It's that time of year again: audition season! I made my views on the joys of auditioning known round about this time last year. I more or less stand by that, auditions still aren't my idea of a pleasant experience, but oddly enough it's the lack of auditions I'm finding hard to deal with right now. OK, I'm exaggerating, I am auditioning, I shouldn't complain, and yet...
For one thing, I appreciate that administrators must be receiving hundreds of emails and letters with CVs, and it's a logistical nightmare, but not hearing back after sending an application often has me and my colleagues walking around rather on edge. For those who don't know, auditions come up on quite short notice, so it's difficult to plan anything in Autumn (I suppose this applies primarily to the UK), because, eager as we are to please and not make waves, we feel we have to be ready to drop everything to go for that once in a lifetime opportunity (dozens of them there may be, but we all pretend that each is the one and only). You know that feeling you have when you know there's something you have to do, someone you should call to arrange something and it keeps getting put of through forgetfulness, busy dial tones, etc? It's like that, but there's nothing you can do about it, because the ball's not in your court. It's actually nice in a way to get the otherwise dreaded 'there have been so many applications that we cannot offer you an audition at this time' email, because you can tick something off the list and get on with life.
But then there's that one audition you were sort of planning your life around (with all the caveats of 'I probably won't get it' etc) and you get that very email. They heard you last year, they know you're a student (says so on your CV), so even though they didn't want you then, it's safe to assume you're not quite the same singer now... But no, actually the policy is: if they've heard you, they won't want to hear you again for a couple of years, they'd rather hear some new voices. Fair enough, but I didn't know that last year! Why did no one warn me? Why isn't this common knowledge, and if it is, why didn't I get the memo? I wouldn't have gone for it, I wasn't desperate for the job, I wanted to give it a good shot to get used to high profile auditions... Mistake. I wish someone had warned me, or at least told me to think about that being a possible outcome. To the singers out there: ask questions about this kind of thing, there are some golden nuggets of information and insight that your coaches won't divulge unless pressed. I understand, they are there to build your confidence (and improve your skills, of course), not second guess you. Still...
If I'm coming across as bitter, I'll beg you not to misunderstand. I'm still learning, and I have learnt that lesson now, and I'm glad. It took me some detective work to find out why I was denied the opportunity to even try, and now that I have my answer, I feel better. I am a better singer now than last year, and would have had a better chance than back then. But next year I plan to be even better, and you know what? I can wait. Not an easy three words for me to say, but I got there in the end.
I do have one more thing to add in terms of auditions, just based on my ever growing experience and conversations with coaches and colleagues I have had since last year. It's a thought that's not even specifically about auditions, but it's been a minor revelation for me (obvious as it my seem). As singers we are taught primarily to perform. That means sing, but also understand, interpret, act, etc. We are trained to deliver a product every time we perform, and that product is targeted at an audience. We are also told to treat auditions like a performance. That's all well and good, but is perhaps misleading in a way. Here's my revelation:
An audience, a conductor or director (the people you work with to create a show) and an audition panel - they are all looking for something different! You're free to disagree, because the differences are subtle, and the two latter parties are indeed ultimately trying to cater for the former, but here's my reasoning. Audiences are generally not interested in the mechanics of achieving what they are witnessing, they either enjoy it or not, and what they receive is the Performance. That's what they are looking for: the Performance, which is what we are trained to deliver. Creatives (MDs, conductors, directors, etc) are interested in the mechanics of achieving the Performance. They aren't always present at auditions and work with the people they're given. What they are looking for is a smooth, pleasant, productive Attitude from their singers. That means the capacity to perform, of course, to interpret, but also to be flexible and go with their vision. Our own personal Performance is most often just a starting point from which the final product will evolve.
What are audition panels looking for then? What can they hope to find in 5 minutes? Can they find a Performance? No, because that's what the creatives will be in charge of. Well, they can't really judge your Attitude, because they're not going to work with you, so as long as you don't have a bad reputation, they will assume on the basis of your experience that you can deliver in that respect. They're looking for a Voice. A nice noise. Maybe that's not all, but it's the main thing. You can give the Performance of a lifetime and not get anything, perhaps because you distracted from your Voice by overdoing the other elements of performing. Some people do deal with stress by relying on the character, thereby becoming someone else in a way. All well and good, but chances are the character isn't as good a singer as you are, gets carried away by emotion, which creeps into the Voice... Or something.
It's an odd thought, as a performer: for these five minutes I have to switch off or dial down a few of the things that I know are my strengths, not give all that I can give, because perhaps they might not want all of it (I suppose too large a menu makes it difficult to choose what you feel like eating and makes it easy to miss the chef's speciality), and just give them what they can't go without: a quality noise. Then trust them to know you can give so much more... I find that scary, perhaps because I don't quite believe my voice is enough on its own. But it has to be. Scary.
Friday, 19 October 2012
Posted with Blogsy
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
The Problem Solver... or at least Identifier.
RWCMD singers' Facebook and Twitter accounts went a bit mad yesterday, raving about Paul Farrington's lecture, which sadly I had to miss. It did pique my interest for my session with him today. I had heard him called a 'vocal trouble-shooter' with a highly scientific approach to singing, and that the one-to-ones were a bit quirky and involved various accessories. With this in mind I was almost ready to feel self-conscious this morning, as my session was a public one. Luckily he was very easy-going and once he had uttered the words What I'm about to insert between your bum-cheeks is just my hip bone, so don't worry, we were well on our way to a nice working atmosphere.
I'll put a list of Paul's thoughts, quotes, exercises and suggestions at the bottom of this post (as usual), but for now I'd just like to describe the incident that stuck out most in my mind, and I think it's fair to say that others who were there would agree that it was tantamount to a mini-miracle. Upon 'diagnosing' a colleague of mine with tension in the root of the tongue, after an attempt at releasing it through exercises, Paul proceeded to actual physical manipulation. It looked like a painful massage on the front of the neck and under the jaw, with a fair bit of force applied. I'm sure you're wondering, yes, he is trained in the methodology of manipulation and no, you can't try it at home. Did it work? The colleague in question opened his mouth and the voice was barely recognisable! Well, that may be going a bit far, but trust me, the difference was collosal.
So is Paul Farrington a miracle-worker with a voice-altering touch? Oh, if only it was that simple. The example I described was only a release of tension, a taste of what can be achieved in a world where all tongues are perfectly relaxed, but after a phrase or two the tension did start creeping back in. It was however a fascinating experience to see and work with someone who not only hears that something is wrong in the voice, or can be improved, but who can also describe what it is exactly, down to the names of the muscles involved, and also has ideas on how to fix it that even utilise elements of physiotherapy.
If you want to find out more about what Paul does, have a look at his website:
www.paulfarrington.org
Here are the thoughts, quotes, etc, in no particular order:
When he thought I was pumping too much air into my voice, he had me hum and sing the aria into a CPR-mask. It also took away any element of self-listening.
The jaw should drop only as far as it can go forward. Quite a few of us had to give the audience our best Bruce Forsyth impressions. If the jaw goes down further it goes back, putting pressure on all sorts of things that should remain pressure-free. You can get a taste for when this happens by jamming your fingers between your ears and jaw (careful, it can hurt if you're tigt there, but if you get your jaw forward, two fingers should be able to fit).
A whiney voice with some badly acted crying and sobbing creates a great space for singing high and yet keeping a forward placement.
To check if you have tension in the root of the tongue, try performing your piece making a farting noise. You can only keep it going with a loose tongue.
If you have tension there, try singing with your jaw resting on a hard surface (we had a Steinway in the hall, you may have to make do with something less glamorous) to help isolate the problem.
If I draw the jaw forward then the soft palette goes 'come on then, bring it on!'.
You can't have that party for one in your mouth. On sound going too far back and sounding good to the singer, but dead to the audience.
The jaw and the tongue have become part of your support mechanism without you realising it. They do work as a double act. Taking them out (of the support) feels scary and out of control, but the support is actually supposed to come from somewhere else.
As an exercise in bringing the jaw forward, you can try singing with what Paul described as an unfortunate underbite (as seen on some breeds of dog).
You don't need to open your mouth any more, the space is already there. If you need more, do it on the inside. Again, not letting the jaw go back and introduce tension.
There was a bit of talk about stress, and one tip was to combat nerves by focussing on engaging a muscle group that makes you feel stronger, and doesn't impede singing. The f*ing muscle which gives you an active back and slightly aggressive stance '... and your family!'. Just imagine someone's pulling at your bra straps. Or alternatively (some of us feel silly in bras) get a theraband (elastic tape used for exercise and physiotherapy) and stand on the middle of it, feet at hip width, with your hands down by your sides holding the stretched ends of the tape. Relax the knees (we don't want to the legs working up tension) and feel your back engage.
On articulating coloratura: it should be like moments of joy in the pubic floor. Support in general starts from the pubic bone. The diaphragm can't give us the subtle movements needed for coloratura, but the pubic muscles can.
A potentially controversial one: Taking low breaths lowers the larynx, which is not good when attempting to sing high notes, because the larynx physiologically needs to be up for them. Higher breathing makes it easier to sing shorter phrases that start high. You don't need the Wagner suck.
On turning the voice: you don't need to take the sound back before turning it. Your voice is a car, not a bendy bus, you don't have to take the wider route around corners. Try to find the shortest way up, not the detour, turn the voice but keep it forward. Singers obsess about the idea of space, we get told that you need a huge space to sing high, but if you take that thought and it makes you search for space at the back and jam all your sound there, you risk losing the forward 'on the mask' placement.
It's a duck. A happy duck. A happy American duck... from Texas. A happy American duck with attitude. - On getting the voice forward by singing in a caricature ugly voice.
You should be able to hum what you sing, it makes sure your vocal folds are going long and thin (which is apparently what they love best).
If you open up and let me in, it'll be less painful.
That last one was probably when doing the fingers between ear and jaw thing, and I think I'll leave it at that ;)
All thoughts, quotes, etc are based on my notes from the session, I reserve the right to get things wrong in my paraphrasing, feel free to disagree, it's all just food for thought and a way for me to process my thoughts, treat it as a curiosity, feel free to disagree, can't we all just get along?
I'll put a list of Paul's thoughts, quotes, exercises and suggestions at the bottom of this post (as usual), but for now I'd just like to describe the incident that stuck out most in my mind, and I think it's fair to say that others who were there would agree that it was tantamount to a mini-miracle. Upon 'diagnosing' a colleague of mine with tension in the root of the tongue, after an attempt at releasing it through exercises, Paul proceeded to actual physical manipulation. It looked like a painful massage on the front of the neck and under the jaw, with a fair bit of force applied. I'm sure you're wondering, yes, he is trained in the methodology of manipulation and no, you can't try it at home. Did it work? The colleague in question opened his mouth and the voice was barely recognisable! Well, that may be going a bit far, but trust me, the difference was collosal.
So is Paul Farrington a miracle-worker with a voice-altering touch? Oh, if only it was that simple. The example I described was only a release of tension, a taste of what can be achieved in a world where all tongues are perfectly relaxed, but after a phrase or two the tension did start creeping back in. It was however a fascinating experience to see and work with someone who not only hears that something is wrong in the voice, or can be improved, but who can also describe what it is exactly, down to the names of the muscles involved, and also has ideas on how to fix it that even utilise elements of physiotherapy.
If you want to find out more about what Paul does, have a look at his website:
www.paulfarrington.org
Here are the thoughts, quotes, etc, in no particular order:
When he thought I was pumping too much air into my voice, he had me hum and sing the aria into a CPR-mask. It also took away any element of self-listening.
The jaw should drop only as far as it can go forward. Quite a few of us had to give the audience our best Bruce Forsyth impressions. If the jaw goes down further it goes back, putting pressure on all sorts of things that should remain pressure-free. You can get a taste for when this happens by jamming your fingers between your ears and jaw (careful, it can hurt if you're tigt there, but if you get your jaw forward, two fingers should be able to fit).
A whiney voice with some badly acted crying and sobbing creates a great space for singing high and yet keeping a forward placement.
To check if you have tension in the root of the tongue, try performing your piece making a farting noise. You can only keep it going with a loose tongue.
If you have tension there, try singing with your jaw resting on a hard surface (we had a Steinway in the hall, you may have to make do with something less glamorous) to help isolate the problem.
If I draw the jaw forward then the soft palette goes 'come on then, bring it on!'.
You can't have that party for one in your mouth. On sound going too far back and sounding good to the singer, but dead to the audience.
The jaw and the tongue have become part of your support mechanism without you realising it. They do work as a double act. Taking them out (of the support) feels scary and out of control, but the support is actually supposed to come from somewhere else.
As an exercise in bringing the jaw forward, you can try singing with what Paul described as an unfortunate underbite (as seen on some breeds of dog).
You don't need to open your mouth any more, the space is already there. If you need more, do it on the inside. Again, not letting the jaw go back and introduce tension.
There was a bit of talk about stress, and one tip was to combat nerves by focussing on engaging a muscle group that makes you feel stronger, and doesn't impede singing. The f*ing muscle which gives you an active back and slightly aggressive stance '... and your family!'. Just imagine someone's pulling at your bra straps. Or alternatively (some of us feel silly in bras) get a theraband (elastic tape used for exercise and physiotherapy) and stand on the middle of it, feet at hip width, with your hands down by your sides holding the stretched ends of the tape. Relax the knees (we don't want to the legs working up tension) and feel your back engage.
On articulating coloratura: it should be like moments of joy in the pubic floor. Support in general starts from the pubic bone. The diaphragm can't give us the subtle movements needed for coloratura, but the pubic muscles can.
A potentially controversial one: Taking low breaths lowers the larynx, which is not good when attempting to sing high notes, because the larynx physiologically needs to be up for them. Higher breathing makes it easier to sing shorter phrases that start high. You don't need the Wagner suck.
On turning the voice: you don't need to take the sound back before turning it. Your voice is a car, not a bendy bus, you don't have to take the wider route around corners. Try to find the shortest way up, not the detour, turn the voice but keep it forward. Singers obsess about the idea of space, we get told that you need a huge space to sing high, but if you take that thought and it makes you search for space at the back and jam all your sound there, you risk losing the forward 'on the mask' placement.
It's a duck. A happy duck. A happy American duck... from Texas. A happy American duck with attitude. - On getting the voice forward by singing in a caricature ugly voice.
You should be able to hum what you sing, it makes sure your vocal folds are going long and thin (which is apparently what they love best).
If you open up and let me in, it'll be less painful.
That last one was probably when doing the fingers between ear and jaw thing, and I think I'll leave it at that ;)
All thoughts, quotes, etc are based on my notes from the session, I reserve the right to get things wrong in my paraphrasing, feel free to disagree, it's all just food for thought and a way for me to process my thoughts, treat it as a curiosity, feel free to disagree, can't we all just get along?
Saturday, 22 September 2012
- Tenor Actor! - Um, it's just 'Actor', I'm actually a baritone.*
A Night at the Chinese Opera - Act 3 (The Old Crone)
As I mentioned in my last post, this Summer seems to have been dominated by 20th century repertoire: first the Bernstein MASS in the Royal Albert Hall (quite possibly the high point of my singing adventures so far!), The Shadow of the Wave at the Tête à Tête Festival (see below), and last, but definitely not least, A Night at the Chinese Opera with British Youth Opera. It also seems to be the time of year when I get to practice the experience of covering: last year at Banff and with Scottish Opera, this time in BYO.
In many ways covering for BYO is a unique experience, especially when compared with my previous forays into understudying or what I've heard from my friends about how it is in various opera companies. First and foremost, you are guaranteed a public performance, which is a very powerful motivator and also a valuable opportunity, as the cover shows are usually quite well attended. It is worth noting that this performance is with the orchestra, which I'm pretty sure you don't get anywhere else.
A Night at the Chinese Opera - Act 2
Secondly, you are present for pretty much the entire production schedule, right from the first studio rehearsals. It does mean you are potentially in for a lot of long days (10.30am-9pm), but on the other hand you not only get to watch the show grow and take form, but more importantly you get to be part of the social life. Spending breaks with the cast and crew is a great way of getting to know people that in other companies you'd only really get to watch on stage. Here you have a chance to form a much wider team, and certainly in the case of A Night at the Chinese Opera I think everyone felt supported by one another. I personally really appreciated that so many of the main cast came to the cover show, and those that didn't manage to make it sent their best wishes. That kind of friendly atmosphere really makes a huge difference to how you work, how you feel and finally to the finished product. It certainly makes the time pass much quicker! Once it was all over we could hardly believe that 5 weeks had gone...
The short run of shows also means that the probability of a cover going on is not very high, which in turn means that there is less pressure on sticking to what the principals are doing than would normally be the case. Don't get me wrong, we had to have a solid knowledge of the show and the main cast's blocking, just in case, but once that was achieved we felt encouraged to make it our own. This obviously has to do with the fact that the cover show is a public one, and it shows how committed BYO is to the growth of every person involved in the season. In fact, the people in charge not only came to see our performance, but Stuart Barker (who was in fact the director for Chinese Opera) also came to some of the cover rehearsals, and both himself and Peter Robinson took the time to chat to every member of the company not just to see how we were all getting on, but also to find out more about us. It all makes for a unique process to be involved in.
A Night at the Chinese Opera - Act 3 ('Death by slow slicing!')
All photos by Bill Knight
This may all look like a marketing blurb, and naturally over the course of the 5 weeks there were moments of tiredness, crankiness and doubt, but those just come with the job and are to be expected anywhere. It doesn't change the fact that what with all the lovely people I got to meet doing it, the challenge of putting on a contemporary opera, the satisfaction felt after doing it well, and everything else I've touched on here, BYO was a great experience for me and I feel lucky to have been a part of it.
* The title of this post is inspired by what James H called out when he saw me come out of the theatre after our cover show. It's not the first time this has happened to me, so I should probably get used to it, but in Chinese Opera I was in fact covering the role of Tenor Actor. It's quite lucky for me that I do have some history in playing these slightly ambiguous roles (although here the clue is perhaps in the name), otherwise I might not have had the chance to take part in BYO this Summer. I would however like to express my gratitude to the company for putting the role down simply as Actor in the programme, saving me some awkward back pedaling should anyone ask what someone with my bio is doing singing a tenor part.
To those who don't know, I am in fact a baritone, albeit a fairly high one, which allows me to slip into 'tenor mode' every now and again, under the right circumstances.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
The colour of music
As you may or may not know, my Summer has been dominated by contemporary opera. First there was my London operatic debut (it wasn't quite as glamorous as it sounds :p) at the Tete a Tete Festival, performing my friend Tom Floyd's opera The Shadow of the Wave. Now I'm in rehearsals for British Youth Opera's production of Judith Weir's A Night at the Chinese Opera, where I'm covering the role of Tenor Actor (as if I wasn't confused enough about my voice type, everyone in the company assumes me to be a tenor until I set them straight).
It's all calmed down now, with Shadow out of the way, but the last month or two have been hard: there was a fair amount of difficult music to learn. And on the topic of learning contemporary music, there were conversations in both casts about how singers actually approach music that doesn't really 'roll off the voice', and if it does... You're probably wrong! For some people it's simply a question of repetition under the guidance of a 'mistake controller', others just have a knack for memorizing complex rhythms and melodies that have little to do with what's going on around them.
My personal approach is as follows:
The most important thing is time. While I can learn quickly, I avoid it if I can with anything more difficult than Mozart. With a lot of contemporary pieces, half the battle is tuning into the musical language of the composer. They're all quirky in their own way, and if you can absorb the quirks, you can feel more secure in your surroundings, so to speak, and this takes time. I don't mean months of daily work, but rather starting as soon as you get the score, and working little by little, even with big gaps between sessions for other things, but keeping the new piece as a recurring theme in your practice.
I also tend to write in beats in my score A LOT. Even for a basic 4/4 or 3/4 rhythm, but especially for tricky phrases. However what I don't do is memorize the counting (unless it's unavoidable), but rather practice a bit of conducting myself while speaking in rhythm. This helps me build an association in my mind between what I'm meant to be doing and what I can expect the conductor to do, which has one advantage over counting for myself: if something does go wrong (and to be honest, these things very rarely go perfectly), I can catch the conductor more easily than when I'm ploughing on ahead. In pieces where the rest of the music is more often than not more confusing than helpful, the conductor is usually your only friend, hopefully the friend least likely to make mistakes.
As for pitches and 'tunes' (if there are any), I don't really have a sight-reader's mind for intervals. What I rely on is what I'd call the 'colour' of the music. I can quite often pitch tricky notes out of seemingly unhelpful chords, if I get used to how they correspond, what colour they have in my ear. Oddly enough, when in that frame of mind it sometimes gets bizarrely difficult to sing notes that I'm spoonfed by an instrument or other singer (especially if you have to transpose by an octave! Who knew octaves could be so difficult?). This ear and memory for colours comes in handy in conjunction with a bit of muscle memory for getting back on track when I go off piste, because firstly I quickly know when something's wrong, and also sort of know how it should sound when it's right, so I can get it back even in the strangest of phrases.
I am by no means a particularly good learner or performer of contemporary music, but I enjoy the challenge and can feel myself getting better at it with every project I do. The approach I've described here has evolved over the past 3 years, and will probably require further tweaking next time I have some unnecessarily difficult music to learn.
As a parting thought: between Bernstein, Floyd and Weir, I have never found simple time signatures so difficult. The most mistakes I've made in rehearsals was in 4/4 phrases where I'd have to sing on the beat! That and those bloody octaves...
It's all calmed down now, with Shadow out of the way, but the last month or two have been hard: there was a fair amount of difficult music to learn. And on the topic of learning contemporary music, there were conversations in both casts about how singers actually approach music that doesn't really 'roll off the voice', and if it does... You're probably wrong! For some people it's simply a question of repetition under the guidance of a 'mistake controller', others just have a knack for memorizing complex rhythms and melodies that have little to do with what's going on around them.
My personal approach is as follows:
The most important thing is time. While I can learn quickly, I avoid it if I can with anything more difficult than Mozart. With a lot of contemporary pieces, half the battle is tuning into the musical language of the composer. They're all quirky in their own way, and if you can absorb the quirks, you can feel more secure in your surroundings, so to speak, and this takes time. I don't mean months of daily work, but rather starting as soon as you get the score, and working little by little, even with big gaps between sessions for other things, but keeping the new piece as a recurring theme in your practice.
I also tend to write in beats in my score A LOT. Even for a basic 4/4 or 3/4 rhythm, but especially for tricky phrases. However what I don't do is memorize the counting (unless it's unavoidable), but rather practice a bit of conducting myself while speaking in rhythm. This helps me build an association in my mind between what I'm meant to be doing and what I can expect the conductor to do, which has one advantage over counting for myself: if something does go wrong (and to be honest, these things very rarely go perfectly), I can catch the conductor more easily than when I'm ploughing on ahead. In pieces where the rest of the music is more often than not more confusing than helpful, the conductor is usually your only friend, hopefully the friend least likely to make mistakes.
As for pitches and 'tunes' (if there are any), I don't really have a sight-reader's mind for intervals. What I rely on is what I'd call the 'colour' of the music. I can quite often pitch tricky notes out of seemingly unhelpful chords, if I get used to how they correspond, what colour they have in my ear. Oddly enough, when in that frame of mind it sometimes gets bizarrely difficult to sing notes that I'm spoonfed by an instrument or other singer (especially if you have to transpose by an octave! Who knew octaves could be so difficult?). This ear and memory for colours comes in handy in conjunction with a bit of muscle memory for getting back on track when I go off piste, because firstly I quickly know when something's wrong, and also sort of know how it should sound when it's right, so I can get it back even in the strangest of phrases.
I am by no means a particularly good learner or performer of contemporary music, but I enjoy the challenge and can feel myself getting better at it with every project I do. The approach I've described here has evolved over the past 3 years, and will probably require further tweaking next time I have some unnecessarily difficult music to learn.
As a parting thought: between Bernstein, Floyd and Weir, I have never found simple time signatures so difficult. The most mistakes I've made in rehearsals was in 4/4 phrases where I'd have to sing on the beat! That and those bloody octaves...
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
Is there madness in my method?
I am a singer. My training in the field of acting is limited to basic stagecraft (mostly of the 19th century variety), a rudimentary explanation of Stanislavski from a couple of directors, and then just hands-on experience of doing what I'm told on stage.
I have noticed however that recently the roles I'm preparing seep through into my 'normal' identity. I would normally have classified this as nothing more than in-cast banter for the most part, especially since over the last year I've played a certain type of character repeatedly (I hope it hasn't reached type-casting yet! I don't want to play misogynistic arrogant twats for the rest of my life), a type that lends itself to humorous caricature in social situations.
However, the role I'm engrossed in now is a neurotic, slightly deranged painter, who is plagued by night terrors. I have 2 mad scenes in a 75-minute piece. I rehearsed them both yesterday, and since them I find I'm not quite myself and am having trouble sleeping. Before you say anything: I'm not a method actor and I'm not going crazy. For all I know, nobody has noticed any change in me, but I have! It's not big, it's not profound, it's nothing too serious, but it's there, and to be honest... I'm surprised. And it has me wondering if actors experience this as badly as musicians, and do they have ways of keeping it from happening, or do they feed off of it?
I would think of myself as level-headed, maybe even cynical. I've been praised for my intelligence as a singer, not my over-the-top emotionality. Yes, I'm a performer, maybe even an artist, so I have a degree of sensitivity (which has, I have also noticed, grown over the years, I never used to get moved to tears, these days it happens embarrassingly often, up to twice a year), but I didn't think that simply rehearsing something could get under my skin.
I suppose it's a two-way street: I bring to my performance my limited (but ever-growing) life experience, but then have to endure and carry in my self whatever the character goes through, which (when set to music well) is heightened to pretty extreme levels, so maybe no wonder that something stays with me? A five minute mad scene (albeit repeated numerous times in a staging session) has me sweating buckets and left with shivers (before my teachers freak out, I'm vocally fine! That's one detachment I'm managing at present), then catching myself staring blankly ahead when normally I would probably be horsing around...
You want to know what the most embarrassing thing is? This opera was written by two of my friends! See what you've done to me guys ;) ? And what I now want to know is where you in turn got the impulse to create something that has this effect on your performer.
PS This doesn't necessarily mean the piece is that good :P (that's up to the audience to decide) I may just be an over-sensitive wreck who should stick to comedy...
Now for a shameless plug: The show in question is in London next week, on the 16th and 17th at the Riverside Studios as part of the Tête à Tête Festival. Book here!
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Converted to the MASS
I am a bad listener. When I first started preparing for Bernstein's MASS, I only really listened to the fragments involving the Street People (which was the part I sang) and thought it was quirky but fun, with some minor jabs thrown in to upset the apple cart and keep the piece from just being a jazzy Mass. Fool that I was... I then tried giving it a listen through (I have been horrendously busy over the past couple of weeks, so time was at a premium, otherwise I would have started with a full hearing). I failed. I found it off-putting and inappropriate for the Italian Summer I was enjoying. So I ended up going to the first rehearsal knowing my bits and having an overview of the plot courtesy of Wikipedia.
For the first 2 days the Street People rehearsed in isolation from the rest of the company, so there was no impulse for me to change my mind about the piece: fun in places, but too pretentious for its own good. My opinion changed throughout rehearsals as I got to know the rest of the music better, but the penny dropped when we had our first run through on Sunday. It was only then, experiencing it in the call-response sequence that starts with the Choir and Street People inspiring each other to vocalise their faith (all this as a response to the prerecorded fragments, as if to say: we've had enough listening, let us speak!), with the Celebrant trying to keep a lid on what is supposed to be a normal Mass. Then the Street Chorus soloists start to raise questions and express their doubts in religion, faith, and God. The Mass gets more and more disjointed, the Celebrant starts to lose control of the situation and the Choir and orchestra practically get won over by the doubting Street People in the cacophony of the Agnus Dei. And then the magic happens: 14 minutes of solo singing from the Celebrant, a true 'mad scene', reiterating every bit of music we'd heard and throwing it in the 'congregation's' faces with abandon and asking why they're so shocked to see a man of the cloth losing it: they'd all already lost it themselves long ago, so why this hypocrisy?! The finale tries to calm the scene, and does serve as a good palette cleanser after the bile of Things get broken, bringing it all back to a grand statement of unity (that does sort of come out of nowhere I think).
I do think the piece is flawed in the sense that Bernstein set himself an impossible task: conveying a crisis of faith around the form of a Mass. For all its grand scale and epic moments, it's a very personal piece I think, and one I related to as such. Starting with the premise of singing God a Simple Song, and then failing as the whole thing gets more and more grand, elaborate and over-thought, losing all sense of innocence, which in turn leads to the Celebrant's meltdown. The treble soloist then tries to bring it back to simplicity, but soon after we're served with the rather epic and pompous finale... Does that mean that we're doomed to fail in our search for a simple, innocent, meaningful faith? It's open to interpretation.
But many people won't bother trying to interpret anything. They'll take the cheesy moments at face value, appreciate the orchestral Meditations as clever bits of pretty writing, cringe at the musical theatre settings of the latin text, and politely indulge the Celebrant in his 'aria', then roll their eyes at the final canon. The piece was received very badly when it premiered, and I can see why: it's difficult to identify what it's supposed to be. The name and form also serve to alienate people who expect a real Mass (though that element of shock factor is probably intentional). It is not a Mass. It is a piece of theatre about religion and faith that raises questions without really answering them. Like in religion, we start with the answers, and then as more and more questions get raised the answers we are given aren't enough to see us through. As I said, the composer set himself an impossible task, because faith is so personal a thing that finding a language to question it, or even simply explore it, that doesn't rub people the wrong way is impossible. Even the fact that the Street People respond to the latin lip service prayers of the Choir in English, translating the text as if to say 'Do you even know what you're saying?' is jarring at first and can instantly strike some people as crude. If it is, it's deliberately so: like snapping your fingers to get someone's attention.
I could go on ranting, but I'll stop. I hope a bit of back and forth from the point of view of someone who's performed the piece will intrigue someone enough to give it a chance and keep an open mind. I personally think it is a masterpiece (though not all the music is of the same standard, but then again neither was Mozart's) and a few movements do regularly have me in tears. There aren't many good recordings out there, I would recommend the Marin Alsop for best clarity and quality of singing, and Kristjan Järvi's recording for energy and impact. Or you can just listen to it on iPlayer in the UK with us performing it, or better yet wait until the 6th of September to see it on BBC 4. Here's a little taste:
I'll just finish by saying that I think Kristjan Järvi did wonders with us and is quite rightly a great champion for this piece, and that I'll always remember Morten Frank Larsen's Celebrant, as well as working with all my fantabulous colleagues from the Street Chorus (we rocked it!). What a way to debut in the Royal Albert Hall, hey?
For the first 2 days the Street People rehearsed in isolation from the rest of the company, so there was no impulse for me to change my mind about the piece: fun in places, but too pretentious for its own good. My opinion changed throughout rehearsals as I got to know the rest of the music better, but the penny dropped when we had our first run through on Sunday. It was only then, experiencing it in the call-response sequence that starts with the Choir and Street People inspiring each other to vocalise their faith (all this as a response to the prerecorded fragments, as if to say: we've had enough listening, let us speak!), with the Celebrant trying to keep a lid on what is supposed to be a normal Mass. Then the Street Chorus soloists start to raise questions and express their doubts in religion, faith, and God. The Mass gets more and more disjointed, the Celebrant starts to lose control of the situation and the Choir and orchestra practically get won over by the doubting Street People in the cacophony of the Agnus Dei. And then the magic happens: 14 minutes of solo singing from the Celebrant, a true 'mad scene', reiterating every bit of music we'd heard and throwing it in the 'congregation's' faces with abandon and asking why they're so shocked to see a man of the cloth losing it: they'd all already lost it themselves long ago, so why this hypocrisy?! The finale tries to calm the scene, and does serve as a good palette cleanser after the bile of Things get broken, bringing it all back to a grand statement of unity (that does sort of come out of nowhere I think).
I do think the piece is flawed in the sense that Bernstein set himself an impossible task: conveying a crisis of faith around the form of a Mass. For all its grand scale and epic moments, it's a very personal piece I think, and one I related to as such. Starting with the premise of singing God a Simple Song, and then failing as the whole thing gets more and more grand, elaborate and over-thought, losing all sense of innocence, which in turn leads to the Celebrant's meltdown. The treble soloist then tries to bring it back to simplicity, but soon after we're served with the rather epic and pompous finale... Does that mean that we're doomed to fail in our search for a simple, innocent, meaningful faith? It's open to interpretation.
But many people won't bother trying to interpret anything. They'll take the cheesy moments at face value, appreciate the orchestral Meditations as clever bits of pretty writing, cringe at the musical theatre settings of the latin text, and politely indulge the Celebrant in his 'aria', then roll their eyes at the final canon. The piece was received very badly when it premiered, and I can see why: it's difficult to identify what it's supposed to be. The name and form also serve to alienate people who expect a real Mass (though that element of shock factor is probably intentional). It is not a Mass. It is a piece of theatre about religion and faith that raises questions without really answering them. Like in religion, we start with the answers, and then as more and more questions get raised the answers we are given aren't enough to see us through. As I said, the composer set himself an impossible task, because faith is so personal a thing that finding a language to question it, or even simply explore it, that doesn't rub people the wrong way is impossible. Even the fact that the Street People respond to the latin lip service prayers of the Choir in English, translating the text as if to say 'Do you even know what you're saying?' is jarring at first and can instantly strike some people as crude. If it is, it's deliberately so: like snapping your fingers to get someone's attention.
I could go on ranting, but I'll stop. I hope a bit of back and forth from the point of view of someone who's performed the piece will intrigue someone enough to give it a chance and keep an open mind. I personally think it is a masterpiece (though not all the music is of the same standard, but then again neither was Mozart's) and a few movements do regularly have me in tears. There aren't many good recordings out there, I would recommend the Marin Alsop for best clarity and quality of singing, and Kristjan Järvi's recording for energy and impact. Or you can just listen to it on iPlayer in the UK with us performing it, or better yet wait until the 6th of September to see it on BBC 4. Here's a little taste:
I'll just finish by saying that I think Kristjan Järvi did wonders with us and is quite rightly a great champion for this piece, and that I'll always remember Morten Frank Larsen's Celebrant, as well as working with all my fantabulous colleagues from the Street Chorus (we rocked it!). What a way to debut in the Royal Albert Hall, hey?
Sunday, 8 July 2012
I hate goodbyes
The past couple of weeks have been tough because of a number of goodbyes that had to be said and the fact that I found myself stuck thinking of my life as a series of short disconnected episodes. I'm not sure it's a feeling I can describe, but I think that it's something that other artists in 'the industry' can relate to (not that I'm in 'the industry' yet, but I've had enough previews to get an idea of what may be in store).
It started with our trip to the Orkneys with Carmen. As I wrote about the production in an earlier post, we were already a closely-knit team before going up, most of us having worked together on numerous projects before. A week in close proximity does strange things though. I had experienced a bit of this doing Orpheus in the Underworld in Glasgow: strange place, living out of a suitcase, not knowing anyone except the people you're working with. You end up spending a lot of time together, both in rehearsals and socially. You grow close, closer than you were before, no matter how much you'd worked or hung out before. You feel safe with these people, you can be yourself around them, you share experiences and stories that won't be funny or make sense to anyone who wasn't there, and it's as if the world narrows down to just that place, those people. For a short while. You go home and even though they are still in the same city, even though one of them is your flatmate, even though you'll see them again, you feel as though you've lost something. You miss it, you feel a bit empty inside.
Add to that the fact that before 2 weeks have gone by you have your last college performance with a group who have been there with me, and for me, for 2 years (some of them even 3). No more familiar team for college productions, no more concerts where we can whack out familiar repertoire that we've done together so many times that it's like second nature (I know how my friends introduce their pieces almost word for word now), no more people who know me so well that when they tell me not to worry about something - I believe them (and they know they can always count on my support as well).
I know the future will bring new people and new projects with new stories, new dynamics, and new colleagues. I also know (or at least believe) that I'll be seeing the leavers again (and hopefully working with them as well). But one thing is for sure: it won't be the same. It won't be worse, or better, it'll be different, and that's why I'll always miss these years in college, that week in Kirkwall, that Summer in Banff, my first Magic Flute, the Nozze di Figaro trip to Kołobrzeg...
It makes me sad to think that my life will turn into a series of adventures (to quote Alma) where I will meet and get to know people whom I will then inevitably end up missing, but it's a heart-warming sadness, because it means that all that we go through together stays with me and feeds the flame so to speak. I will work with new people, on the same operas perhaps, but to everyone I've had the opportunity to share everything up until now with:
To me you are irreplaceable.
It started with our trip to the Orkneys with Carmen. As I wrote about the production in an earlier post, we were already a closely-knit team before going up, most of us having worked together on numerous projects before. A week in close proximity does strange things though. I had experienced a bit of this doing Orpheus in the Underworld in Glasgow: strange place, living out of a suitcase, not knowing anyone except the people you're working with. You end up spending a lot of time together, both in rehearsals and socially. You grow close, closer than you were before, no matter how much you'd worked or hung out before. You feel safe with these people, you can be yourself around them, you share experiences and stories that won't be funny or make sense to anyone who wasn't there, and it's as if the world narrows down to just that place, those people. For a short while. You go home and even though they are still in the same city, even though one of them is your flatmate, even though you'll see them again, you feel as though you've lost something. You miss it, you feel a bit empty inside.
Add to that the fact that before 2 weeks have gone by you have your last college performance with a group who have been there with me, and for me, for 2 years (some of them even 3). No more familiar team for college productions, no more concerts where we can whack out familiar repertoire that we've done together so many times that it's like second nature (I know how my friends introduce their pieces almost word for word now), no more people who know me so well that when they tell me not to worry about something - I believe them (and they know they can always count on my support as well).
I know the future will bring new people and new projects with new stories, new dynamics, and new colleagues. I also know (or at least believe) that I'll be seeing the leavers again (and hopefully working with them as well). But one thing is for sure: it won't be the same. It won't be worse, or better, it'll be different, and that's why I'll always miss these years in college, that week in Kirkwall, that Summer in Banff, my first Magic Flute, the Nozze di Figaro trip to Kołobrzeg...
It makes me sad to think that my life will turn into a series of adventures (to quote Alma) where I will meet and get to know people whom I will then inevitably end up missing, but it's a heart-warming sadness, because it means that all that we go through together stays with me and feeds the flame so to speak. I will work with new people, on the same operas perhaps, but to everyone I've had the opportunity to share everything up until now with:
To me you are irreplaceable.
From left to right: one of the lads, the rock star, my leading lady for 3 years, and a random pianist
I hope they will forgive me using this photo and that DD has a sense of humour ;)
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