It Takes Balls to Be an Opera Singer

This entry was inspired by a post in Cheryl Studer’s new blog: 

http://cherylstuder.blogspot.de

I'm looking forward to more such fascinating insights from Ms. Studer, and glad she's decided to bless the blogosphere with her presence!

For a production of Hänsel und Gretel in 2005 I had to learn how to juggle. I’d had some luck juggling in the past, but had never really learned the technique, so the director had an experienced juggler come in to teach me and my colleagues how to do it right. Performing opera is not unlike juggling, in that there are three things, balls so to speak, that have to be in motion simultaneously in order to assure successful performance: singing, making music, and acting the part.

Patrick, our juggling teacher, began by having us throw one single ball up into the air. He showed us that you don’t have to keep your eye on the ball to catch it - you just have to watch where you throw it, and when it comes down, your hand automatically knows where to go. (If you’ve ever watched jugglers carefully, you’ve probably noticed that they’re almost always looking up). Also, we were able to get used to the amount of power we needed to throw the ball high enough, or not too high, into the air, first with the right, then with the left.

It should be a given that you know how to throw a ball before you start juggling, much like you should always be working on your singing technique before taking it out on the stage. Nothing is more disappointing than having your stage partner forget everything you’ve worked on during staging rehearsals because all of a sudden they’re worried about their technique. If you let that ball drop, you leave your colleagues in the lurch.

The second step of our juggling lesson involved juggling two balls with one hand. Basically we were repeating the first step, but by adding the second ball, the whole action went twice as fast - kind of like learning a difficult passage of music slowly at first and then speeding it up. Then we took one ball in each hand, threw them up and let them fall. We were to listen to the rhythm when they landed. If we heard “ba-dump” that was correct. If it was “ba......dump”, we worked on it until we got the rhythm right.

This second step is crucial to the success of the third element, or ball - the action. Have you ever heard that joke about the conversation with an actor?

“What do you do for a living,” asked the reporter.

“I’m an actor,” said the man.

“What’s your -”

“Timing!”

“ ... problem?”

Learning your music solidly makes taking the role on stage oh so much easier. I had the challenge recently of having to take over a role in Lady MacBeth of Mtsensk on short notice - I’d never heard it before, much less performed it. Within five days I had to learn and memorize the music, in some parts very rhythmically complicated. I had one or two stage rehearsals, and that was it. The simplest scene was the one I kept messing up, since I’d spent most of my time perfecting the more difficult passages. I went out on the stage during rehearsals with the easy phrases learned, but not well enough. So, while I was concentrating on the staging - making sure I enter at the right time, making sure the windows were open, making sure to start my action before pretending not to notice the tenor so that I can act surprised and get mad before telling him to go away - I skipped a phrase, switched my text and confused the conductor who was trying to keep me together with the orchestra, which at this point consisted solely of a lonely bassoon. We had to interrupt the rehearsal (the dress rehearsal, no less!) and start at my entrance again. Embarrassing....

Luckily, the premiere went along without a glitch. 

Even if no one notices it, dropping a “ball” during a performance always makes the singer’s own experience of his or her performance a little less enjoyable. Listening to the recording of the recital I gave last week, I’ve counted at least 5 mistakes of varying degrees, and I’m sure I’ll find more the next time I listen. I’m trying to forget about it, but since I only had the one shot to get it right (so far), I’m still rather angry with myself, wishing I would have practiced even more than I already did.

Back then during Hänsel und Gretel, there may have been performances where I made no musical mistakes, but I’m sure there wasn’t a night when the stage hands weren’t collecting tennis balls in the wings. The trick is, I guess, to keep practicing and practicing until everything flows smoothly, and you don’t have to think about it. Unfortunately, no step can be skipped. Knowing how to throw one ball in the air is just as crucial to the process as being able to juggle two or three, or even more. If you drop one, you just have to pick it up or let it lie, forget about it and act like you meant to do it that way.

I'll Have What She's Having ... Tapas For Singers

Gracias por su visita: Cafe Cristina in Madrid

We’ve all been there before: you go to a restaurant with friends, sit down, order, chit-chat while you wait for the food, slowly gaining an appetite for what you just ordered. Then the waiter brings the meals and you see what your neighbor has -- oh, now that looks delicious. Why didn’t I order that?

Now your own meal is unsatisfying, but you’re stuck with it. It’s a chore to finish, and the one or two morsels that your kind friend has allowed you to sample from her plate are not enough to appease your desire. Why didn’t you order that? Trading plates would be a bit awkward, and besides, why should your friend have to give up the meal she’d been craving all along just to make you happy?

Ah, envy.

I often go out to eat alone, usually when I’m in the mood for something specific and feel the urge to have it right that minute. I happen to live across from a very good café, and I only go there to eat when I want “my usual”. When I walk in, the wait staff already knows my order (oh my god, I’m turning into my dad), and if I ask for something different, they’re startled and ask me if I’m okay. 

If I want a bagel, there are only a couple places that serve them right, and ordering one anywhere else is taking a risk. Speaking of which, who knows why I continue to try Mexican restaurants here in Germany, having been disappointed by every single one, but I never give up hope.

Ah, hope. Ah, regret.

It was at my trusty Stammlokal (regular place) a while back where I got a sandwich (not my “usual”) on bread that was rock hard. I took a bite and thought, ‘Ewww, this is hard!’ but took three more bites, considered just eating the contents of the sandwich and not the bread, before working up the nerve to ask them to make a new one. This was, of course, no problem at all for them. But the fact that it took me so long to change my order - seriously, it was a conundrum - was an alarm signal to me.

Ah, the point....

At the smörgåsbord of singing, there are plenty of things to choose from:

Comprimario a la mode

for starters, a light load of small roles (no butter)

Aria di Sorbetto

comprimario topped with mild recognition and a twist of lemon

Concert Combination Plate

only available at Christmas and Easter, or other special occasions 

Summer Salad

not quite as filling as a main dish, served on the terrace, possibly in the rain

Prima Donna

a filling portion of hearty goodness, well done, served in three to five acts, finishing with a glass of wine and a bouquet of roses


With such a selection, sometimes it's hard to know what you want, until you see someone else getting it.

To celebrate the completion of a production last weekend, I went with my colleagues to our temporary Stammlokal, a wonderful tapas bar just around the corner from the theater. Although we were used to their somewhat lackadaisical service, the food is very good, and the drinks are a-plenty. Plus we enjoyed each other’s company, so the slow service never really mattered. But on this particular night, the orders got mixed up. Somehow, we all waited almost an hour to get any food, the drinks took a while, and we had to go a beg for a basket of bread to tide us over, having just come very hungry from our last performance. 

My order, even though I'd been the first one there, was the very last to trickle in, tapa by delicious tapa. All the while, people who had arrived after me were getting their dishes. They were offering me bites of this and that - would you like an albondiga? How about a patata arrugada? You want a bit of my tortilla? For once, I was completely happy with what I ordered. And although I was getting cranky from hunger, impatient, seriously near tears, and maybe even a bit rude, I declined their gracious offerings by sternly replying, “Thank you, but I want the food that I ordered!” And when my boquerones finally arrived, I savored every perfect bit. Giddy with joy, I shared my pimientos, and relished my manchego like it was a bar of rare, exquisite chocolate.

Ah, the lesson.

As I see some of my friends making their debuts at major opera houses, or premiering roles I wish I would have been hired to sing, or planning the births of their babies between gigs, or taking on jobs with decent salaries, I wonder if that’s what they ordered in the first place. Or if perhaps they’re looking at my plate, wishing they could have a bite of mine.

The Comfort Zone: Express Train to Nowhere

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~ Anaïs Nin 

Once I was riding on a train with a rather rowdy collection of passengers. It was the weekend, and throughout the car, there were small groups of people involved in bachelor parties, hen weekends, bowling tournaments, and who knows what else. My seat was quite near the door where one such group of young men was cleverly equipped with a beer cooler and a small boombox, listening to German “Schlager” at a fairly reasonable volume. Still, it was mildly annoying. At the next stop, a group of people sitting more toward the center got off and left a whole section of seats empty. I thought now might be a chance for me to have a more comfortable seat, as I’d been sharing leg room with the woman across from me, not to mention that it was a bit chilly sitting near the door.

But then it occurred to me that we weren’t yet past Cologne, Germany’s party central, and the chances of me sharing my section of seats with yet another, possibly even rowdier group of hens, stags, bowlers or what have you, was not exactly slim. So I remained seated in my current state of mild discomfort. I don’t remember what sort of people ended up occupying the seats where I could have sat. Pity, because then this story would either have a happy ending, or a tragic turn for the worse. But then, I wouldn’t be able to illustrate my point to you today. The thing is, you never know.

For the past little while, I’ve been experiencing ‘mild discomfort’ with a particular business associate. Through no fault of my or his own, our ways have parted (to keep the train analogy alive); we are not on the same journey. Just this past week, he offered me a role that could be very useful for my résumé, but I turned him down. He couldn’t quite understand why I would pass up such an opportunity, and it was hard for me to tell him why without hurting his feelings.

  In his environment, I receive the most applause (quite often because I’m the most experienced singer there); I have artistic freedom (due to lack of direction); I know exactly how the rehearsal process will be (because it hasn’t changed in 10 years). This is definitely my ‘Comfort Zone.’ I will ever be indebted to the trust instilled in me since I first started  working with this company.

All the same, while I’ve been riding first class in his regional train, so to speak, I’ve also been making short trips in high-speed locomotives, experiencing first hand how swiftly opportunities pass by. I’ve decided, I’m more likely to catch the Express to stardom and/or success (which by my definition simply means working in a manner suited to my abilities) on a different line. So, instead of remaining in my mildly uncomfortable seat, which has obviously gotten me nowhere lately, I’m going to risk finding a better opportunity at some other destination, even if that means perhaps never getting there.

And I’m pretty comfortable with that.

(special thanks to David Dickerson for trying to remind me how English works. Check out his amusing YouTube channel - greetingcardboy - to make your day slightly more pleasant)

The Tragic Tale of Me and Jenufa (i.e. never piss off a Norwegian)

Me as Karolka with Keiko Yano

Everything I need to know about opera, I learned 13 years ago, but forgot. Until now.

It was a sunny winter day, not too long after having arrived for my first job ever in Germany - the Opera Studio at the Deutsche Oper am Rhein. I was wearing a grayish-purplish somewhat sparkly vintage top and a thin longish skirt -- very Morticia Addamsesque. That and a pair of basic black pumps. I was all gussied up for one of those reach-out gigs we used to do for the opera studio. But before that, I had to go to a staging rehearsal for Jenufa. I was double cast as Karolka, the ditzy girlfriend, and had to make a somewhat blustery entrance from the back and make my way to the front of the stage and give Jenufa flowers. Sounds simple enough.

When I got to rehearsal that Saturday morning at 10:00, I hadn’t slept. My then boyfriend was visiting from America. No, we weren’t up all night getting ‘reacquainted’. In fact, we had been arguing. The whole long distance thing wasn’t quite working out, apparently. For that week, as a generous gesture, I had actually been excused from any ‘unnecessary’ rehearsals. This was one of them. But, the information hadn’t trickled down to the proper channels, and my name had been written on the schedule regardless, as had the name of my colleague. So, I sat there for two hours watching her do the part until I got my turn to go on stage.

By that time, all the other colleagues had been sent home, and the director’s assistant mimed all of their roles while the accompanist sang them. I was bewildered, tired, and mad about having to be there in the first place, but too much of a freshman to have the courage to say anything about them having violated my genehmigte Urlaub (approved vacation). By the looks on their faces, I think the director and conductor were not at all excited about being there either, having to repeat this whole scene for little ol’ me, “Karolka Two”. I tried to suck it all back and just make my entrance and get it over with so I could go sing my concert and get back to my visitor. 

The music at this point was rather difficult, not to mention in Czech, and the confines of my concert skirt hindered me from getting to the front of the stage in time or in the carefree fashion that the director required. After several times not getting it right, either musically or scenically, getting very frustrated with myself (see previous entry: “Confessions of a Staunch Perfectionist”), and not being able to make any sense of why I was even there, I had a wee meltdown right there on stage. 

Before I go on, let’s review my operatic experience up to this point. After playing a few roles in university productions and singing in the chorus at Seattle Opera, I went to Düsseldorf for the Opera Studio and had sung one of the leads in Brecht/Weill double feature, Happy End/Mahogany Songspiel. I must have done a bang-up job, because I had been entrusted with Ida in Fledermaus, Ines in Trovatore, Edelknabe Number Two in Lohengrin, the Dew Fairy in Hänsel und Gretel, and Karolka in Jenufa, my fifth role in as many months on the main stage, as well as the Studio concerts and Brecht/Weill production. I was kind of busy. 

And I had no idea what I was doing.

The first four pieces I mentioned were all revival productions -- meaning they had been playing for more than one season, the original director was long gone (like in the case of Lohengrin, which had its premiere 25 years previously), and you prepared your role with a director’s assistant, a repetiteur and maybe some other singers, if you were lucky. It was all very “come in from the left, go stand on the rock, climb the stairs, interact with Ruiz, etc.”.  I thought if I did all that right and sang the music correctly, well, that for me was the definition of opera and fit my job description. Jenufa, on the other hand, was a premiere. 

So, back to the meltdown. It was, of course, very embarrassing to break down and cry in the middle of a rehearsal, but stuff like that happens every now and again. That’s life. What bothers me now, is that I believe that was the precise moment my career took a left turn down the scenic route to success (Oh, look! A castle! Are we there yet?). It’s still very clear in my mind how the director’s assistant, Ingrid Raffeiner, now the head of a prominent opera agency, urgently whispered “Calm down, calm down...,” and how I stood next to the already renowned director (I had no idea), Norwegian Stein Winge, and tried to apologize. He seemed very disinterested. 

The following Monday morning I was called for a musical rehearsal, not with the repetiteur, but with the maestro himself, Jonathan Darlington. That’s like rehearsing with Jesus. After about 15 minutes of realizing that I did, in fact, know my part, we went down to the canteen for a cup of coffee. I hope I shall never forget this moment when the artistic administrator (now opera director) joined us at our table, and Mr. Darlington graciously defended me: “You’ve thrown her in there with stage veterans like Stein Winge, Anne Bolstad and Trudeliese Schmidt. She’s doing fine.” I was also called into the office to speak to the director of the the administration office (now opera director in Hannover), and I remember her sympathetic smile when she asked me if maybe I didn’t have just a little too much on my plate. Evidently, word of my meltdown had spread quickly.

I had no idea what being an opera singer was actually about, or more importantly, what it meant to me. I like to think that now I do. The kind of opera singer-actor I am trying to become is precisely the kind that a director like Stein Winge would want to work with. In fact, I want to call him up and say, “I get it now.”  

Looking back, that production of Jenufa taught me invaluable lessons:

Treat all colleagues, no matter what role, with equal respect

I found Marlis Petersen lying flat on her back in the foyer after she’d slipped a disc during one of the final rehearsals. Her role was smaller than mine, but even then she was well on her way to becoming the fabulous international star that she is now.

Things don’t always go as planned, even if a genius planned them

Romana Noack, who I shared my role with, taught me that things change from rehearsal to rehearsal and performance to performance. I remember her exclaiming in one of the rehearsals “Das ist halt so!” (That's just how it is!)

It’s not always about you

Monique Simone gave me the tip to bring a crossword puzzle or maybe some knitting to rehearsal to distract from the frustration that arises from waiting around.

Have fun

To this day, every time I see Bruce Rankin, who played my fiancée, he cries “Dahling!” in his unmistakable tenor voice. He lights up every room and makes even the most difficult rehearsals more pleasant.

You never know who’s watching you or who you inspire

The legendary Trudeliese Schmidt (may she rest in peace) came up to me after watching our Studio performance of Happy End and said, “Thank you. I learned so much from you.” 

I wish I would have gotten the chance to say the same to her. I should be so lucky to have the chance to perform with any one of my Jenufa colleagues again.

<-><-><-> 

After my first performance went off without a hitch, the applause was so thunderous that we had to go take several bows. (Really, you should’ve seen it, it was quite a show). Ingrid sent us all out for one final curtain and we were sluggish to react. She hastily and haphazardly pushed us out on stage, and I found myself smack dab in the middle of the row between the maestro and the prima donna. An absolute operatic no-no, but I enjoyed it while it lasted. That may have already been it for me.

Falling Facades

Münster Town Hall today

Besides the towering steeple of the St. Lamberti cathedral, the first thing that  stands out when you walk down the street in downtown Münster is the row of facades on the buildings along the Prinzipalmarkt. Atypical of most German cities, due to Münster’s proximity and history with Holland, these Dutch gables are quite common here. In the old days, they were used in lieu of numbers to identify addresses, and in the case of the Town Hall’s facade, built 30 meters over the actual roof in the mid 14th century, the highly ornate gable was meant to instill confidence in the power of the reigning Bishop through its imposing outward appearance.

Münster Town Hall, 1944
minutes before the gable fell

Most of the buildings in the Altstadt (old town) were rebuilt to replicate their originals after having been destroyed in World War II. Nearby theaters in Hagen, Aachen and Duisburg were rebuilt to look, at least from the exterior, as they did before the war. The theater in Münster, however, made the somewhat controversial decision to reconstruct in the current fashion of the 1950’s. As an homage to the building which stood there before, the architects left a piece of the original facade standing freely in the atrium, so that theater-goers could reflect upon it while sipping proseccos during intermission in the shiny, modern foyer.

Münster's modern theater
viewed through the facade

When I auditioned in Münster about four years ago, I put up the usual opera singer’s “facade” -- basic black with a flash of color, standard repertoire, polite demeanor, etc. I remember that I sang rather well, and after I was done they asked me, almost as if measuring the gable in front of the Town Hall, “Frau Graham, how tall are you?” Apparently, they had a short tenor.

Opera is an art form which has been around for centuries, and it is also one very reluctant to change. So it is no wonder that we put up our facades to try to emulate what we think might be expected of us. We beef up our résumés to make us look as experienced as the singer next to us. We dye our gray hairs to appear the same age as the singer next to us. We wear heels or flats to adjust our height. We hide our special, individual talents -- like baking, writing, singing silly songs, or even having other jobs -- to make us seem like ‘serious’ artists. We try to keep ourselves lined up with concerts so we appear busy, giving off the impression that we are in high demand and therefore better than all the rest.

I got the chance to audition in Münster again, just four weeks ago. The piece being cast is brand new - a world premiere - and they needed someone in a hurry. Luckily, I was available. Already I tore down my first facade of looking busy. For some reason, maybe because I had to get up so early, I couldn’t be assed to wear my usual audition garb, so I wore a wacky print dress. Second facade down. For the train ride up there, I wore casual red boots and had my basic black pumps in my bag to change into shortly before going on stage. In the middle of my first aria, I realized I had forgotten to change my shoes. Oops, third strike. As I stepped on the stage and looked out into the modern hall and its purple upholstered seats, I exclaimed, “Oh! Purple is my favorite color!” instead of “My name is... and I’d like to sing... .” Surely my cover was blown by then at the latest. The only facade I had left was one of courage, masking my actual scared-shitlessness.

Perhaps a bit perplexed by my demeanor and attire, the panel nevertheless listened to my first selection, then invited me to stay for the second round. In their search for someone to perform this brand new work in this modern theater, I suppose my “facade” (or lack of one) built on a solid foundation of talent, technique and experience, was exactly the one they were looking for.

  The premiere of “Timeshift” is December 4, subsequent performances on December 7th, January 14th, February 29th, and March 11th. Be sure and plan enough time to explore and view the gables of Münster! 

The Path of Least Persistence: Dog-racing for Singers

Run, Christine, Run!

If you’ve ever been to the dog races, you’ve seen the fervor and determination with which greyhounds chase their goal. Not looking right nor left, they run like mad around the track until crossing the finish line. The ‘winner’ is the first one to realize that what he’s been chasing all along is not a tasty rabbit, but a mechanical lure with a furry tail at best. But the dogs keep chasing this unfulfillable feast until going into a sad and miserable retirement. 

But that’s another story. It’s a dog eat dog world.

Chasing the operatic dream is not dissimilar to a dog race, except for the fact that the lure is real. But you have to chase a lot of false rabbits and bark up a bunch of wrong trees before capturing it. Obviously the greyhound isn’t aware that the rabbit is a fake. Otherwise, I can’t imagine that he would run so fast to catch it. The concept of ‘discouragement’ is foreign to a dog.

When I first set foot in the race to become an opera singer in Germany, I was running at the swift pace of a greyhound. I sent 70 letters to agents, opera houses and young artists’ programs, happily licking each stamp and not being bothered by the “No-thank-you” replies that came pouring in (in fact, I made a collage out of them -- I call it “Mit freundlichen Grüßen”). Of those 70 letters, I got one invitation to audition, flew out, sang for them and was immediately offered the job. I hit the ground running, so to speak.

Since I’ve been here, I honestly don’t think I’ve put as much effort into getting auditions as I did back then. Instead I concentrated my efforts on singing for agents so that they could do the footwork, and of course on the matter at hand -- my job. While you’re working, it’s easy to take your eye off the rabbit and forget that, even though you have work, you are still in the race. Plus, no matter how hard I try, other contenders still get ahead. Despite having sung for several agents who seem to like what I do, I often find out about auditions happening without me.

Just recently, I sang a formidable Oscar in Un Ballo in Maschera, I also have Zerbinetta in my repertoire (and got a great review in Opernwelt for that performance), and I’m just about to play Mozart’s famous Queen of the Night. So when I read on another singer’s blog that she was getting ready to audition for exactly those three roles, I wonder why it is that I don’t even know about this audition, much less why I haven’t been invited. Or when I saw on yet another coloratura’s Facebook page that she’d only last week landed a fest contract in a smaller house in the east, again I am baffled as to why these auditions pass me by.

Things like this happen often enough to make me stop running so fast and instead take leisurely walk on my self-denominated Path of Least Persistence. This can be a very pleasant experience, just as I’m sure a greyhound dog enjoys haphazardly chasing a frisbee probably even more than frantically running after a wanna-be rabbit. On the Path of Least Persistence unexpected things come to you unexpectedly. Problem is, it’s not enough. While it can be fulfilling to sing Bach in a church with an amateur choir, or fun to improvise over electronic music on a boat as part of an art exhibition, it does not quite satisfy the urge to prove your worth and serve the duty of portraying a character through music on a stage with your peers -- and be able to pay the bills, to boot.

...ain't never caught a rabbit.

I hypothesize, however, that I may have gotten that very first audition back then had I sent only 20 letters instead of 70. That particular recipient probably would have been on my addressee list in both cases. So why should I bother with the rest? Now I know through experience that there are some trees I needn’t bother to bark up in the first place. Nevertheless, I have to admit that I probably could have done a bit more this season as far as promoting myself goes, although sometimes I wish it would suffice to be an über-talented and reliable musician who does her job well. At least I know that my competitors’ successes have nothing to do with my shortcomings -- especially if I wasn’t even there to be a contender.

Sure it’s discouraging to repeatedly face rejection, but we have to keep the greyhounds in mind.* What if they are perfectly aware that the lure they are chasing is not a real rabbit? Perhaps they’re in the race for the sheer joy of running. Maybe it’s time for me to shed all my discouragement and leave it behind on the Path of Least Persistence and get back into the race -- full speed, come what may -- if only for the sheer joy of licking stamps.

* By now, I hope you’ve figured out that this is only an analogy, and not a factual representation of the sometimes abusive practice of dog racing, which I do not purport to support (unless, of course, my dog wins).

OPERAHOLICS: An Existential Look at an Addictive Career

  Ever since moving to Europe my tolerance for alcohol has increased considerably. Depending on the company and the food, I can easily finish off a bottle of wine in one evening without feeling drunk. Watching a soccer game, I can knock back a six-pack and still be able to remember which team I’m rooting for. Although I drink a lot more frequently than I used to, I still wouldn’t call myself an alcoholic. Much the same, although I sing on a regular basis, can’t say no to an opportunity to perform for money, and thereby earn my living by doing so, I still have trouble calling myself an opera singer.

When I meet non-music people for the first time and they ask me what I do (or more often, what am I doing here in Germany), it is almost with shame that I give them my reply. It’s not that I am embarrassed about being a singer, rather that I know I have now confronted them with information that is probably just as perplexing to them as it is to me. I have opened a door into the unknown and at the same time erected a wall between us. Quite a strain on a new acquaintance, don’t you think? Unless we have something else which binds us, the disconnect is almost audible. They have their preconceived notion of what an opera singer does, and I have to struggle with not living up to their expectations, or even admit that I’m not living up to my own. 

“Hi, I’m Christy, and I’m a professional opera singer.”

“Hi, Christy.”

Like alcoholics at an A.A. meeting, I am usually most at ease when I am in a room full of people just like me, or among friends and family who have grown to understand and accept who and what I am. One such time was just last night, when I sang in a beautiful Pentecost concert (for those of you who don’t know -- like I didn’t, until last night -- Pentecost basically celebrates the coming of the Holy Spirit upon the Apostles, and ergo the birth of the church). After the concert, we were celebrating with pizza and wine, compliments of the church’s ambitious choir. My friend and bass colleague of eight years told me in bewilderment, “I can’t believe that someone who sings as divinely as you has to work in a café. I just can’t understand why you’re not famous and/or getting more work.” (Soon I will be starting my new job as a barista to make ends meet -- funny that my ‘pay-my-way-through-college’ job is now serving as my ‘pay-my-way-through-my-career’ job).

“Well, it wasn’t that divine,” I said. “I think that one F# in the W.F. Bach aria was a little too high.”*

Raising his hands to the ceiling, he exclaimed, “Thank you God, she’s not perfect!!” Then he told me about Persian rug weavers who intentionally leave a “mistake” in their rug, which creates a hole through which the Holy Spirit can enter; or as the Navajos do, leave a string hanging to serve as the “spirit line” so that the Great Spirit can find its way.  Not to brag too much, but it did indeed feel like some holy spirit was entering me during that aria. First the credit goes to W.F. Bach for creating it, but I must say, I sang the holy bejeezus out of it.

After hypothesizing about what I could possibly be doing wrong regarding furthering my career, we came up with two basic theories. One: the competition is just overwhelming.  Two: I am not a typical opera singer. This, of course, brought us back to the aforementioned conundrum: just what is an opera singer supposed to be like, anyway? I’m sure even if I did find out what one should be like, I don’t expect I would attempt to change myself in any way in order to fit that mold.

None the wiser, we finished our pizza and wine and went home. I was alone on the platform, waiting for the train when a strange, probably alcoholic man came up to me and asked for some change so he could make a call to the Ukraine. I don’t usually give out money to strangers, but I had a big wad of earnings in my wallet from the concert, so I figured I could share some of the wealth. I handed him a one-euro coin, and he mentioned he would try to change it, since the call might only cost around 70 cents and he didn’t want to be wasteful. I looked in my purse again and gave him one euro in smaller change. He asked if I wanted the first euro coin back, and I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had a good day, I was just in a concert,” which was pretty obvious considering my formal garb.

“Oh, what instrument do you play?”

“I’m a singer.”

“I used to be a musician, too,” he told me. “But not your kind of music. I played rock and roll.”

“Oh! So you know what a hartes Brot (literally, hard bread = tough living) it can be.”

“Yes. And what I also know,” he continued, “is that the people making real money are mostly just a bunch of untalented Zwitscher-Heinis and the really good singers often get left behind.”

“Zwitscher-Heini”, I can only assume, is one who constantly chirps in a not-so musical manner. The strange man thanked me profusely for the two euros, and for some reason -- perhaps we were both moved by the Holy Spirit, or just connected by a common miswoven thread -- we both had tears in our eyes.

“Good luck,” he said, as he turned to go. “And I mean that from the heart.”

“I know you do,” I said, feeling an enormous sense of gratitude for the gift I’ve been given. “Thank you. Good luck to you, too.”

I trust that, despite the late hour, he did indeed spend my two euros on a phone call to the Ukraine and not on a beer. I reckon I could give up drinking if I had to. But the singing? Not a chance.

*Here's the link to hear part of that W.F. Bach aria