Children who sing opera: an update on my viral blog rant

A little over 15 months ago I published a post called About those child opera singers: here's the deal. In less than 24 hours it had collected something like 50,000 page-views. Metropolitan Opera basso Samuel Ramey posted it on his Facebook page. It was the subject of a column in Forbes magazine's online edition. The lively website Operagasm.com reprinted it and selected it as one of its "Best of 2012". NATS, the National Association of Teachers of Singing, selected it as one of the most notable pieces on singing of the year. The post itself collected hundreds of comments. Some agreed with my objections to the phenomenon of child vocalists singing operatic arias (or singing anything on television, for that matter); others lambasted me with sanctimonious lectures, asking how I could stomp on the dreams of beautiful, talented tykes.

And now, going on a year and a half later, the post still draws hundreds of hits each week, chugging along like The Little Post That Could.

Weird, huh?

I felt I had said all I had to say on the subject, but OH NO: today I encountered a little item on the World Wide Web so bizarre, so irrational, that I knew I couldn't let it pass.  I had to bring it to you Dear Readers.

Some of you will be as appalled as me; others will cheer the author of the item and believe I have been proven wrong.

The item in question is found on a website called the-top-tens.com, a compendium of apparently random lists of top-ten this and top-ten that. The list I found is called The top 10 greatest female opera singers. That list includes a reasonable batch of names, somewhat predictable for the most part: Maria Callas, Renee Fleming, Diana Damrau, Monserrat Cabelle, Joan Sutherland and so on.

The fun begins when the (anonymous) author goes on to favor us with a list of additional names; candidates who didn't make the short list of ten, but still deserve mention.

 The blood began pounding in my temples when I came to No. 17:

Jackie Evancho.

NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOO!!! *pant pant pant*

Before I proceed with this latest rant, let me be clear: I have nothing - not a thing in the world - against Miss Evancho. I hold no grudge against her, have nothing critical to say about her personally, and wish her all the best. In fact, I just got home from seeing the new Robert Redford film The Company You Keep, in which she does a great job in her supporting role. As far as I know, it's her acting debut on the big screen and she's excellent.


Below Miss Evancho's name appear three comments evidently left by readers. I quote them in full:
Remove the names and compare the voices. The fact that she is placed on this list below artists unknown outside opera circles is a travesty that time will certainly cure.

Very outstanding little girl with the voice of an angel.

What a voice and a personality as well, all at 11 years old. This wonder of the age is going to make so many Music lovers so happy.

Now the part that really blows my mind: here are some of the singers ranked BELOW Jackie Evancho; singers who, it was felt, didn't quite measure up to her brilliance:

• No. 19: Elina Garanca, the current Carmen at the Met;
• No. 20: Jessye Norman, peerless interpreter of Berlioz, Mozart and Wagner;
• No. 21: Leontyne Price. Wait, what? No, WHAT??

The next four singers, in descending order, are Agnes Baltsa, Sumi Jo, Raina Kabaivanska, and, fading as she enters the homestretch, some nobody named Elizabeth Schwarzkopf.

Want to know who finished dead last at No. 32? Kirsten Flagstad.

Yes: Flagstad was ranked almost twice as low in the poll as little Jackie Evancho.

What is wrong with people? Why are some people such idiots? Miss Evancho belongs in this list like a miniature pony belongs in the Kentucky Derby. Just as, regardless of her excellence in the Redford movie, she should not be ranked ahead of Katherine Hepburn and Meryl Streep on the list of all-time greatest actresses.

No, seriously, what is wrong with people???

Stop the madness!  Read my viral blog! Help stamp out child-singer idolatry!

I'm all for sensible gun control and immigration reform, but first let's get a handle on this crisis: would someone please sponsor a bill to mandate background checks on opera singers? How about one of those signs like at the roller coaster gate: "You must be this tall - and be this old - to sing Musetta's Waltz".

Okay, all done venting now!

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com

Figaro and me: life with Mozart's opera

Rehearsals have begun for Virginia Opera's production of The Marriage of Figaro, re-uniting me once again with an opera that has been a dominant presence throughout my life. I know this opera about as well as I know anything. I've known it for over fifty years now. Back in the days when I was an active pianist, I accompanied all the arias at the piano for various singers. I've heard it time and again on Met broadcasts and recordings.  And although I'm not an opera singer by training, inclination or profession, nevertheless I've had the experience of performing three different roles in three different full productions of Figaro. More on that in a minute.

Funny thing - Figaro is the first opera I remember listening to as a child, yet it wasn't the opera that turned me into an opera lover. No, that honor (I guess it's an honor...) falls to Puccini and Madame Butterfly. The Renata Tebaldi-Carlo Bergonzi recording hit me like a pleasurable punch to the solar plexus at age 12, leading me down the garden path of Italianate passion.

The recording that introduced young Glenn to Figaro

However, I have vivid memories of listening to my mother's album of Figaro highlights several years earlier. How old was I? Six, seven, eight - around there, in the first years of my piano studies. I can still see the album cover of that recording: it showed a white bridal bouquet against a pink background. It was a recording conducted by Vittorio Gui, with Sena Jurinac as the Countess, Rise Stevens as Cherubino and Sesto Bruscantini as Figaro, among others. The recording is still available, though that album cover has disappeared.

I still remember how the music sounded to me at that age; I listened to it over and over, though with no glimmer of a clue as to what the story was, who these people were that sang this music, or what they were saying. I can't say for sure that I understood what an "opera" was. But I could tell that this music, so compelling and fascinating, was about something important. These characters were grownups, singing about important, significant grownup things. Stuff that mattered; stuff they really cared about; important adult stuff. In particular I recall the Figaro-Susanna duet "Se caso a Madama" in Act I; I was delighted with the repetitions of "ding ding" and "dong dong". I sensed that these were nice people. I liked them without knowing why, except that the bell imitations were funny.

I wonder what that skinny, pint-sized little piano student would have thought if he'd been told that, many years hence, he would portray some of those grownups.

My first Figaro production as a cast member came in 1992, soon after I'd begun working at Virginia Commonwealth University's Department of Music as Director of a non-credit community arts school. VCU presents a fully-staged complete opera each spring. In those days they didn't have mature male voice majors capable of stepping into the "daddy" roles, so I was happy to help out when Melanie Kohn Day, Co-director of the Opera Theater, asked me to take on the role of Dr. Bartolo.

Of course, Bartolo's appearance in Mozart's opera amounts to a glorified cameo compared to his larger-than-life presence as Figaro's adversary in Rossini's Barber of Seville. But he still has some gratifying moments; his droll revenge aria "La vendetta", with it's mock-heroic conclusion; joining in on the frenzied conclusion of that miraculous Act 2 finale; and getting laughs in the Act 3 sextet as he dazedly acknowledges being Figaro's papa.

For me to play a principal role in a Mozartean opera was a fantasy come true: better than playing golf at Augusta; better than playing center field for the Cubs. We principals in the cast all got along. The conductor, Thomas Wilkins, was Associate Conductor of the Richmond Symphony and did a fine job leading his student orchestra. I wallowed in the sheer pleasure of preparing and performing this masterpiece. In the "La Vendetta" aria, I colored the line: "Do it my way; take the sly way" with a particularly malevolent color on the final two words that always made Maestro Wilkins chuckle from the pit. Would I ever be cast in this role in any other situation? Was I a credible Bartolo? Let's just say I held up my end and leave it at that. I'm told my diction was exemplary.

A dozen years later, my life had changed considerably. VCU's community arts program had been axed thanks to draconian budget cuts at all state schools on a mandate from then-Governor Warner. Out of a job, I'd spent a dismal year as a high school choral director and another looking for work before good fortune found me with my current position at Virginia Opera. Sometime in March of 2005 I received a frantic phone call from Melanie.


Me as the Count.

They were doing Figaro again, but a crisis had arisen: the faculty Artist-In-Residence cast as Count Almaviva had resigned his position and left the university. All attempts to re-cast the role, a process that exhausted the baritonal contents of Melanie's rolodex, had ended with no luck. She called me on a Friday; VCU's Figaro was to open in exactly three weeks and Melanie's back was to the wall. In tears, she said if I was unable to learn the role, the entire production would have to be cancelled and a large cast of students would have worked for weeks for nothing.

I went to my supervisor at Virginia Opera to ask for some leave time to devote to learning this huge role in a hurry. He agreed, and the next week was a blur of rote repetition of ENDLESS lines of recitative - good Lord, the Count does blather on! Fortunately, my wife is an experienced vocal coach; her assistance helped me pull off the challenge. Somehow, the blocking got learned, the music got memorized and I made it through opening night with only minor errors.

By this time, I was no longer a performing pianist; nerve damage in my cervical spine had caused minor muscular atrophy in my left hand, resulting in just enough permanent weakness to render me unable to play difficult works. While composition helped to replace keyboard gymnastics in my life, it was especially gratifying to have an opera role as an outlet, limited though my aptness for the role of Almaviva clearly was.

My biggest weakness was a problem of vocal technique I was unable to surmount. I found the F sharp at the end of the Count's Act 3 aria very difficult to sing in the context of a staged performance. I could  usually crank it out standing in the curve of the piano in recital fashion, but the added stress of moving about the stage and, well, acting left me without the resources (and let's face it: the technique) to manage it. That F sharp comes after a page of impassioned coloratura during which that brat Mozart provides only nano-seconds of time to breathe. I sang the D above middle C instead. No one asked for their money back.

Looking back, I realize that I played the Count too much as a comic character; too much mugging in facial expressions; too much going for laughs. The best portrayals of this character never lose sight of his dignity and noble bearing, however assinine his attitudes. But hey - considering I started the role from scratch three weeks earlier, I had no reason to hang my head.

And let me say this: I am blessed to have had the opportunity to deliver one of the most touching and magical lines in all of opera: the moment when Almaviva, remembering his better nature and humbled by his foolishness, sings "Contessa, perdona; perdona, perdona" to music so simple yet so devastating that not one other composer could have set it as well. That. Was. Fun. As fun as a date with Jennifer Aniston. (Did I really write that out loud? Forget I mentioned it.)

But Mozart and Figaro weren't done with me yet. One year later, Virginia Opera concluded the 2005-2006 season with a production of the opera directed by Lorna Haywood.  Somehow I was cast as the cover artist for Antonio, the Count's boozy gardener who has a truly amusing role in that Act 2 finale in addition to a smattering of recitative. Whereas both VCU productions had been sung in English, of course, now I was learning the original Italian, which is no small matter in the role of Antonio. When he bursts into the Countess's boudoir complaining about his flowers he does so spewing syllables of Italian like one of those assault weapons the NRA thinks I have the right to keep in my bathroom. It's a miniature patter solo that would earn a thumbs-up from W. S. Gilbert. Fortunately, I was now an old hand at Mozart in Italian, having sung the complete role of Don Alfonso in a 1999 festival production of Cosi fan tutte in Rome. (How do I keep getting into these situations?! HELLO, I'M NOT AN OPERA SINGER!)

Unlike many cover artists, I did get a performance under my belt in a special student matinee. I still have the spiral-bound booklet I made of the role of Antonio, containing just his lines. I fashioned a cover for it, re-naming the opera as Il Coraggio d'Antonio ("The Courage of Antonio"), with a photo I found on the Internet of some bass carrying a flower pot. I showed it to Lorna, who cracked up and asked me to email her a copy. Good times.

And now, here comes Figaro again. I'm not singing in this one, so feel free to purchase tickets! Will this be my last Marriage of Figaro? Who knows? One thing I've learned is that, for musicians, the future is awfully hard to predict. I suspect I will continue to re-visit and re-study this sublime masterpiece before I'm done, and that on each future occasion Mozart will continue to reveal his genius to me in ways that had somehow escaped my notice in the previous fifty-four years. It's that kind of opera.

And what of Butterfly? It's a really good opera. I haven't listened to it in years, however.

By the way - despite having played three characters all of whom appear in the Act 2 finale, mind you, nevertheless I found that in teaching the opera in a recent series of lifelong learning classes, I can STILL get confused explaining all the plot twists that unfold before Act 2 comes to an end. Oh well, I'll bet Groucho Marx would have had a hard time giving a blow-by-blow synopsis of the "hard-boiled egg" scene in A Night at the Opera.

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com

Breaking Bad: the Elixir of Love version

I've become obsessed with the AMC drama Breaking Bad as with no show since the demise of Lost.  The slow corruption of Walter White has sucked me in and left me breathless with anticipation for the series' final episodes.

In the meantime, having previously produced operatic-themed parodies of Law and Order, Criminal Minds and House, M.D., I shall now amuse myself (and, um, maybe you too?) by imagining Donizetti's comedy The Elixir of Love re-written as a typical episode of Breaking Bad. Ready? No? Too bad, because here comes:

BREAKING ITALIAN: THE ELIXIR OF LOVE

CAST

Walt "Doc" Dulcamara, kingpin of a vast elixir empire and former professor of voice at the Milan Conservatory of Music

Sargeant Hank Belcore, who has retired from the army and is now an investigator for Alcoholic Beverage Control.

Nemorino Uomorosa ("Uomorosa" = "Pinkman" in English; clever, right? See what I did there?), Walt's former voice student, now his partner and chief distributor throughout Italy

Adina, Nemorino's wife. She is totally in the dark about her husband's true line of work, though lately she's begun to have some suspicions.
Gianetta, a young girl tragically addicted to elixir; she's in rehab, trying to get clean.

Elixir Kingpin "Doc" Dulcamara,
peddling his blue poison

(Scene 1. It's Nemorino's birthday, and everyone has gathered for a party at Nemorino and Adina's home in the suburbs. There's a cake, gifts, and glasses of red wine.)

ADINA
Hey, everybody! Let's all raise our glasses and toast my sweet hubby on his birthday!

BELCORE
(to Dulcamara) Hey, Dulcamara, where's your glass? Whatsamatter, a little wine too much for ya? (He laughs boisterously, slapping Dulcamara on the back.)

DULCAMARA
I'll just have a little sparkling water, thanks. I try to stay away from alcohol; I never could handle it.

BELCORE
Well, I just wish more people had that attitude. I see how the strong stuff messes up people's lives on a daily basis. But then again, tracking down illegal hootch is how I make my living. Hey Nemorino, I don't need to take you into custody, do I? HA HA HA!!

NEMORINO
Very funny, Hank. This is good wholesome red wine - none of that "blue elixir" wine you hear about. Hey, you ever gonna catch the guys who make that stuff?

BELCORE
I'll tell ya, I'd like nothing better than to catch the guy who cooks that stuff - it's everywhere. His street name is "Doc", and his elixir is the highest quality I've ever seen. The lab guys who've analyzed this stuff say it gets its blue color from pure blueberry juice he mixes in with the grapes. It's his trademark. Plus, this gives it nice notes of cedar, chocolate, smoked salmon and ripe kumquat. One glass, and normal people turn into amorous BEASTS.

DULCAMARA
Sounds like this "Doc" is one clever fella, Hank. Why, it could be anyone - even someone you know.

ADINA
(laughing) Why, it could even be YOU, "Walt"! (Everyone roars with laughter at this.)

DULCAMARA
I have enough to do just teaching poor Italian villagers how to sing opera...

NEMORINO
Uh, everyone? I hate to bring you down with bad news, but... I have announcement to make. I've been to the doctor, and... well... (his voice breaks with emotion) I've been diagnosed with a bad case of nodules on my vocal cords; I may never sing in public again.

BELCORE
We're here for you, buddy. Anything you need... seriously... you got it.

Scene 2. Adina is seated at the kitchen table with a stack of bills. Nemorino is looking through a piano-vocal score of Handel's "Rinaldo".

ADINA
Oh, Nemmy, I don't know what we're going to do. These medical bills for the treatment of your nodules are going to ruin our family.

NEMORINO
No worries. I've got it covered. (He disappears into their wine cellar and returns with a huge sack full of  gold scudi. That's an old kind of coin they always use in Italian operas - you knew that, right?) Here, baby, this should take care of it.

ADINA
What?!?! Where did you get this? You're a light lyric tenor who sings in comic operas; you don't make this kind of money! Oh Nemorino, what have you gotten involved in? I'm frightened for us! We might find ourselves in... in.. a dramatic opera!!

NEMORINO
You clearly don't know who you're talking to, Adina, so let me clue you in. I am not "in" a drama; I AM the drama!! I AM THE DRAMA!!! A guy walks onstage and has someone sing a high C in his face and you think it happened to me? No - I AM THE ONE WHO SINGS!

ADINA
You're... weird.

Scene 3. An 12-step AA meeting at the local pizzeria. Junkies hooked on Elixir and other drugs sit in a circle, including Nemorino, Edgardo, Norma, Countess Rosina, Idomeneo and Lulu. Also Salome. Gianetta speaks.)

GIANETTA
Hi, everyone. Um, my name is Gianetta and... and.. *sob* ..I'm an elixir-a-holic.

EVERYONE
Hi, Gianetta

GIANETTA
I'm only here because the conductor and the stage director said they'd cut my part from the opera unless I got clean. I love elixir, that's my problem. It's so tasty! And I love that deep blue color! Once I start sipping I just can't stop. Plus, (her voice gets very sultry and husky as she begins slowly twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, staring at Nemorino)  it always makes me feel very... very... amorous, know what I mean?

NEMORINO
Hey, sweet-stuff, want to get some coffee afterwards?

GIANETTA
Let's leave now. I really want some............. coffee...

Scene 3. Dulcamara's secret elixir lab. As a cover, they're using the keyboard lab at the "Dulcamara Bittersweet Academy of Vocal Arts". He and Nemorino are in their bright yellow coveralls. Dulcamara is stomping on a big vat of grapes, sending juice flowing through tubes into giant glass beakers sitting atop bunson burners. Nemorino is stomping on a vat of blueberries, which produces a stream of - yep, you guessed it! deep blue nectar.)

NEMORINO
Hey, Doc - you know what would be AWESOME, dude?

DULCAMARA
(sighing patiently) No, "dude"; what?

NEMORINO
I want to add some minced garlic and crushed basil to this batch. That could be our trademark, you know? Like, our signature!

DULCAMARA
(exploding with anger) ABSOLUTELY NOT! You are NOT going to contaminate this product! We will produce a chemically pure and stable product that performs as advertised. I take pride in producing cheap, worthless wine of the HIGHEST QUALITY, do you understand?

NEMORINO
That is such bull-poop! Heil Hitler, dude... Oh, I have another gripe. In our duet yesterday, you gave me venti scudi. VENTI SCUDI? I happen to know that when you sold elixir in the village that morning you cleared cento scudi! Where's my fair share, man!

DULCAMARA
It's not that simple, you idiot. We have expenses. I have to pay the farmers who grow the grapes. I'm importing high-quality blueberries from Michigan. You do realize blueberries don't grow in Italy, right? Besides - if I give you  more scudi, you'll just go blow it all on elixir. Grow up and be a professional.

NEMORINO

(sulking, but lacking the guts to defy Dulcamara) Whatever...  By the way, I may have a little problem. Adina is starting to wonder where I'm getting all this cash from. I told her the opera company was paying workman's comp for my vocal trouble, but she's not buying it. And I've kind of gotten involved with a girl I met in rehab, and I'm kind of supporting her and her young son the Duke of Mantua.

DULCAMARA

He's a duke?

NEMORINO

It's kind of a nickname. Besides, Doc, I'm kind of thinking of getting out of the elixir game -- you know, like retiring and stuff. I mean, we've made all the money we'll ever need, right? We're rolling in scudi, and everyone has our blue elixir and they're all randy and amorous and everyone in the village is falling in love with everybody else, and... I think we've saturated the market. Plus, Sgt. Belocre is going to catch on to us any day now. So... this is it.

DULCAMARA

You are not getting out of the elixir "game", as you put it, do you understand? I want to expand our business. I want an elixir EMPIRE throughout the opera world! I want to sell our product in Valhalla and see Wotan and Fricka get stinking drunk and fall in love again! I want Figaro to take over distribution in the Seville territory - he can claim it's "aftershave". I want the Witch to use it to sedate Hansel and Gretel and all the other little children in the woods! We'll sell it to Calaf so Turandot will find him irresistible! We'll sell it to Baron Ochs so Sophie will forget about Octavian and choose him! Sparafucile can serve it in his tavern! We'll sell it to Isolde up in Ireland!

NEMORINO

Uh, Doc? I think she already has a steady supply of elixir...

DULCAMARA

OURS IS BETTER! I'll find out who her supplier is and I'll OFF the sucker! I'll plant a BOMB! NO ONE SELLS ELIXIR IN DULCAMARA'S TERRITORY AND MY TERRITORY IS THE WORLD!!!!! *pant pant pant*

NEMORINO

At this point, there's only one thing I can do.

DULCAMARA

What's that?

NEMORINO

Wait for your cancer to come back.

DULCAMARA

What are you talking about? I don't have cancer.

NEMORINO

Uh-oh. Crap.

THE END

The 4 most annoying personalities around the opera house.

Now, before you read my observations below and start to give me a hard time for being all snarky, let me be clear:

I like opera people. The singers, the designers, those who work the crew; the lot of 'em. Some of my happiest memories consist of productions I've been privileged to be a part of, and interactions with opera people account for most of those memories. Opera people are outgoing, fun, talented and charismatic as a breed.

But, as in any walk of life, the opera scene also spawns the occasional personality best described as gratingly, caustically, stepping-on-one's-last-nervily OBNOXIOUS. It's my observation that these specimens fall into predictable categories. I now enumerate and describe the four worst for your edification.

1. Stage directors who don't prepare ahead of time.

Boy scout.
HE'S prepared...

Opera singers: ever been to an initial staging rehearsal that went something like this? The scene: a rehearsal hall stage, with a cast of principals, full chorus and assorted crew members all in place, ready to work. Aaaaand... ACTION:

DIRECTOR: "Okay, people, let me see here (stands with hands on hips, surveying the stage, looking from side to side.) Let me have... um... hmmm... let me have two altos and two tenors... the four of you, please... upstage left by that rock. That's it, now let me have some basses and sopranos on the other side by the bridge.  Very good, thank you. Now Cio-Cio San and Suzuki, let's put you downstage center. Now move a little stage left, thank you. More. More. That's it. No, edge back stage right a little. Hmmmm.... something just doesn't seem...  Upstage chorus, can the bridge people and the rock people switch places, please? Thank you. Hmmm... no, go back where I put you the first time, darlings, thanks so much. Now Pinkerton and Sharpless, at this point the two of you will huddle over by the door of the house like you're, I dunno, watching the relatives or something... thanks...  No, Pinky and Sharpy, you know what? Instead let's have you over there by the bridge chorus people, just smiling at them. Now, we need to place the rest of the chorus, don't we? HMMMMMMM..... actually, Pinky and Sharpy, what if you are downstage left in the corner, and you're... uh... well, doing something, we'll figure that out later. Okay, chorus, can you divide the rest of you into two groups by the bridge and the rock? What? I don't know, dear, it doesn't matter, just divide yourselves up any way you like. What? Oh, I suppose it would be better musically if you stand with your own voice type, you're absolutely right. Actually, chorus, can all of you just go to the downstage left corner so you can watch the conductor or whatever you need musically? That's it darlings, thank you. So YOU, Cio-Cio and Suzi, let's put you up by the rock. Well, just try it. Wait... hmmmmm.... no, ladies, go over to the bridge, let's see how that works visually."

And it goes on like that for two hours, until NO ONE CAN REMEMBER WHERE THE HELL THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE because you did nineteen different positions!!!!!  And the next day...

...it all changes again. 

Stage directors: do your homework, I'm begging you. Thanks a million, love you lots.

2. Vocal coaches who always have to model the phrasing they want.
Here's what NOT to do when working with a singer: 

"Instead of beginning that crescendo on the second half of the first beat, begin it on right on the third beat like this: dee-dee-DEE-DEEE-DAAAAAAA. Then make a big subito piano like this:  DAAAAAAA-pa-pa-pa. You see? Also, remember that the important word is "pollo" in the next phrase. Shape it like this: "Io vorreeeeeiii una piattaaaaaaa di POOOOOOLLOOO". Now try that."

"What's wrong with that?" you may be asking. Well, if it's your objective as a coach to have a singer trying to imitate another person's phrasing and musicality, instead of developing their own interpretive skills, resulting in a stilted, non-organic performance, then congratulations: you NAILED it!!

What to do instead when working with a singer:

"As I listened to you sing that phrase, it sounded angry. Is that what you intended? No? What were you going for? Yearning, you say? Well, that's not what you're projecting. Sing it again and figure out a way to make it less angry and more yearning. You might try being less aggressive as you go up that broken chord. Go."

In conclusion, coaches, resist the urge to teach singers how to phrase by modeling it for them; even the young ones; even the dumb ones. Vocal artists must find their own way, with you the coach functioning as an objective pair of ears. If you want to sing so much, then be a singer. Thanks a million, love you lots.

3. Cast-mates who must be the class clown in rehearsals.

Clowns: okay in "Pagliacci", but otherwise...

I, your Humble Blogger, was trained to be a solo pianist, but I've also sung a lot of opera here and there along the way. The life of a solo pianist is dominated by solitary activity - your butt stays plastered to a piano bench for long hours. The life of an opera singer, in contrast, is more social and convivial; you're part of a community of fellow artist-types. And I'm the last to suggest that an opera rehearsal be a somber, regimented affair in which no one utters a sound unless bidden to do so (although this is actually the fond dream of all stage managers). Rehearsals should be enjoyable, where an atmosphere of good natured mutual enjoyment sweetens the overall disciplined work ethic.

That's well and good until Mr. Class Clown joins the cast. Burdened with a severe deficit of self-esteem, Mr. CC has a pathological need to keep the focus of attention on himself at all times. (Note: I use the male pronoun advisedly; I have not yet encountered a female Class Clown. It's a guy thing.)

What are Mr. CC's weapons? How does he destroy this good-natured yet productive zeitgeist? In a word, schtick. He is a never-ending stream of well-rehearsed schtick. If his staging requires him to stand mute while other actors are busy with dialogue or action, CC will make funny faces, yawn, talk to people out in the house, engage in "amusing" pantomime. If it's one of CC's big scenes and the stage director dares give CC some constructive criticism, he will react in one or more of these ways:

• He will launch into his hysterical impersonation of Curly, the pudgy member of the Three Stooges: "WHAT?? Why da NOIVE..." He will then switch to Moe, displaying his Robin-Williams-like versatility.
• Thus inspired, he will then launch into his hysterical impersonation of Robin Williams doing a rapid succession of characters, generally including John Wayne.
• He will defend, loudly and at length, the way he just did his scene: "Let me try it again. I really think I can make it work my way. I have it all worked out, watch it again. I don't see why it won't work. I did it this way at Opera Tulsa, and everybody loved it."

The amazing thing is that, if Mr. CC has a large principal role, everyone in the company is reluctant to take him aside and bid him cease and desist. Mostly people just avert their faces and discreetly roll their eyes. And talk about him behind his back at lunch - to which he is seldom invited.

Class Clowns, lose the schtick. Thanks a million, love you lots.

4. Cast-mates who, uninvited, nominate themselves to be "assistant stage directors".
Take part in enough productions of opera or music theater, and you'll encounter this "helpful" individual, whose salient personality quirk is to assume that the process of stage direction should always be a group project in which all may feel free to share any amazing, wonderful ideas that strike them.

Oddly, just as the Class Clown is invariably a male, the "volunteer assistant director" is (in my experience) a female. Ms. A.D. would never describe herself as "bossy", oh no - not she! Rather, based on her wide-ranging experience of having been in several musicals at her high school (oh yes - she's also very young in most cases) and college, she is just quick as a bunny at realizing what's clunky about the "actual" director's blocking and coming up with a suggestion to make it more efficient. Usually, she interrupts the rehearsal by politely raising her hand after some scene has just been run, like a bright student in Spanish class who knows all the answers, until the director lets her speak:

"Well, I was just wondering if it might be better if Nicole and I went around the table in the other direction so we could grab the teapot before the music begins."

"What if, instead of starting on the left foot and going step-step-hop-skip-turn-turn-turn, we start on the right foot and just go turn turn turn hop? Isn't that simpler and kind of clearer?"

"I was just thinking that it could be cool if Papageno entered from the back of the theater and came down the aisle for his entrance. I saw it done like that once and it was so cool! Children got to see him up close, which seems like a plus, right?"

Woe unto the (real) stage director who is so foolish as to actually adopt one of Ms. A.D.'s "suggestions". To do so is to open the floodgates to a barage of "suggestions" that will waste long rehearsal hours and improve the show not one little bit.

No, in her case, tough love is the only course of action. Take her aside and explain how the theater world works. Because if you don't, I WILL MURDER HER.

Unless she gets her act together and cuts it out, in which case: thanks a million, love you lots.

Geez, I forgot one: passive-aggressive stage managers who let singers get away with murder during rehearsals. Oh well, I'm sure I'll let loose with another rant one of these times!

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com

Five small but priceless moments in Mozart's "Figaro"

In this post I turn my attention not to the metaphorical forest of The Marriage of Figaro (the overall grandeur of the whole work), nor to the trees (the series of immortal arias and ensembles within it). Instead, let's get down on our hands and knees (still metaphorical, mind you - my actual knees are a little stiff these days) and examine some of the, um, er, ...acorns.

Acorns, in this tortured imagery, are little musical details found in those set-pieces; details so delicious and perfect that they make me smile every time; small moments that are easy to miss unless you're looking for them.

Everyone likes Top 10 lists, but that would run a little long so I'll limit myself to just five.

5. The "curtsies" in the orchestra during the Susanna-Marcellina duet in Act 1.
Of course, these two ladies would love nothing more than to slap each other senseless, but initially they make a cursory effort towards civility in the cattiest duet ever composed. (No, you can't count Rossini's "Cat Duet", in which the term "catty" is used zoologically.) The zingers fly thick and fast once they have at it with sharpened claws ("claws".. see what I did there? Witty, eh?), but the "acorn" I want to point out happens before the singing begins. The main theme in the strings in the opening bars features a repeated rhythmic motive consisting of a dotted rhythm, a stressed downbeat, and three ascending slurred notes. This figure is Mozart's way of describing the physical motion of a curtsy! Each lady dips down on the dotted quarter, then rises on the three ascending notes that follow.This is a droll bit of humor: the orchestra depicting the fake solicitude of the rivals.

"After you!" "No, no, after YOU!"

4. The subtle evidence that Almaviva is a grown-up version of Cherubino.
In Act I, the teen-aged hormone-crazed page Cherubino sings his famous air "Non so più cosa son", a gushing, heaving ode to the female of the species. Midway through, after having just said "Every woman makes me palpitate", the orchestra has this little passage illustrating his sighs of desire:

 Now let's jump ahead to the opera's finale, towards the end of Act 4. Count Almaviva has fallen hook, line and sinker for the ruse of Susanna and the Countess and is making passionate love to a woman he believes

is the former but, alas, is actually the latter. In the course of his giddy smooching (which always puts me in mind of amorous cartoon skunk Pepe le Pew), with declarations about her "dainty fingers" and "delicate skin", observe what's going on underneath his vocal line in the orchestra:

 We are being encouraged to realize that Almaviva is expressing himself exactly the way Cherubino did; that that when Cherubino reaches adulthood he will be a clone of the Count as regards relations with women.The accompaniment in the Count's passage is in rapid sixteenth-notes rather than the slower eighth-note broken chords in Cherubino's, but chalk that minor difference up to the Count's excitement at having finally achieved his goal - or so he momentarily believes!

3. The play on words in the Act 3 sextet;
This ensemble was the composer's own favorite passage in the opera, we're told. No wonder; he loved jokes and games, and this sextet is, in the words of Variety magazine, a "laff riot". But in the midst of big belly-laughs comes a small play on words I always savor.
.
When Susanna makes her entrance, unaware of the dramatic revelations we've just seen played out that Figaro's parents are Bartolo and Marcellina, she sees her fiance embracing Marcellina and leaps to an obvious conclusion: the rat up and married the old crone! While she fumes, Figaro attempts to calm her down so he can explain what's going on. "Senti!", he implores, "senti, senti!"

Now, the Italian verb "sentire" has two meanings: to hear, and to feel. Figaro is using it to say "Hear me! Listen, baby, listen!" But Susanna, in no mood, replies "Senti questo" ("feel this) and delivers a slap to the face. Actually, when you think about it, the current street expression "You feel me?" is a literal English-language version of the Italian: feel = hear. Cool.


2. The style in which Almaviva speaks to Figaro in the Act 2 finale.
This one is way cool; it may be my favorite, and it's only recently occured to me. It continues a theme developed in my post of March 24. Did you miss that one? Too lazy to go back and read it? Here's the gist:

In the opening number of the opera, Susanna and Figaro sing a duet in which Mozart deftly indicates which of them is the smarter, or "quicker"; Figaro plods along in quarter notes,

 while Susanna sings twice as quickly in eighths. We also noted that, when she first addresses Figaro, Susanna deliberately slows down her rhythmic pace to match his; she speaks in his eighth-note style, a "language" she knows he'll readily respond to:

By the end of the number, you'll recall, Figaro has been "quickened"; metaphorically made smarter - he too is singing in eigths.

Here's the deal: in the Act 2 finale, Countess Rosina, weary of improvising lies to her husband, "comes clean" about the various schemes perpetrated on the Count by Figaro, Susanna and herself. This includes an anonymous note Basilio had delivererd to Almaviva which, the Countess confesses, was written by Figaro. When Figaro waltzes in, unaware that those beans have been spilled, the Count begins questioning him suspiciously (he's pretty sure that he's being lied to).

Now, the thing to note is this: observe the rhythm as Detective Almaviva begins the interrogation of his servant:

Except for relative note values, the rhythmic pattern is clearly associated with both Figaro's opening theme and Susanna's imitation above. Factor in the change in tempo (the Count's line is Andante, whereas that Figaro-Susanna duet is a sprightly Allegro, and they sound virtually identical in performance.

My point: the Count is doing the same as Susanna, using "Figaro-speak" to make sure his valet understands him clearly. With both Susanna and the Count, imagine them speaking V-E-R-Y  S-L-O-W-L-Y to someone deemed a little slow-witted. It's like that!

And finally,

1. Lorenzo da Ponte following one of the rules of comedy in the Count-Susanna duet
In the wikiHow article "How to be funny", we are told that Freudian slips are one of the comedy basics:

Freudian slips are linguistic errors that are believed to expose what you were really thinking rather than what you "meant" to say, and are often of a sexual nature.



At the top of Act 3, the Count is overjoyed when Susanna, with a lack of enthusiasm he doesn't seem to notice, agrees to meet him in the garden that evening for a rendezvous. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, he keeps asking her if she really means it in a series of "yes or no" questions. As Jay Leno (or any standup comic) knows, it's the third repetition of something that needs to be the funny one. Susanna answers the first two questions as the Count expects, but then gets, *ahem* "confused" on the last one:

A good test of whether or not the audience is following the super-titles in English is to see if this passage gets a laugh. When the listeners are attuned to her response of "No" to the question "You really mean it"?, it's impossible not to laugh at Susanna's genuine attitude accidentally surfacing, only to be quickly corrected when her would-be seducer reacts in dismay. This is an example of the dangers of listening to an opera on the radio sans libretto - you can miss a lot!

So - what are YOUR favorite Mozartian acorns? Tell us in the comments section!

My book THE OPERA ZOO: SINGERS, COMPOSERS AND OTHER PRIMATES is available from Kendall Hunt Publishing. Order online or by phone from customer service: 1-800-344-9034, ext. 3020. Also available at www.amazon.com