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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
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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