A to B, much less C. As I am a big fan of seeing the macrocosm within the microcosm (and not the other way around), I found today especially challenging.

    Ironically, today was NOT the day that public transportation went on strike in Frankfurt. I’m sure everybody has their tale to tell about that. I was luckily forewarned and didn’t even attempt to put anything too ambitious on my to-do list. Tomorrow is another day, I said to myself. Going out to dinner with friends was about all I could accomplish, and I think I did a pretty good job.

    Lately (no pun intended), I seem to be in a phase of life where I’m late for everything. That may surprise people who’ve known me for a long time. I used to join in the cajoling when friends of mine made fun of one of our gang who always arrived tardy. “Time doesn’t apply to her,” we would scoff, holier than she. Ah, but we were young and foolish. Now that I am a latecomer myself, I only wish I could be as guilt-free as our friend seemed to be back then. 

    But to me, being late - missing a connection, missing a shoe - it all points to the fact that I seem to be a late-bloomer. Today started off with a frustrating, unsuccessful practice session (for which I was late), followed by a rather tedious errand-running session (albeit successful, so I have to give myself a break there), followed by what would have been yoga, had I not been late, followed by a spontaneous decision to go see “The Tempest” at the opera (because I decided that was just what I needed for artistic inspiration). The woman playing the coloratura role in tonight’s performance (the last one in Frankfurt, it should be duly noted) is someone I’d met in Seattle when I went to see one of her recitals. She's had a long, steady career, and I’m inspired and impressed by her tenacity and integrity. 

    True to my new fashion, I missed the first tram to the opera. No worries, I thought, another one will be along in ten minutes. A little rushed, but I’ll still make it. The next tram arrived seven minutes too late (!), causing me to run into the opera house approximately 42 seconds before the show started. Still having to buy a ticket, I held steadfast to my belief that I was going to accomplish at least one fulfilling task today. Then I heard the dissonant opening chords of the opera. Oper Frankfurt is nice enough to provide their unpunctual guests with television monitors in the lobby - but you still have to buy a ticket, even though you’re watching the performance on a screen, before being allowed entry after intermission. The only tickets left cost upwards of 46 Euros, and I figured that was too much to spend on half an opera. 

    Feeling defeated, I sadly sauntered out into the cold and sat on the steps of the theater not quite knowing what to do. To make matters worse, as a method of advertisement, the opera house has installed speakers which blare the ongoing performance out to Willy-Brandt-Platz - also the site of the Commerzbank, Europe’s now second-tallest building, and the European Central Back, home of the Euro.

    If I’d had Euros to burn, I’d have been sitting in the opera right now instead of on the front steps. If I weren’t a late bloomer, maybe I would have been on the stage instead of in the audience. This was the series of thoughts going through my head as I made my way back to the subway station where I saw on a poster that John Helliwell from Supertramp and Martin Barre from Jethro Tull were playing in “Excalibur - The Celtic Rock Opera.” Suddenly I felt lucky to be exactly who I was, at exactly this time, in exactly this place.

    I have one more chance to achieve something on my to-do list today, which is to go see some friends of mine play with their band in a bar. 

    Think I’ll walk.

Lost in Phonation: Part Two

It’s Me

    It’s one thing to be asked without warning to sing in a restaurant while I’m eating dinner, and it’s another thing to sing in a restaurant and get paid for it (like I did on New Year’s Eve in a rehearsed show with five other singers and a pianist). So, I can’t quite explain my explosive reaction to a friend who asked me to sing in her new bar for its monthly Music Night. 

    For her, it was an innocent request, just looking for acts to fill her calendar. But for me, an odd feeling cropped up inside me immediately, and I felt very threatened and exposed. I can’t blame my friend (or anyone else for that matter) for not understanding why singing impromptu in public is my worst nightmare. I don’t quite understand it myself. Especially in this case, since it would be an official gig, it would be rehearsed, and I’d be getting paid. So what’s the problem?

    I suppose what set me off was the fact that there would be no accompaniment (the place is too small to accommodate even an electric piano, and I’m not sure a pianist would’ve been included in the budget anyway). She said she’d had another opera singer there performing “bits and bobs” by herself, and she couldn’t understand why that was so difficult. Before we even got a chance to negotiate the terms, my emotions got the better of me, and I went off on a tirade, trying desperately to answer the question, “Why not?”

    Come to think of it, I doubt that my friend even noticed how upset I was at the proposition. She was probably just wondering why she couldn’t get a straight answer from me. I guess I just have to learn how to calmly say no - especially to friends asking not-so-small favors. There’s much more to that story than is interesting to tell, but the question remains: 

    Why is it so difficult to just stand up and sing on the spot? 

    When so-called professional opera singers are confronted with a request to sing impromptu, they often retort with something like, “You wouldn’t ask a dentist to pull teeth at your dinner party, would you?” Well, of course not. That would be stupid, and no fun for anybody (except maybe the dentist). Am I being selfish? Even if I don’t enjoy singing for you on demand with no warning, if I were a good friend, I’d do it anyway, right? 

    No. 

    It has nothing to do with the fact that I earn money by singing. I’m sure if I enjoyed singing spontaneously, I would do it for you at no extra charge.

    There was a discussion on an internet forum for classical singers about this very same topic. It attracted an overwhelming amount of responses, 99% of which repeated my sentiments exactly. This is more than just unpleasant for me. This is Hell on Earth for me. Non-singers, or people who maybe just sing as a hobby, can’t quite grasp the concept that our connection to our singing is a very delicate relationship, one on the verge of a breakup.

    My brother says I’m lucky to be able to have my hobby as my career, and in a way he’s right. I have had the tenacity and the patience to see how things would pan out with the opera business, and that has paid off. The trick is determining just what “paying off” means, and knowing when to throw in the towel. If I don’t net $50,000 a year, does that justify giving up? To be sure, there are singers more amateur than myself who earn more money than I do singing. But do they have the same passion or drive that I do for my art? Perhaps they are content with going around the room selling arias for 10 bucks a pop, like meandering Mariachis in a Mexican restaurant. 

    I might not be getting rich yet, but never in a million years would I call this my hobby. Never in half a million years would I give it up. But if being considered a “professional” singer means having to do gigs like that, I’d rather give it all up and follow my next passion, whatever that may be. No regrets.

    Another woman I know said, if she had a voice like mine, she would just sing everywhere all the time. Put it that way, and I feel like I’m taking my voice for granted. Then again, she never asks me to sing for her when we’re alone hanging out. It’s only when we’re out with her friends, perhaps people that I’m meeting for the first time, as if to say, “This is my friend Christy the opera singer” - not Christy who likes science fiction movies, or Christy who makes delicious banana bread, or Christy who wants to learn Spanish. Or just, this is Christy.

    Of course, singing for a captive audience is what I do every chance I get, isn’t it? Not exactly. In fact, it’s not even the singing itself which moves me. “The Voice” is the instrument I use. My goal is to use this medium on a stage in order to successfully combine the music with the action, to convey emotion, to find the right mix of fun, intellect and challenge in each job, regardless of the pay. Maybe singing for an unsuspecting audience at a party is too easy!

    Singing operatically has always been a very formal thing for me, and also very personal. At Karaoke night, however, I’m the first one to grab the mic and sing “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” If there’s a guitar around at a party, I’ll gladly (and badly) accompany myself and sing numerous rock songs that I don’t know the words to. But to pull out “The Voice” on a moment’s notice?

    No.

    It has nothing to do with making a fool out of myself. This I will do voluntarily, and with fervor.

    I don’t think I’ve come any closer to clarifying my feelings. Any comparison I try to make - like pulling out fine china at a picnic, like asking a lawyer for legal advice over dinner  - doesn’t seem to convince people to stop asking. But is there any harm in someone needing a singer to fill a slot in their bar’s music calendar? Is there any harm in someone wanting to share my gift with their friends?

    No.

    It’s not them. It’s me.

Me

“I am not the person who is singing,

I am the silent one inside.

I am not the one who laughs at people’s jokes,

I just pacify their egos.

...

And it’s me who is my enemy,

Me who beats me up,

Me who makes the monsters,

Me who strips my confidence.”

            -Paula Cole

Tune in next time to the Grahamophone!

Lost in Phonation: Part One

iPod, I.C.E. and I

    It’s the first Monday of the new year, and the I.C.E. train to Frankfurt was pretty packed. Still I managed to find a spot in a four seat compartment with two men and one other woman. My journey had begun earlier this morning - first taking a bus from the hotel near the theater where I’d had my last performance, then switching to the regional train at the Mönchengladbach main station, and finally to the InterCity Express in Düsseldorf. By that time I was well into a very interesting Podcast of “This American Life” and was looking forward to boarding the comfortable, heated, high-speed train, kicking back and listening to the end of the story.

    As one does before taking a seat next to someone on a train, I asked, “Is this seat taken?” Then I began the five-minute winter ritual of peeling off numerous layers of outerwear, found a place to stow my things, set my coffee cup and sandwich on the table between the seats and sat down to listen to my iPod. Ahhhh... 

    The two gentlemen next to me were conversing intensely about something - I can’t be sure what, because they were speaking in a foreign tongue. Turkish? No, not that. Persian? Hindi? Maybe. I turned my attention back to Ira Glass and tried to relax.

    Several minutes later the men were still talking, as they had been incessantly since I sat down. Even with my fancy in-ear headphones “drastically reducing unwanted outside noises” - that’s what it says on the box they came in - the voice of the man sitting to my right penetrated the barrier. It now took all my concentration to follow the story on “This American Life,” so I chose instead to resume listening to it later and play a round of Scrabble with my iPod. Even focussing on Scrabble became a challenge amidst the babble. The iPod ended up winning the game by a 100-point margin. Damn those confabulating fellows!

    It was then I began to realize just how enervated I was by this discussion going on next to me. They just would not stop talking! And when they weren’t talking to each other, one of them was on his cell phone. And while one was on the phone, the other one got antsy and placed a phone call himself. At one point, they even traded phones so that the other person could talk to whomever the other guy was talking to. It was obviously business-related, I deduced from the anglicisms threaded throughout their seamless conversation.

    The man with the more penetrating voice had an ordinary ringtone, but the soft-spoken of the two had a cell phone that vibrated so loudly that it defeated the purpose of setting the phone to vibrate in the first place. Meanwhile, this conversation cumconference call had captured the attention of passengers on the other side of the aisle, some reacting with sharp glances and others with outright laughter.

    When one of them got up to go to the toilet, I thought, ‘Relief!’ (not just for him, but also for me). After half a minute of precious silence, however, the other one felt the urge to make yet another call. No!! I thought at this point that they must indeed be speaking Hindi or some sort of Indian dialect, because I could imagine that someone who hails from a country with over a billion people might become uneasy if it gets too quiet.

    By this time I had a headache (having grown up in a land with wide open spaces), otherwise I would’ve taken the next logical step of drowning their voices out with loud music. Instead I put the in-ear headphones back on, attempting this time to use them as earplugs. Unfortunately, as promised on the box they came in, the earphones only ensured “accurate, detailed sound across the entire sonic spectrum.”

    Usually I’m able to tune out conversations in foreign languages, but it wasn’t exactly the content nor volume of the men’s voices that was bothering me. The man sitting diagonally across from me was even rather soft-spoken, and their language (which I later found out was in fact your average household Hindi) is actually pleasant to hear. Why is it, then, that I found the one man’s voice so annoying, yet the woman across from me seemed oblivious, reading her book peacefully the entire time with not one single tsk-tsk of annoyance or piercing glance? On any other day, I probably could have found another place to sit. Asking them to be quiet didn’t seem fair, either; after all, everyone else in the train was talking. 

    After 90 minutes of my supersonic odyssey (on a train which really only travels one-fourth the speed of sound), my right ear literally ached, and I felt as if I was about to lose my composure, stand up and start screaming the Hindi equivalent of “Shut the fuck up, Gee!” 

    Stepping off the train into the din of Frankfurt’s bustlingHauptbahnhof during lunch hour was like entering an idyllic meadow of tall grass and listening to the soft cooing of whippoorwills. When I got home, I refrained from turning on the radio and granted myself two hours of silence. Even Ira Glass was going to have to wait.

Tune in for Part Two next time on the Grahamophone!