Only a few days are left before Christmas Day and all of its holly-encrusted delights. Presents have been wrapped in charmingly cherubic wrapping paper, Christmas trees have been trimmed, gingerbread men have been decorated with ill-matched frosting ensembles...everything points toward good will and a joyous holiday spirit.
Please gag me with a candy cane. The holiday season isn't all baked ham and egg nog. Presents, trees, and gingerbread men are all well and good for materialistic, tree-hating cannibals, but let's take a closer look at some holiday statistics.
Over the course of this holiday season, three million unhappy individuals will discover too late that they are fatally allergic to the color combination of red and green; five million, three hundred thousand and four performances of "The Messiah" will be sung embarrassingly out of tune; seven hundred thousand and nine awkward couples in matching reindeer turtlenecks will inadvertently consume poisonous berries while attempting to canoodle under mistletoe; five hundred thousand and eighty-six utterances of "Happy Chan-oo-kah!" will set back Judeo-Christian relations by 500 years; and seventeen members of the Associated Union of Reindeer will finally reveal that aggravated syphilis was the true cause of Rudolph's luminous nose.
And, if you are expecting Santa Claus to pay a house call this year, don't hold your breath: old Saint Nick was just diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes and is now confined to a wheelchair and restricted to a steady diet of pureed wheat germ.
So, there you have it. Society has pulled the pine-scented wool over your eyes, and, as your faithfully-opinionated blogger, I have a moral obligation to A) burst your Christmas bubble, B) splinter your candy cane, C) amputate the limbs of your favorite gingerbread man, D) contaminate your egg nog with salmonella, and E) generally "grinch-ify" your Christmas in every way possible.
Truth be told, I may have a slightly ulterior motive when it comes to destroying your holiday spirit. It may be hard to believe, but my acerbic wit and cynical sarcasm were once decidedly pro-Christmas.
But then, one fateful Christmas in 1990, all of my Christmas spirit was disastrously and irrevocably destroyed.
In my color-coded Christmas letter to Santa Claus, I had asked for only one thing: Kiri te Kanawa's Christmas album. Yet, when the key moment arrived and I gleefully ripped open my Christmas present, I discovered not the charmingly alliterative "Christmas by Kiri," but rather that premiere Christmas album by...CHARLOTTE CHURCH!
It was seventy-three days before I was able to consume solid foods again.
Ever since that traumatic day, I have faced every holiday season with undeniable hatred. Plum pudding and baked ham turn to dust in my mouth; the scent of gingerbread makes me froth at the mouth; even the slightest hint of Bing Crosby singing "White Christmas" causes my right foot and left nostril to twitch uncontrollably.
After decades of extensive anti-Christmas therapy (involving several unnatural uses of reindeer antlers and Christmas ornaments), I have finally determined that the Christmas spirit is not to blame for my affliction, but rather Kris Kringle himself. After all, it was none other than Santa who gave me the wrong cd and thus burned the permanent image of sugarplum Charlotte Churches into my brain.
With that in mind, I have decided to postpone my war against other sopranos for the time being and focus all of my malignant power on that unnaturally rosy-cheeked, diabetes-inflicted figure of holiday evil. I urge you to do the same, if only to prevent the same unhappy experience from damaging another impressionable young soprano.
So, I beg you: inject your gingerbread cookies with gallons of insulin, spray your Christmas tree with poisonous pesticides, and set your sniper rifle to the "reindeer" setting.
I myself plan to build a roaring holiday blaze in my fireplace on Christmas Eve and enjoy some delectable Santa flambe.
Could someone please pass the salt?
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
A Lot of Superstitious Hocus Pocus
Performers are known for their superstitions. The most respected Shakespearean actor will cringe at any inadvertent reference to “Macbeth”; the most elegant prima ballerina will quake before her thirty-two fouetté turns after hearing a hearty cry of “good luck!”; the most refined concert pianist will worry about razor blades in the piano keys after crossing paths with a black cat. Even the most rational and anti-superstitious performer can’t help but take a moment to question the wisdom of opening an umbrella indoors.
Opera singers are no exception to this rule. In fact, opera singers are far more neurotically superstitious than any other type of performer, a fact that is directly linked to the same “diva” gene that necessitates contract clauses, soprano catfights, and the placement of a dozen white lilies in the lead tenor’s dressing room.
Opera superstitions fall into two categories. First, there are pre-performance superstitions: relatively harmless traditions used by individual opera singers to ensure a successful performance. These superstitions can range from the benign (drinking a cup of jasmine tea and watching “The Sound of Music”) to the bizarre (sleeping with a musical score under the pillow in order to transmit musicality through osmosis) to the positively fanatical (dressing up in Joan Sutherland’s old nightgown and hopping on one foot while singing “The trumpet shall sound”).
The second category of opera superstitions is made up of more personal, more potent, and far more dangerous superstitions. These beliefs generally don’t have anything to do with opera in the grander sense but they are somehow always found in massive quantities in the twisted psyche of the average young singer.
To the untrained eye, Claire Coloratura may appear to be a well-adjusted young woman. She comes to rehearsals on time, engages in healthy competition with her fellow sopranos, and hits a hell of a high E on a regular basis. Scratch beneath the surface of those shimmering cadenzas, however, and you will discover that Claire has been wearing the same pair of lucky socks every day since the 7th grade. She also brushes her teeth in 147 cycles of counter-clockwise rotation, eats a jar of capers with milk every Thursday at 4:13pm, and has taken a personal vow only to date men named Sam.
And it isn’t just the sopranos. Barry Baritone certainly looks like a regular Joe six-pack (without the six-pack, of course), but he also has fourteen lucky turtles, only speaks in Pig Latin to his girlfriend, and paints his toenails a delightful shade of maroon before every performance.
Tommy Tenor coordinates the color of his boxer-briefs to the musical keys of Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits albums and writes emails in a code constructed from “Die schöne Müllerin.” And, in case you couldn’t tell from his inspiring performance as Don Ottavio, Tommy also sings a rousing falsetto rendition of “Sempre libera” every morning between shampooing his mustache and shaving his chest.
These personal superstitions may seem to be innocuous. After all, Claire’s obsession with capers, Barry’s penchant for poikilotherms, and Tommy’s color-coordinated Calvin Kleins do not affect their operatic performances in a negative way. Just the opposite, in fact: listen to one of Claire’s coloratura runs, and you’ll be damned if you don’t notice that each staccato note is as dazzling clear as a tasty caper.
But don’t be fooled. These superstitions may appear to help opera singers achieve success, but they are actually more likely to transform a performer into post-op Bruce Banner than Beverly Sills.
Moreover, this threat to musical sanity is growing more powerful every day. Dozens of new singers are infected on a daily basis, and the superstitions are getting more and more bizarre. I recently met a young mezzo-soprano who makes every life decision depending on the responses of her Magic 8-Ball. Clearly, it is only a matter of time before we have Toscas who brandish rabbit feet instead of daggers and Mimis who die of triskaidekaphobia instead of consumption.
Still, I urge each of you to try your utmost to defeat that sneaky demon of superstitious nonsense. Superstitious traditions can’t replace solid hard work when it comes to a performance, and only a fool would actually expect those crusty socks from 7th grade to help with that melisma at the end of “Spargi d’amaro pianto.”
The only way to overcome your superstitions is to face them. So, make friends with black cats, walk underneath ladders, and wish everyone a boisterous “Good luck!” for their production of “Macbeth.”
And if you still don’t think that you’ll be able to overcome all of your superstitious hocus pocus – don’t worry.
I’ll be crossing my fingers for you.
Opera singers are no exception to this rule. In fact, opera singers are far more neurotically superstitious than any other type of performer, a fact that is directly linked to the same “diva” gene that necessitates contract clauses, soprano catfights, and the placement of a dozen white lilies in the lead tenor’s dressing room.
Opera superstitions fall into two categories. First, there are pre-performance superstitions: relatively harmless traditions used by individual opera singers to ensure a successful performance. These superstitions can range from the benign (drinking a cup of jasmine tea and watching “The Sound of Music”) to the bizarre (sleeping with a musical score under the pillow in order to transmit musicality through osmosis) to the positively fanatical (dressing up in Joan Sutherland’s old nightgown and hopping on one foot while singing “The trumpet shall sound”).
The second category of opera superstitions is made up of more personal, more potent, and far more dangerous superstitions. These beliefs generally don’t have anything to do with opera in the grander sense but they are somehow always found in massive quantities in the twisted psyche of the average young singer.
To the untrained eye, Claire Coloratura may appear to be a well-adjusted young woman. She comes to rehearsals on time, engages in healthy competition with her fellow sopranos, and hits a hell of a high E on a regular basis. Scratch beneath the surface of those shimmering cadenzas, however, and you will discover that Claire has been wearing the same pair of lucky socks every day since the 7th grade. She also brushes her teeth in 147 cycles of counter-clockwise rotation, eats a jar of capers with milk every Thursday at 4:13pm, and has taken a personal vow only to date men named Sam.
And it isn’t just the sopranos. Barry Baritone certainly looks like a regular Joe six-pack (without the six-pack, of course), but he also has fourteen lucky turtles, only speaks in Pig Latin to his girlfriend, and paints his toenails a delightful shade of maroon before every performance.
Tommy Tenor coordinates the color of his boxer-briefs to the musical keys of Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits albums and writes emails in a code constructed from “Die schöne Müllerin.” And, in case you couldn’t tell from his inspiring performance as Don Ottavio, Tommy also sings a rousing falsetto rendition of “Sempre libera” every morning between shampooing his mustache and shaving his chest.
These personal superstitions may seem to be innocuous. After all, Claire’s obsession with capers, Barry’s penchant for poikilotherms, and Tommy’s color-coordinated Calvin Kleins do not affect their operatic performances in a negative way. Just the opposite, in fact: listen to one of Claire’s coloratura runs, and you’ll be damned if you don’t notice that each staccato note is as dazzling clear as a tasty caper.
But don’t be fooled. These superstitions may appear to help opera singers achieve success, but they are actually more likely to transform a performer into post-op Bruce Banner than Beverly Sills.
Moreover, this threat to musical sanity is growing more powerful every day. Dozens of new singers are infected on a daily basis, and the superstitions are getting more and more bizarre. I recently met a young mezzo-soprano who makes every life decision depending on the responses of her Magic 8-Ball. Clearly, it is only a matter of time before we have Toscas who brandish rabbit feet instead of daggers and Mimis who die of triskaidekaphobia instead of consumption.
Still, I urge each of you to try your utmost to defeat that sneaky demon of superstitious nonsense. Superstitious traditions can’t replace solid hard work when it comes to a performance, and only a fool would actually expect those crusty socks from 7th grade to help with that melisma at the end of “Spargi d’amaro pianto.”
The only way to overcome your superstitions is to face them. So, make friends with black cats, walk underneath ladders, and wish everyone a boisterous “Good luck!” for their production of “Macbeth.”
And if you still don’t think that you’ll be able to overcome all of your superstitious hocus pocus – don’t worry.
I’ll be crossing my fingers for you.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Soprano versus Soprano
Opera is no stranger to the grand passions. Sex, murder, ambition, incest, battles between gods and giants – the opera stage sees it all, witnessing more power struggles on a daily basis than the World Wrestling Federation and the United Nations combined. Considering the opera world’s penchant for passion, it should be no surprise that the battle for dominance wages even more fiercely offstage.
Step into the green room and see the truth: in the left corner, Alfredo is pelting Rudolpho with throat lozenges; in the right corner, Germont is dodging Papageno’s rotten eggs; in the back, Cherubino is challenging Octavian to a beer-chugging contest; and, of course, in the middle, Violetta and Pamina are throttling each other.
The ego wars between tenors, baritones, and mezzos are certainly ferocious, yet none can compete with the epic battles of soprano versus soprano in terms of sheer savagery.
Sopranos follow a simple but precise model of behavior. Each year, Soprano A reviews and facebook stalks all sopranos joining her musical community. After determining which sopranos pose the greatest threat to her territory (i.e. “fach”), Soprano A initiates several stages of “friendly” behavior with the one deemed to be the most dangerous: Soprano B. Over coffee and amid friendly discussions of repertoire, the ever-cunning Soprano A pretends to bond with Soprano B in order to gain her confidence and gradually discover each of her vulnerabilities. At the exact moment that Soprano B reveals her greatest weakness, Soprano A plans to impale her with her most piercing form of passive aggression and thus, maintain her dominance.
If you are beginning to worry about the safety of sweet little Soprano B, fear not. She is not an innocent victim, but actually just the opposite, having selected Soprano A as her archrival weeks ago and hastily planned a suitable counterattack.
If we look closer, we see that Soprano A is already losing this battle. So far, her “friendly” behavior has only helped her to discover that Soprano B has a tremulous vibrato. Soprano B, on the other hand, has discovered that Soprano A has a problematic high F, insufficient breath support, a preference for handsome baritones, and a pair of extremely ugly sandals. Within a few minutes, Soprano B will strike, Soprano A will be defeated, and the power in this fach will shift. Soprano A will spend the evening licking her wounds in a practice room and then plan for another battle tomorrow.
Those of you who saw Susie Soprano and Corinne Coloratura eating lunch together yesterday witnessed this power struggle in real life. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, but a gauntlet had clearly been thrown. Each bite of sandwich was carefully timed; each comment was a subtle test in the waters of the other’s insecurity; each friendly smile was simply a feint before a cutting blow. And who won the battle? The triumphant flash of scarlet in Susie’s eyes in between bites of grilled cheese tells us everything we need to know.
The opera world is a dangerous one, and we must all learn the best way to protect ourselves. Having battled numerous nemesis sopranos since 7th grade, I have learned to expect a soprano attack at any time. And, after years of carefully study, I have crafted a handbook of tried-and-true defenses to use against the most lethal soprano assault. I offer you the top five:
1) Always carry a digitized recording of Florence Foster Jenkins singing “Der Hölle Rache” on your person. When threatened by a savage soprano, simply play the recording as loudly as possible and wait for the soprano to run away screaming.
2) Memorize the following three phrases: “You have SUCH a cute voice,” “Have you ever thought about doing something else with your life?” and “Your voice teacher is really sweet to keep trying to help you sing better.” Use any of these phrases whenever necessary to clear sopranos from your path.
3) Always travel in the company of a tenor or baritone (see blog posting “Falling in love…and not just with opera”). When an aggressive soprano approaches, push the tenor or baritone toward the soprano and run away as fast as possible. A small gratuity for the tenor or baritone might be considerate, depending on the extent of the soprano’s hostility.
4) When a soprano begins to talk to you, cough loudly. The soprano will immediately leave the area in order to find some Airborne, Vitamin C, or Mucinex. Sniffles, sneezes, and excessive throat clearing are equally effective.
5) Walk around with a wooden stake, a crucifix, several heads of garlic, and the complete series of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on DVD. Sopranos will definitely steer clear. Unfortunately, so will everyone else.
No matter what dangerous vocalists lurk in the halls, a true opera singer cannot help but thrive on a little passion and danger. And, who knows…perhaps one day Soprano A will extend a proverbial olive branch to Soprano B, the two will break into an exquisite rendition of the Flower Duet, and peace and happiness will reign supreme in the world.
But, for now, it might be best to make friends with the instrumentalists.
And keep your back facing the wall at all times.
Step into the green room and see the truth: in the left corner, Alfredo is pelting Rudolpho with throat lozenges; in the right corner, Germont is dodging Papageno’s rotten eggs; in the back, Cherubino is challenging Octavian to a beer-chugging contest; and, of course, in the middle, Violetta and Pamina are throttling each other.
The ego wars between tenors, baritones, and mezzos are certainly ferocious, yet none can compete with the epic battles of soprano versus soprano in terms of sheer savagery.
Sopranos follow a simple but precise model of behavior. Each year, Soprano A reviews and facebook stalks all sopranos joining her musical community. After determining which sopranos pose the greatest threat to her territory (i.e. “fach”), Soprano A initiates several stages of “friendly” behavior with the one deemed to be the most dangerous: Soprano B. Over coffee and amid friendly discussions of repertoire, the ever-cunning Soprano A pretends to bond with Soprano B in order to gain her confidence and gradually discover each of her vulnerabilities. At the exact moment that Soprano B reveals her greatest weakness, Soprano A plans to impale her with her most piercing form of passive aggression and thus, maintain her dominance.
If you are beginning to worry about the safety of sweet little Soprano B, fear not. She is not an innocent victim, but actually just the opposite, having selected Soprano A as her archrival weeks ago and hastily planned a suitable counterattack.
If we look closer, we see that Soprano A is already losing this battle. So far, her “friendly” behavior has only helped her to discover that Soprano B has a tremulous vibrato. Soprano B, on the other hand, has discovered that Soprano A has a problematic high F, insufficient breath support, a preference for handsome baritones, and a pair of extremely ugly sandals. Within a few minutes, Soprano B will strike, Soprano A will be defeated, and the power in this fach will shift. Soprano A will spend the evening licking her wounds in a practice room and then plan for another battle tomorrow.
Those of you who saw Susie Soprano and Corinne Coloratura eating lunch together yesterday witnessed this power struggle in real life. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, but a gauntlet had clearly been thrown. Each bite of sandwich was carefully timed; each comment was a subtle test in the waters of the other’s insecurity; each friendly smile was simply a feint before a cutting blow. And who won the battle? The triumphant flash of scarlet in Susie’s eyes in between bites of grilled cheese tells us everything we need to know.
The opera world is a dangerous one, and we must all learn the best way to protect ourselves. Having battled numerous nemesis sopranos since 7th grade, I have learned to expect a soprano attack at any time. And, after years of carefully study, I have crafted a handbook of tried-and-true defenses to use against the most lethal soprano assault. I offer you the top five:
1) Always carry a digitized recording of Florence Foster Jenkins singing “Der Hölle Rache” on your person. When threatened by a savage soprano, simply play the recording as loudly as possible and wait for the soprano to run away screaming.
2) Memorize the following three phrases: “You have SUCH a cute voice,” “Have you ever thought about doing something else with your life?” and “Your voice teacher is really sweet to keep trying to help you sing better.” Use any of these phrases whenever necessary to clear sopranos from your path.
3) Always travel in the company of a tenor or baritone (see blog posting “Falling in love…and not just with opera”). When an aggressive soprano approaches, push the tenor or baritone toward the soprano and run away as fast as possible. A small gratuity for the tenor or baritone might be considerate, depending on the extent of the soprano’s hostility.
4) When a soprano begins to talk to you, cough loudly. The soprano will immediately leave the area in order to find some Airborne, Vitamin C, or Mucinex. Sniffles, sneezes, and excessive throat clearing are equally effective.
5) Walk around with a wooden stake, a crucifix, several heads of garlic, and the complete series of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on DVD. Sopranos will definitely steer clear. Unfortunately, so will everyone else.
No matter what dangerous vocalists lurk in the halls, a true opera singer cannot help but thrive on a little passion and danger. And, who knows…perhaps one day Soprano A will extend a proverbial olive branch to Soprano B, the two will break into an exquisite rendition of the Flower Duet, and peace and happiness will reign supreme in the world.
But, for now, it might be best to make friends with the instrumentalists.
And keep your back facing the wall at all times.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Why Weight?
Fifty years ago, Maria Callas set the opera world ablaze with a carefully planted tapeworm…or so the legend goes. Callas shed eighty pounds and suddenly metamorphosed from a rotund Greek soprano with overly-thick eyebrows to an elegant sylph fit to rule the opera stage. At a svelte 135 pounds, Callas tipped the scale toward a new singing aesthetic and single-handedly created the beginning of what is now a universal obsession with weight in the opera world.
These days, thin is in. And, no matter how much we may cling to the beloved stereotypes of past generations, opera houses are simply no longer tolerating the “big-boned” look. As Deborah Voigt will be the first to tell you, a beautiful voice doesn’t mean anything if you are not hovering between dress sizes 4 and 12. Of course, it doesn’t hurt if you are also stunningly beautiful and oozing with sex appeal; just make sure that the circumference of your waist continues to adhere to Scarlett O’Hara’s standards or risk losing your five-year contract.
For those of you who are now frantically swigging ipecac and dashing to the toilet to rid yourself of the day’s caloric intake, let me first point out that this whole dichotomy between fat and thin is fundamentally flawed. The issue is not really about weight…it is about health. The kicker is just that healthy sopranos usually don’t weigh more than 250 pounds.
Take Ms. Brünnhilde Soprano as an example. One of your standard hefty singers with three hundred pounds, a horned helmut, and an armored bustier at her disposal, Brünnhilde is an extremely talented singer and performer. Yet, after several years on the opera stage, her career begins to deteriorate because of complications caused by her weight. The fact is, Siegfried can’t get his arms around Brünnhilde's mid-section for the love scene in “Siegfried.” Worst still, the placement of a horse next to Brünnhilde in “Die Götterdämmerung” might result in a riot of distraction in which the entire audience begins to draw Venn diagrams on their programs.
Dramatic issues aside, Brünnhilde's weight interferes with her cardiovascular functions, her physical capacity for moving on the stage, and her ability to support vocal production. Her weight is clearly a contributing factor to an unhealthy physical state. Now, if any of you wants to inform me that Brünnhilde is actually the operatic version of G.I. Jane, one-armed push-ups included, I would be glad to hear it. But I’ll also want to see one of those push-ups before I post a retraction.
Rest assured, I am not insinuating that the plumper sopranos in this world should start sticking their fingers down their throats or buy lifetime supplies of laxatives. Nor am I suggesting that the slender singers in the pack should set up IVs of melted ice cream and whey protein. The fact is, there are different benefits associated with having both body type as an opera singer.
If you are on the portly side of things, you might be glad to know that the extra fatty tissue around your larynx may actually increase the resonance of your voice. Larger singers also tend to have more expansive rib cages and chest cavities, both of which result in bigger breaths and better breath support. There is also the added benefit of being able to belly bounce any arrogant conductor who questions the pitch of your high B. And, lest we forget, there is always a bonus to having more “cushion for the pushing,” so to speak.
Those of you with slender frames have your own set of bonuses, particularly a stronger core and tighter abdomen that help to support the diaphragmic pressure involved in singing. Moreover, you don’t have to worry about being stereotyped as a fat opera singer every time you introduce yourself at a cocktail party. Nor will you ever have to struggle to squeeze into a particularly little black dress in a Covent Garden production.
The time has come to cease the cellulite-feud between skinny and fat soprano and take definitive action. Buy some exercise shorts, set a standing date with a rival soprano (a little healthy competition never hurt anyone), and force yourself to engage in twenty minutes of cardiovascular exercise three times a week.
Not only will you finally fit into those seersucker capris you bought two summers ago, you will feel stronger and sing better. And if the opera producers at the Met decide that you still aren’t thin enough for their production of “L’Elisir d’Anorexia,” I highly recommend giving them the middle finger.
Or, if worse comes to worse, I can always lend you my personal tapeworm.
These days, thin is in. And, no matter how much we may cling to the beloved stereotypes of past generations, opera houses are simply no longer tolerating the “big-boned” look. As Deborah Voigt will be the first to tell you, a beautiful voice doesn’t mean anything if you are not hovering between dress sizes 4 and 12. Of course, it doesn’t hurt if you are also stunningly beautiful and oozing with sex appeal; just make sure that the circumference of your waist continues to adhere to Scarlett O’Hara’s standards or risk losing your five-year contract.
For those of you who are now frantically swigging ipecac and dashing to the toilet to rid yourself of the day’s caloric intake, let me first point out that this whole dichotomy between fat and thin is fundamentally flawed. The issue is not really about weight…it is about health. The kicker is just that healthy sopranos usually don’t weigh more than 250 pounds.
Take Ms. Brünnhilde Soprano as an example. One of your standard hefty singers with three hundred pounds, a horned helmut, and an armored bustier at her disposal, Brünnhilde is an extremely talented singer and performer. Yet, after several years on the opera stage, her career begins to deteriorate because of complications caused by her weight. The fact is, Siegfried can’t get his arms around Brünnhilde's mid-section for the love scene in “Siegfried.” Worst still, the placement of a horse next to Brünnhilde in “Die Götterdämmerung” might result in a riot of distraction in which the entire audience begins to draw Venn diagrams on their programs.
Dramatic issues aside, Brünnhilde's weight interferes with her cardiovascular functions, her physical capacity for moving on the stage, and her ability to support vocal production. Her weight is clearly a contributing factor to an unhealthy physical state. Now, if any of you wants to inform me that Brünnhilde is actually the operatic version of G.I. Jane, one-armed push-ups included, I would be glad to hear it. But I’ll also want to see one of those push-ups before I post a retraction.
Rest assured, I am not insinuating that the plumper sopranos in this world should start sticking their fingers down their throats or buy lifetime supplies of laxatives. Nor am I suggesting that the slender singers in the pack should set up IVs of melted ice cream and whey protein. The fact is, there are different benefits associated with having both body type as an opera singer.
If you are on the portly side of things, you might be glad to know that the extra fatty tissue around your larynx may actually increase the resonance of your voice. Larger singers also tend to have more expansive rib cages and chest cavities, both of which result in bigger breaths and better breath support. There is also the added benefit of being able to belly bounce any arrogant conductor who questions the pitch of your high B. And, lest we forget, there is always a bonus to having more “cushion for the pushing,” so to speak.
Those of you with slender frames have your own set of bonuses, particularly a stronger core and tighter abdomen that help to support the diaphragmic pressure involved in singing. Moreover, you don’t have to worry about being stereotyped as a fat opera singer every time you introduce yourself at a cocktail party. Nor will you ever have to struggle to squeeze into a particularly little black dress in a Covent Garden production.
The time has come to cease the cellulite-feud between skinny and fat soprano and take definitive action. Buy some exercise shorts, set a standing date with a rival soprano (a little healthy competition never hurt anyone), and force yourself to engage in twenty minutes of cardiovascular exercise three times a week.
Not only will you finally fit into those seersucker capris you bought two summers ago, you will feel stronger and sing better. And if the opera producers at the Met decide that you still aren’t thin enough for their production of “L’Elisir d’Anorexia,” I highly recommend giving them the middle finger.
Or, if worse comes to worse, I can always lend you my personal tapeworm.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Falling in love...and not just with opera
The day before I left for college, my mother took me aside and gave me one particular piece of sage advice. “Never date a tenor,” she told me. I placed my right hand on my heart and gave her an earnest promise. After all, it didn’t seem like such a difficult task: the only real-life tenor that I had ever met was the fifty-five-year old specimen playing Siegfried at the opera house. Highlights included thinning hair, a problematic overbite, and a physical stature frighteningly similar to that of Jabba the Hut.
Less than two weeks later, I had already broken my promise. I called my mother and admitted the full extent of my failure as a daughter in five shameful words: “Mom…I’m dating a tenor.”
Alas, that tenor was only the first of many tenors, baritones, and basses to charm both my ears and my heart. To make matters worse, one of those baritones was really nothing more than a self-hating tenor, and one of the tenors was also a trumpet player, a crime that is tantamount to political treason in my parents’ house.
After each romance ended, I would clean up all of the broken glass and tattered rose petals and promise myself never to date a tenor (or a baritone or a bass) ever again. And yet, for a period of six years, it would only take the barest hint of a baritone aria or an elegant tenor high A to make me willingly plummet headlong into the exciting world of opera incest once again.
Here’s the scientific truth. Female singers are automatically built with a unique hormonal response that activates the instant they hear an adequate rendition of either “Dies Bildnis” or “Bella siccome un angelo.” Some women have such a keen aural perception that even the worst rendition of “Dies Bildnis” or “Bella siccome un angelo” will do. This, of course, explains Andrea Bocelli’s popularity.
This aural response is heightened by a visual reaction to the sleek lines of a tuxedo as well as the general sexual frustration that permeates the halls of every conservatory. For a practical exercise, combine all of the above in the soprano of your choosing, add twelve hours of opera rehearsal with a particular tenor or baritone, stir for six measures, and then simply wait for the emotional fireworks to begin.
Male singers, on the other hand, are completely unaware of the strength of the hormonal response that they inspire in females of the opera singing species. In the end, they simply wait for the women to flock to them and rely solely on an automatic “sing or sting” response that allows them to flee if they are approached by a soprano more than four times their size.
No matter how you stir it, romance and opera singing just don’t mix…at least not if you don’t want to have to have a straitjacket, two pairs of goggles, and plastic wine glasses on hand. Sure, it’s difficult to resist the charms of the opposite sex when she’s wearing a voluminous gown with a corset, he’s wearing extremely tight bloomers, and they are both singing the hell out of a virtuosic aria. But step back and think for a moment before you get too caught up in the cadenza.
Of all of the opera singers that I have dated, there are at least three that I am probably going to have to work with again at some point in my career. (As far as the rest of you go, I can tell you now what I was forced to deny while we were dating: your voice just isn’t very good.)
While I admit that it might be fun to trade passive-aggressive barbs with that tenor from my sophomore year of college, none of those relationships were really worth the future aggravation that I will have to face. Opera singing is our business, and, as we all know, one of the cardinal rules of any career is that you don’t mix business with pleasure.
So, as a soprano who has crossed over to the dark side of opera romance and lived to tell about it, let me condescend to give you some good advice.
Never date an opera singer.
Unless, of course, his brother is an investment banker. In that case, invite them both over for dinner.
Less than two weeks later, I had already broken my promise. I called my mother and admitted the full extent of my failure as a daughter in five shameful words: “Mom…I’m dating a tenor.”
Alas, that tenor was only the first of many tenors, baritones, and basses to charm both my ears and my heart. To make matters worse, one of those baritones was really nothing more than a self-hating tenor, and one of the tenors was also a trumpet player, a crime that is tantamount to political treason in my parents’ house.
After each romance ended, I would clean up all of the broken glass and tattered rose petals and promise myself never to date a tenor (or a baritone or a bass) ever again. And yet, for a period of six years, it would only take the barest hint of a baritone aria or an elegant tenor high A to make me willingly plummet headlong into the exciting world of opera incest once again.
Here’s the scientific truth. Female singers are automatically built with a unique hormonal response that activates the instant they hear an adequate rendition of either “Dies Bildnis” or “Bella siccome un angelo.” Some women have such a keen aural perception that even the worst rendition of “Dies Bildnis” or “Bella siccome un angelo” will do. This, of course, explains Andrea Bocelli’s popularity.
This aural response is heightened by a visual reaction to the sleek lines of a tuxedo as well as the general sexual frustration that permeates the halls of every conservatory. For a practical exercise, combine all of the above in the soprano of your choosing, add twelve hours of opera rehearsal with a particular tenor or baritone, stir for six measures, and then simply wait for the emotional fireworks to begin.
Male singers, on the other hand, are completely unaware of the strength of the hormonal response that they inspire in females of the opera singing species. In the end, they simply wait for the women to flock to them and rely solely on an automatic “sing or sting” response that allows them to flee if they are approached by a soprano more than four times their size.
No matter how you stir it, romance and opera singing just don’t mix…at least not if you don’t want to have to have a straitjacket, two pairs of goggles, and plastic wine glasses on hand. Sure, it’s difficult to resist the charms of the opposite sex when she’s wearing a voluminous gown with a corset, he’s wearing extremely tight bloomers, and they are both singing the hell out of a virtuosic aria. But step back and think for a moment before you get too caught up in the cadenza.
Of all of the opera singers that I have dated, there are at least three that I am probably going to have to work with again at some point in my career. (As far as the rest of you go, I can tell you now what I was forced to deny while we were dating: your voice just isn’t very good.)
While I admit that it might be fun to trade passive-aggressive barbs with that tenor from my sophomore year of college, none of those relationships were really worth the future aggravation that I will have to face. Opera singing is our business, and, as we all know, one of the cardinal rules of any career is that you don’t mix business with pleasure.
So, as a soprano who has crossed over to the dark side of opera romance and lived to tell about it, let me condescend to give you some good advice.
Never date an opera singer.
Unless, of course, his brother is an investment banker. In that case, invite them both over for dinner.
Friday, September 19, 2008
To Practice or Not To Practice
Any aspiring opera singer in the conservatory system knows the pressures of practicing. “Practice makes perfect,” they say, and, as any good New Yorker will tell you: “practice, practice, practice” is the only way to get to Carnegie Hall. Of course, whenever any Big Apple-ite actually greets me with this tired aphorism, I can’t help but channel my snottiest Ivy-League attitude and reply: “Actually, Carnegie Hall is on Seventh Avenue.” Then I usually hit them with my Nalgene bottle or my G. Schirmer collection of coloratura arias, whichever is readily available.
The truth is, a few hours of isolation in a dingy practice room can sometimes have a rather miraculous effect. For example, Susie Soprano is practicing her favorite vocalism (and perhaps listening covertly to the rather dashing baritone singing next door) and suddenly she has an epiphany about lip tension. Everything her teacher had been telling her begins to make sense. An entire new world opens up, a world without problematic vibrato or strident high notes (and of course, a world in which said dashing baritone would gladly sing a little “la ci darem” to her over supper).
Within a few minutes, Susie’s phlegm descends and her technical problems reassert themselves, yet for those few minutes, she was the operatic version of Henry Higgin’s improved Eliza Doolittle. Beware when you talk to Susie in class tomorrow: her practice room success will have temporarily transformed her into that dreaded singer who boasts: “You know, I have such a BIG voice. I really sound just like Joan Sutherland.” Just be sure to have your Nalgene on hand for easy throwing.
Sadly (though perhaps for the benefit of soprano-soprano interactions), these miraculous vocal discoveries during practice sessions are often few and far between. And, despite your youthful optimism, vocal improvement isn’t going to occur just because you lock yourself in a practice room for six hours out of sheer stubbornness. Leave that kind of craziness to the violinists.
With that in mind, I have a compiled a short list of suggested activities that are ideal for any singer in desperate need of some mid-practicing rejuvenation.
Activity #1: Carbon date the various snotty mucous membranes that previous tenants have spread on the wall during their own mid-practice crises. Then add your own to the collection.
Activity #2: Imagine how many people have had sex in this particular practice room. (Answer: none. Did you forget that this is a conservatory? And no, playing a piano four-hands duet doesn’t count.)
Activity #3: Use your voice recorder to make an entry in your Captain’s log. For example, “Stardate 12369.432. We encountered a group of crusty nebulas with perfect pitch and an inclination for Schubert lieder and decided to investigate. Little did we know…”
Activity #4: Stare at the people in the hall through the window in your door. When one of them makes eye-contact, open the door and blast a high C in their face. Then toss your scarf over your shoulder with a huff and slam the door.
Activity #5: Flick the light switch on and off while humming the theme song to the Twilight Zone. Note: this should not be performed by anyone suffering from epilepsy.
Activity #6: Re-fill your water bottle every time you take a sip. Then formulate a quadratic equation to conclude how many times you are going to have to pee in the next hour.
Activity #7: Walk surreptitiously past the practice room containing your favorite tenor/baritone/soprano/mezzo crush, gaze at them through the window until they notice you, and then pretend that you are just on your way to the bathroom. Don’t repeat this activity too often unless you want your crush to assume that you have a bladder infection.
Activity #8: Loudly slam your hands, feet, and head on random piano keys while gazing intently at an imposing-looking musical score. When pianists begin to peer through the window in terrified curiosity, break into an impassioned 4-minute finale that concludes with tears and your collapse on the floor.
Activity #9: Pretend to be Steve McQueen in solitary confinement in “A Great Escape.” If you forgot your baseball and glove, throw cough drops at the wall instead.
Activity #10: Make a mental list of all of your friends who have real jobs. Then, make a mental list of all of your friends who have incomes above $70,000. Then, make a mental list of all of your friends who are married. Then, make a mental list of all of the people you hated in high school who have real jobs, incomes of $70,000, and spouses. Then, make a mental list of how many more years you are going to be paying off your student loans.
Some of you have finished reading this list and are still trying to figure out the Star Trek reference from Activity #3. If that is the case, I pity you.
Others of you have no doubt made a romantic connection with the tenor/baritone/soprano/mezzo mentioned in Activity #7 and gone off to grab coffee (or perhaps even to solve the problem of Activity #3). If that is the case, I offer you my most insincere congratulations and promise to try my utmost not to gag when I see you canoodling in Diction class tomorrow.
The rest of you have finished reading this list, done the math for Activity #10, and promptly sent your resumes off to the nearest headhunter. Don’t despair, my friends. Practice makes perfect, remember?
But, just in case, would you mind forwarding my resume as well?
The truth is, a few hours of isolation in a dingy practice room can sometimes have a rather miraculous effect. For example, Susie Soprano is practicing her favorite vocalism (and perhaps listening covertly to the rather dashing baritone singing next door) and suddenly she has an epiphany about lip tension. Everything her teacher had been telling her begins to make sense. An entire new world opens up, a world without problematic vibrato or strident high notes (and of course, a world in which said dashing baritone would gladly sing a little “la ci darem” to her over supper).
Within a few minutes, Susie’s phlegm descends and her technical problems reassert themselves, yet for those few minutes, she was the operatic version of Henry Higgin’s improved Eliza Doolittle. Beware when you talk to Susie in class tomorrow: her practice room success will have temporarily transformed her into that dreaded singer who boasts: “You know, I have such a BIG voice. I really sound just like Joan Sutherland.” Just be sure to have your Nalgene on hand for easy throwing.
Sadly (though perhaps for the benefit of soprano-soprano interactions), these miraculous vocal discoveries during practice sessions are often few and far between. And, despite your youthful optimism, vocal improvement isn’t going to occur just because you lock yourself in a practice room for six hours out of sheer stubbornness. Leave that kind of craziness to the violinists.
With that in mind, I have a compiled a short list of suggested activities that are ideal for any singer in desperate need of some mid-practicing rejuvenation.
Activity #1: Carbon date the various snotty mucous membranes that previous tenants have spread on the wall during their own mid-practice crises. Then add your own to the collection.
Activity #2: Imagine how many people have had sex in this particular practice room. (Answer: none. Did you forget that this is a conservatory? And no, playing a piano four-hands duet doesn’t count.)
Activity #3: Use your voice recorder to make an entry in your Captain’s log. For example, “Stardate 12369.432. We encountered a group of crusty nebulas with perfect pitch and an inclination for Schubert lieder and decided to investigate. Little did we know…”
Activity #4: Stare at the people in the hall through the window in your door. When one of them makes eye-contact, open the door and blast a high C in their face. Then toss your scarf over your shoulder with a huff and slam the door.
Activity #5: Flick the light switch on and off while humming the theme song to the Twilight Zone. Note: this should not be performed by anyone suffering from epilepsy.
Activity #6: Re-fill your water bottle every time you take a sip. Then formulate a quadratic equation to conclude how many times you are going to have to pee in the next hour.
Activity #7: Walk surreptitiously past the practice room containing your favorite tenor/baritone/soprano/mezzo crush, gaze at them through the window until they notice you, and then pretend that you are just on your way to the bathroom. Don’t repeat this activity too often unless you want your crush to assume that you have a bladder infection.
Activity #8: Loudly slam your hands, feet, and head on random piano keys while gazing intently at an imposing-looking musical score. When pianists begin to peer through the window in terrified curiosity, break into an impassioned 4-minute finale that concludes with tears and your collapse on the floor.
Activity #9: Pretend to be Steve McQueen in solitary confinement in “A Great Escape.” If you forgot your baseball and glove, throw cough drops at the wall instead.
Activity #10: Make a mental list of all of your friends who have real jobs. Then, make a mental list of all of your friends who have incomes above $70,000. Then, make a mental list of all of your friends who are married. Then, make a mental list of all of the people you hated in high school who have real jobs, incomes of $70,000, and spouses. Then, make a mental list of how many more years you are going to be paying off your student loans.
Some of you have finished reading this list and are still trying to figure out the Star Trek reference from Activity #3. If that is the case, I pity you.
Others of you have no doubt made a romantic connection with the tenor/baritone/soprano/mezzo mentioned in Activity #7 and gone off to grab coffee (or perhaps even to solve the problem of Activity #3). If that is the case, I offer you my most insincere congratulations and promise to try my utmost not to gag when I see you canoodling in Diction class tomorrow.
The rest of you have finished reading this list, done the math for Activity #10, and promptly sent your resumes off to the nearest headhunter. Don’t despair, my friends. Practice makes perfect, remember?
But, just in case, would you mind forwarding my resume as well?
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