Soccer vs. Opera: Go Germany!

“Happiness is when your tasks match your goals.” 

-Christine Graham

If you’re an opera singer anywhere else in the world, sporting events may go by unnoticed, but if you’re an opera singer (or anyone else for that matter) living in Germany, there’s no avoiding the World Cup*.

*That’s a big soccer** tournament involving qualifying teams from around the world.

**Soccer (football, Fußball) is the sport where you must propel a ball into the opposing team’s goal using any body part except your hands, the feet being the most efficient and widely used appendages, hence the name.

One would think soccer has nothing to do with opera, but one would have to think again. The rule book for calcio fiorentino, a precursor to soccer, was written in 1580 by Giovanni de’ Bardi, the same man who put on musical dramas (the precursor to opera) for the Medici court. In anticipation of this year’s World Cup, newly composed pieces inspired by football just premiered at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.

In fact, it was on the operatic stage where yours truly was first confronted with the so-called “beautiful game”. Leading up to the last World Cup in 2006, a young soccer-enthusiast stage director entrusted me with his vision of turning my role, the otherwise coquettish Hannchen in Der Vetter aus Dingsda, into a tomboy. 

Until then, I’d never even touched a soccer ball, having only dabbled briefly with volleyball in high school, and even then I spent most of the games warming the bench. Needless to say, my work was cut out for me. The director wanted me to “juggle” the ball during a short monologue. I had to see to it that the bouncy thing didn’t end up skewered on a violin bow in the orchestra pit, or bonking a blue-haired operetta fanatic in the front row. My training began in November 2005 on the field, and before each rehearsal I annoyed the conductor with the thwack-thwacking sound of the ball hitting the wooden floor in the rehearsal room.

The production was a success. The ball never went into the pit, although once I almost scored a “goal” into the loggia. I continued to play soccer with my theater’s team, even going to the Bavarian Theater Championships and raising their previous standing from last place to fourth out of six teams. And although I don’t find much opportunity to do so nowadays, I still like to kick the ball around a bit.

If anything, learning to play soccer myself made it possible for me to understand and enjoy watching the game. Up until then, it was just some boring sport which went on for 90 minutes, sometimes resulting in no points at all - not exciting like pinball where you can score a gazillion points, or even basketball, where each team scores around 50 points by the end of the evening.

I’m sure my previous assessment of soccer is similar to the general consensus about opera - too long, boring, lots of bad acting. These are not the only traits that soccer and opera have in common.

• In soccer, goals are the goal. But even if there are no points scored, it can still be entertaining to watch if the rest of the game is played well -- not just the parts where the round thing goes into the square thing, or loud bits and high notes in opera. Like the modern philosopher Alan Watts said, if reaching the end of a composition were the point, the best conductors would be those who played the fastest, and composers would only write finales.

• Teamwork is the structure, but one striker usually kicks all the goals. In opera, one singer has to take the last bow, but his or her job is made a lot easier with supportive colleagues who facilitate victory.

• If someone fouls you, you writhe around and cry like a baby until someone important notices.

Today, by beating England, Germany has advanced one step closer to becoming Weltmeister, world champions of soccer, 2010. Germany has also done a very good job at setting a standard by providing governmental support for health care, education, opera theater and other “frivolous” endeavors. Today, Germany is a rather nice place to be. 

Now, where did I put that Fach?

As you may have noticed by reading my last few blog entries (... I’ll give you a few minutes to go back and review ... Ready? ... No, seriously, take your time. ... Okay)...

As you may have noticed after having read my last few blog entries, I seem to be pondering my place in the operatic world. 

In this clique -- or any clique, for that matter -- I’ve always felt like I belonged on a peripheral level, but I’ve never been part of the inner circle. And as I ponder, I come to realize that this seems to be some sort of unconscious choice that I’ve made consistently throughout my life. It should come as no surprise, then, that I somehow chose to live in a foreign country, where only a small percentage can fully understand the articles in this blog or even begin to get my jokes, much less understand my need to put ice in my drinks. 

Of all countries, I had to choose Germany - the place where everything is (supposedly) so organized and has its proper place. And to do what? To sing opera, a genre which is structured around a system (invented by the Germans, by the way) called Fach. In addition to the 17 other translations for this word, in the opera business it’s usually interpreted as ‘category,’ but for all intents and purposes it just means ‘drawer.’ Take a chest of drawers, for example. A Kommode. Well, for someone who doesn’t seem to fit into any category, a Kommode is not very accommodating.

Nobody puts Baby in a drawer!

Many have tried, however. I had a singer colleague say to me once, “You know what your problem is?” No, but I bet you’re about to tell me. “Your voice is too pretty to be a soubrette and not ugly enough to be a dramatic coloratura.”  Thanks... I think.

Then, at an audition when I was done singing Konstanze’s first aria from Die Entführung aus dem Serail, one of the other sopranos said, “Like, wow, you’re like a full dramatic, eh? That’s cool.”

Yet another former colleague told me, “Your strengths lie in show tunes. You’re American, after all.” A-ha. Then, when I went to audition for Sally Bowles in Cabaret, I just had to laugh when they looked at me as if I’d just missed the last train to La Scala.

So, whenever anybody asks me what voice category I fall into, it’s all I can do not to scream, “How the FACH should I know?!?”

I have sung soubrette roles and coloratura roles (lyric, not yet dramatic). I have done musicals and operettas. I’ve sung modern music, I’ve sung early music, I’ve sung jazz. I’ve sung in chamber choirs and opera chorusses, done recitals and oratorios. I’ve even sung in a country band where my nickname was Miss Cellaneous. Go figure.

What with all this chaos in my life, is it any wonder that I feel compelled to at least get my apartment in order? That’s what I’ve been working on this week between learning a new role and preparing for auditions. Now I have all my German paperwork neatly sorted in four ring binders, eight hanging folders and a three-tiered letter tray, and my American documents in one envelope. Still, there are a few objects (not just paperwork) that need sorting and have no place to “live.” 

Luckily, I’ve always made sure to have a junk drawer in my home. Never have I attempted to organize the junk drawer. That would be a little too better-homes-and-gardens for me. In fact, the last time I moved, I boxed up the contents of the junk drawer and emptied them in its successor.

The junk drawer accommodates everything. It’s a beautiful mecca of organized chaos for valuable objects that defy definition. 

Eureka! I seem to have I discovered the Fach where I belong.

Glamophone

When I told my mother that one of my best friends from elementary school was now working for border patrol, she said in astonishment, “Really? She was always so glamorous.”

True enough, Christi E., one of the five Christies in our class (see previous entry Caro Nome de Plume) had a natural beauty. She was very popular and had a number of suitors. Every boy I ever had a crush on ended up going out with her. In fact, one day in the classroom Tyler had me pass her a note on which he had written: “Will you go with me?” She asked me to pass it back, but before she folded it up I saw her answer: “Yes, but don’t tell Alejandro.”  It was the sixth grade, for crying out loud, and it was already complicated.

So, anyway, I guess one could be surprised to hear that she ended up on the border patrol and I ended up becoming an opera singer. Who’s glamorous now, huh?  

I’m a far cry from the level of those demanding seven bottles of Evian in the dressing room, and riding to performances in a limousine. But truthfully, the people I know who have stellar careers aren’t making those kinds of demands either. Admittedly, their lives might be a tad bit more glamorous than mine. 

The general public seems to stand firm in their belief that all opera singers, no matter what level of experience or artistry, are glamorous people leading glamorous lives. I don’t know why I’m so hellbent on dispelling that myth, especially since I would then have to confess that I actually enjoy dressing up and being treated thusly. But that’s just me rising to the occasion. 

At one such occasion many years ago, there were 20 of us singing at the regional level of the Metropolitan Opera National Council competition in Seattle. We were all teeming around the green room area waiting for our turn to sing. A tenor grabbed a cookie off the refreshment table and seemed to be enjoying it. One of the ladies in charge of babysitting us looked at him as if he were a cookie she would like to nibble. “Oh, isn’t it just amazing how he can just nonchalantly eat that cookie right before he sings?”

It’s a cookie, woman. Not a shot of Jägermeister. A cookie. Calm down.

Her giddy excitement for the cute tenor turned to abhorrence when she glared down at my feet. I had brought some Birkenstocks to lounge around in backstage, because I knew I would potentially be waiting around for hours until it was all over. Gasping for air, she couldn’t even finish her sentence, “You’re not... you’re not going to...?”  

“No, no,” I reassured her. “I have fancy shoes that match my dress for the stage. They’re just uncomfortable.” I was annoyed to have to put up with this woman’s pre-conceived notion of how we young opera singers should dress and behave, but vindicated at the end of the day when I won the competition. One of the adjudicators said, as he was giving me my critique, “When you walked out on that stage, it was pure class.”

See? I can be glamorous when I need to be.

If you have a fest contract in a German theater, being an opera singer is akin to having a 9-to-5 job. Fans awaiting your signature after a performance seem either put off or charmed by the fact that you emerge in jeans and a T-shirt, then hop on your bike to go home, as if you’ve just finished your shift at the Dairy Queen, not to mention gone crazy, killed a tenor and died.

At least in the theater you have a place to change clothes. My favorite moments of glamour vs. grunge are when you have to sing at someone’s wedding, or similar function. There, the people in charge of organization are not always aware of your needs as an artist (for example, a tuned piano, a bathroom, a drink of water, etc.)

Just the other night I had a gig (yes, I call these kinds of concerts “gigs”) for the annual convention of some of Europe’s finest lawyers. When my accompanist and I arrived, we were told to sneak in around back, and we had to sit at one table in the huge recreation room together with the band who was scheduled to go on after us. Not that I don’t like mingling with the common folk --  it was just that the other 20 tables were already set for the next day’s wedding ceremony and we weren’t allowed to potentially smudge the tablecloths with our water glasses.

After our part of the program was over, I had several lawyers come up to me and tell me how much they had enjoyed our performance. I liked that they could appreciate what I do - most of them seemed well-versed in classical music, and we shared an affinity for schmalzy operetta arias. Truthfully, although I would love to land me a young, rich handsome man (most of the lawyers present were rich, and some were young, but few were actually handsome...), beyond the music I could not relate to them at all on a personal level. I had a blast with the guys from the band, though, probably because they didn’t know much about opera, weren’t expecting me to be glamorous, and talked to me like I was a human being (albeit in a fabulous dress).

At another lawyer function, I sang a short program of Brecht/Weill songs together with a mezzo-soprano friend of mine. We were both given bouquets at the end of the evening and treated to a tasty gourmet meal and fine wine. While she caught a ride home with her lawyer boyfriend in his Jaguar (the only handsome single lawyer in town was already taken, see?), I rode the subway home as usual - but this time, wearing a very elegant dress and clutching my bouquet. Nobody in that subway car had any idea what I had just accomplished.

I can walk the walk and talk the talk. I always rise to the glamorous occasion. I know which fork to use, I like fine wine, and I have quite a few pretty dresses. But the reality of it is, once you leave the building, you’re no longer Elvis.

Watch the music video ("Femme Fatale") that accompanies this article on my other blog:

Grahamophone's Bad Guitar Channel

Caro Nome de Plume

The ONE, the ONLY ....

Grahamophone! 

Oh, crap... somebody already thought of that. Okay, let’s try Zerbinetta. Nope, taken. Off-Coloratura. Next! Desert Diva. Nope.... Come on, let’s really think about this now.  What REALLY describes who I am? A-ha! I’ve got it!! My actual name [typing happily...] Christine Graham!

Unbe-fargin’-lievable. Not available (searching in vain for available blog titles...).

But Christine Graham is ME. Grahamophone is ME.  In certain circles, I’m somewhat of a celebrity under that name. How can these anonymous deadbeats (people who don’t even use their blogs) deprive me of my own name? I’ve been writing under that pen-name for over four years now, which is an eternity in the blogosphere. (Did they even have blogs back then? It started out as my CB handle)

Did Madonna ever have this problem? Sting? Cher? Buddha? 

GOD?

Even the title of this blog post has already been thought of (albeit by only one person - I looked up the phrase on Google, and he seems to be rather cool). Last week, I thought I made up the word “flawsome” until Urban Dictionary showed me otherwise. The phrase “love me, love my blog” is also not original Grahamophone material.

It just goes to show that every great idea I’ve ever had has already been thunk. In fact, I’d venture to say, any idea anyone has ever had has already been thought. Just ask my mother.

I was one of five Christies in the second grade. There was Kristy D., Christi E., Christy G. (that’s me!), Christy M. and Kristie Z. So sharing my name is nothing new to me. At least we had four distinctive spellings, however, which most often prevented confusion.

How is it, then, that we distinguish ourselves from others? Great accomplishments? Exquisite voices? Opera singers who are enjoying international careers don’t sing that much differently than those people who sing day in, day out on the stages of German state opera houses. They’ve just somehow gotten lucky, or worked harder at getting their name known. 

In this spirit, I have decided to stand by my name - Grahamophone - and apply the pre-existing title of my blog from my website - Christine’s Voice - no matter how many people have come before me, or who have yet to know me by my name.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

Grahamophone’s Blog “Christine’s Voice” is now being published on Blogger.com as well as christine-graham.com. Please follow me, because I’m going places.

Totally F*ckin' Flawsome!

 "Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring." 

--- Marilyn Monroe

    It’s a long story how it all happened, but last week something special came into my life. And it came in the form of a child-sized guitar. I can hardly believe that it’s meant to be anything other than a toy, but it has six steel strings which follow the same tuning of a regular guitar; what’s more, I can hardly believe that it’s for children, because if one of those six steel strings gets wound too tightly - well, let’s just say it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.

    When I first had this guitar in my hands, I took out my tuning fork (which I keep in my purse - you never know when you’re going to need an A) and tuned it up. Then I strummed a G-major chord. 

    Ouch. 

    The trouble was, unlike a regular guitar, when I pressed down onthe first fret it resulted in not quite a whole-step interval, instead of what should have been a half-step. It was like what one of my former choir directors used to refer to as not sharp nor flat, rather, “G-crack.”

    Then I figured, if this instrument, this toy, this .... thing was indeed made for children, then perhaps I shouldn’t be pressing down so hard on the strings (since children’s fingers have not yet developed the strength). This was indeed a factor leading to better intonation, but by lightly pressing on the string, the sound was muffled and not sustainable. What to do?

    Well, for starters, don’t take this little guitar so seriously! It is obviously flawed. It is not meant to perform in the conventional way.

    Why I didn’t realize the importance of that message right then and there is a mystery to me, but I’m thankful to have recognized it now, seven days after creating the “grahamophone bad guitar channel” series on YouTube. 

    I never set out to create this monster, nor would it ever have occurred to me to do what I did, had it not been for several factors lining up simultaneously:

1. 
   
   1)I was in the possession of a kid-sized guitar.
2. 
   
   2)My Internet access was down for four days. 
3. 
   
   3) I am currently in between jobs and thusly have what some might consider to be too much time on my hands. 
4. 
   
   4)I happen to be a creative person with a quirky, yet intelligent sense of humor.

    The fourth factor is the one that often gets me into trouble professionally - many people don’t quite know what to do with me. But mostly, I stumble over my own desire for perfection. When I was lucky enough to be employed full-time, I got into several spats with my superiors over the type of work they were giving me. What with all the screaming I did in the office trying to convince them that I was perfect, it was a wonder they didn’t believe my voice to be big enough for certain roles. I was feeling artistically (thereby creatively) impeded, and they were just downright annoyed, understandably.

    Like my little guitar, despite being tuned to perfection, if you play it in a conventional way and expect conventional results, you’re going to be disappointed. The flaws do not lie in the tuning, rather in the mechanics. My problem was not a musical flaw, but rather a lack of skill in crisis management. (Then again, I was hired for the former, not the latter, but let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?)

    Luckily for the little guitar, it fell into my hands - someone whose imagination is expansive enough to recognize its potential and turn it into its own guitar hero. The same applied to me. Shortly after being fired from my aforementioned job, a new employer entrusted me with the very same role I would have been singing had I kept my former position. Not only was I worthy of this role, but with each performance, I got better and better. I was by no means perfect - in some places I would push too hard, forcing my voice -  dare I say it? - out of tune, but I was always heard. The applause at the end of the evening, accompanied with the director’s compliment, “It’s like Verdi wrote it for you,” was enough to convince me that I was perfect enough.

    During the rehearsal period for that show, I once got really frustrated with the conductor who was being especially picky with me. “I make mistakes, too!” I whined.  “No,” he replied. “You should avoid them.” He was right, perfectly aware of the standard I set for myself. 

    You should always do your best, and not make lazy mistakes, but you should never deny yourself your imperfections - your right to be absolutely flawsome.

    As for the little guitar, I love it. For some reason, I can completely let loose and be nowhere near perfect, yet with perfect results. The feeling seems to be mutual. I embrace its flaws. In fact, if you don’t cringe while listening to grahamophone’s bad guitar channel, you’re either tone-deaf, or I’ve done something wrong. 

    Be patient and you will find those who accept and cherish you for who you are -- strengths, foibles and all. 

    In parting, a few more words of wisdom from Marilyn Monroe:

    "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." 

Tune in (or tune out) next time to the Grahamophone!

Single White Diva

    Long before urban singles started getting to know each other in six-minute increments, the makers of grand opera had perfected the art of speed-dating. Except, when impresarios and conductors are adjudicating new singers, they don’t get a complimentary cocktail to take the sting off.

    I got a taste of what their job must be like when I went speed-dating the other night. That’s when about a dozen men and about a dozen women convene for a game of adult musical chairs, so to speak. You sit across from your potential date and try to leave some sort of impression within the span of six minutes, after which time a bell is rung, and everyone shifts over until everybody has met everyone. Then you check the names of those who you’d like to meet again. If a person whose name you’ve checked has also checked yours, then you theoretically go on a date. A slow date.

    Six minutes seems a bit quick, doesn’t it? Actually, I’d venture to say that most common audition arias are no longer than that on average. In that span of time, one can judge your vocal technique, your musical expression, as well as your sense of judgement by what you have chosen to sing, what you have chosen to wear; your character can be assessed by how you introduce yourself and what you find necessary to say. 

    Apart from the vocal technique, the same applies to speed-dating. Of course, the first thing we look at is, well, looks. I’ll admit, I got a bit gussied up and even buffed my finger nails with my new Seacret™ nail care kit (let’s hope I get a little revenue for that plug). Although, under the dim lights of the cocktail bar, so much attention to detail was surely not necessary. I discovered at the end of the night that there was a big hole in my stockings, too, but no harm done. At any rate, I figure if I make an effort to look my best and just be myself, I’ve done all I can do. The rest is up to them.

    Oops, wait a minute. That’s the only difference between speed-dating and auditioning. At an audition, it really is up to them. In speed-dating, I also get a say. 

    In most cases, I knew when they walked in the door which men I would potentially give a ‘yes’ to, and which were going to get a definite ‘no’. This was not based on physique, height or hair color, but rather by their style and the charisma they exuded. There were no definite ‘yesses,’ to be honest - none of the men won me over solely on their looks. In fact, at the end of the night, I had only checked one name on my list. (One more thing the two occasions have in common is, by the time it’s over, I’ve met a lot of fabulous new female acquaintances -- see previous blog: Operatics Anonymous). Still, I find the concept intriguing - no matter what impression the person makes on me in the first few seconds, he’s got about five more minutes to show me what he’s really made of. 

    I wish the same were true of opera auditions. In fact, I think there should be a rule that you get to start with any aria you choose, and then be guaranteed the chance to sing at least a portion of a second aria of their choice. Even if they have to politely sit there while secretly pondering what they’ll have for lunch, at least I don’t get the feeling that I’m being stifled.

Actually, maybe I ought to treat speed-dating like an audition -- let the guy sit there and yap for six minutes until I say “Danke” -- and go about auditions as if they were speed dates. Maybe I have more of a say in them than I yet realize.

To all my potential dates and employers out there, if you’re not gettin’ lucky with me within six minutes, it’s probably not gonna happen. 

Better luck next time with the Grahamophone!