'You're a what? Really?' Facing that dreaded question...

Something I am repeatedly confronted with is how old insecurities and fears never really disappear, and how the same lessons often need to be relearned. This can be viewed as a bad thing: you never just wake up one morning and feel 'successful,' despite any number of milestones achieved, but it could also be seen as a good thing: perhaps everyone you perceive to be 'ahead' of you in the game is struggling with the same problems, so why worry?

I was reminded of this while perusing Carol Kirkpatrick's website, http://www.ariaready.net. (She also puts out a free newsletter.) Although aimed mainly at students and apprentice level singers, much of her advice is still relevant to the working professional, especially us jobbing freelancers. Her March newsletter particularly caught my attention: answering that awkward question (especially when asked by someone outside of the business) of "what do you do?" A seemingly simple question that can tie a singer up in knots. Obviously, if we were world famous, Renee-/Placido-/Bryn- level singers, no one would NEED to ask us. They would already know what we did. But having to explain the vagaries of the music industry, and exactly our own place in the pecking order, whilst watching someone's eyes glaze over, can be disheartening in the extreme. It can be very tempting to say something general, like 'I work in the arts' or stick with 'I teach music.' I have even been advised to tell outright lies: 'Oh yes, me and Placido, we sing together all the time!' (I'm SURE no one EVER does that.) I was delighted to see her newsletter on this subject pop into my inbox for two reasons: 1) I thought I was the only singer who experienced this particular neurosis, and 2) she promised a helpful formula to compose a truthful but empowering answer. Hoorah! (Go to the web link listed below to read the article in full.) Now, I know we all MEAN to do these very useful quizzes and exercises, but, well, there's all this other stuff to do, and practicing, and, ahem... Don't worry. I've done your homework for you (well, part of it anyway):

(Carol's questions are in italics)

Why does this very particular question make you panic and feel so uncomfortable?

Fear of being seen as a 'fraud'-of being asked to 'prove' I am a singer...fear that discussing what I do with someone not familiar with the industry will put up a social barrier between us: many people seem to think Opera Singers are some kind of alien species. Fear of sounding 'pompous.'

Write down the exact conversation going on in your head. (Be able to un-jumble it and get at least one solid thought down.)

If I just say opera singer they will ask something awkward like 'are you famous' or 'do you know so-and-so (insert the name of your least favourite crossover/popera singer here)' or something equally naff or ask 'where have you sung' or 'where are you singing now' and their eyes will glaze over while I explain about touring with regional companies and covering in big houses and basically destroy their illusions about what being a performing artist is. Then they will look at me as if I am a liar and have just wasted their time and that I am a delusional fantasist and never want to speak to me again. And that's just the people who like me. (This is an edited version: the exact 'conversation' can be much worse.)

And finally, she instructs us to write our own 'personal statement' to have at the ready for answering that pesky question. Here is mine:

'I'm an opera singer...I have sung at Covent Garden, and worked at the Met in New York. I'm free lance, so it's quite unpredictable what I'll be doing from season to season, but always exciting! I also teach, and sometimes do local performances. If you're interested, here's my card: you can see upcoming performances on my website.'

Now, you go on Carol's website and do the exercise for yourself. I'll see you when you're done.

It really was a surprise how little that inner dialogue has changed since I was a student / apprentice / aspiring opera singer. Even though I now earn my living as a singer and no longer need to hold down a support job; even though I can cite working in opera houses that the average man or woman on the street may actually have heard of; the old fears still remain...if only I'd done this exercise back in the day! So if anyone reading this is exactly in Carol's intended demographic, I hope you will realise that you are not alone, and that the person asking this question is not trying to catch you out or make you feel a fraud or a failure. At worst, they are just making polite conversation. At best, they are really interested, don't know much about what we do, at any level, and really (really!) don't realise they are being ever-so-slightly offensive when they bring up the name of that so-and-so 'popera' singer. See this as an opportunity to educate someone (gently, please) and possibly persuade them to come to a live performance. It's also a great moment to practice your own confidence-boosting mantra ('I am an opera singer, a real one, yes I am!') Most of the time, the person asking the 'dreaded question' is now very excited that they have met an actual opera singer, and they feel a bit special. Their eyes are only glazing over in confusion because they can't imagine why you appear to be apologising for being something so fantastically exotic. And sometimes, they are even envious. No, really. Now, go do your homework!

http://www.ariaready.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=265:connecting-with-your-extra-ordinary&catid=38:newsletter-archive&Itemid=71

Other articles on the web in a similar vein:

http://msinthebiz.com/2013/05/13/you-look-like-an-opera-singer/

http://www.talkclassical.com/20688-ten-things-you-should.html

http://operaadventuress.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/what-do-opera-singers-do-all-day-long.html

Songs from an Enchanted Island

(I am researching and refining a song recital themed on Shakespeare and Elizabethan poetry. The following is a first draft of the programme notes.)


Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

Caliban, The Tempest

In W. H. Auden's essay 'Music in Shakespeare' the author explains that there are two types of song in Shakespeare's plays: the 'called-for' and the 'impromptu.' The first is requested by another character as a form of entertainment, the other when a character cannot express him- or herself in any other way. Ariel's songs in The Tempest, however, do not fit into either category: 'For Ariel is neither a singer, that is to say, a human being whose vocal gifts provide him with a social function, nor a nonmusical person who in certain moods feels like singing. Ariel is song; when he is truly himself, he sings.'

Shakespeare's plays, and the works of other poets of the first Elizabethan age, are indeed 'full of noises,' and have served as rich fodder for song and opera composers, in Shakespeare's era as well as through subsequent centuries into our own. Caliban's island, never specifically identified, is thought to be Caribbean or Mediterranean, but given the wealth of magical, mystical and supernatural stories, poems and songs created there, the real Enchanted Island surely is Albion: Great Britain.

What do divas really get up to at home? Well...

A colleague recently posted on Twitter something along the lines of: 'waiting in for a delivery of furniture. Yes, this is how exciting my life is when I'm not singing somewhere...'

It got me thinking about what we divas do in between gigs - other than practice, prepare for auditions and answer fan mail, of course - so I made a partial list:

1) going for walks/foraging for wild food
2) trying to avoid housework (so much easier to avoid when I'm away from home, but I'm getting pretty good at it even when it's staring me in the face)
3) writing blogs
4) planting/tending/harvesting garden
5) spending time with my chickens/cats/goldfish/children/husband
6) knitting/sewing/making
7) teaching
8) making plans to: exercise more/learn to cook/learn to speak Mandarin, etc.
9) indulging in paranoid fantasies of never getting hired to sing again and being reduced to busking on the front lawn in my pyjamas...

You get the picture. Recently, the big domestic project has been renovating the family bathroom. It got me thinking about how much 'project management' singers have to do (you thought we just got up, ate a few bonbons, took deliveries of flowers and got into the limo to go to the opera house didn't you?) I noticed myself going through the same process as I would putting together a recital programme or recording a CD, even down to the bits I find tiresome and wish I could skip over...and here is my little list of advice - to myself as well as others:

1) Get on with it! 'Plans are nothing. Planning is everything.' Don't be afraid to enlist others for the jobs you are not expert at. I am not a plumber, nor am I a sound engineer.

2) Do the boring stuff, even when it feels like it gets you no further toward your goal. It does. Eventually. Yes, the woodwork really does need to be cleaned and prepped before it is painted. And those songs really do need word-by-word translations.

3) Our plumber turned up at 8 a.m. every day. Start early. OK, I don't recommend singing scales so early in the morning, but emails can be drafted, texts translated, research done.

4) There will be delays, problems, disappointments, etc. Know this. Allow time for it in the schedule. Same goes for budget. Expect the unexpected, and don't let it throw you too much.

5) Nothing is ever perfect. Nothing. Know when to let go and decide that it's ready/finished/time to start on the next project.

That's it, I think. Now...where's that limo got to?

From Amahl to the Met: my Mum, Me and Opera (Or, Thank Goodness for the Met HD Broadcasts)

Recently, I had the unusual experience of watching the Metropolitan Opera HD Cinema broadcast...from the Green Room backstage at the Met itself.

Covers at the Met are required to be in the theater during simulcast performances, and since the television monitors backstage show exactly what audiences around the world are seeing in the cinema, we were all in the Green Room that day, enjoying the show. You may think that singers working at the Met would be too cool and cosmopolitan to behave like over-excited children whilst watching people we know appear on TV. You would be wrong.

The afternoon of the HD broadcast was also the day I would later fly to Atlanta, GA to visit my family. My mum no longer enjoys travel, so her only way of sharing this production with me is to attend the broadcast at her local movie theater. This was the closest we would get to actually seeing the opera 'together.'

We have a long history, my mum and I, regarding opera and singing. An excellent amateur singer, she was the leading soprano and soloist in our church choir when I was growing up, and it was through her that I found my first voice teacher. Mum had started taking formal voice lessons at the local university, and her teacher was tasked with forming a local chorus for a touring production of Amahl and the Night Visitors. We both went along to the auditions, and after accepting both of us into the chorus, the teacher suggested that I should also be getting some formal voice training. Still in high school at the time, I started lessons and went on to study music at university. I feel quite blessed that both my parents always supported my choice of a career in music...especially when I met fellow students for whom that was not the case.

Several years, and two academic degrees later, when I was a finalist in the Luciano Pavarotti competition, Mum confided to me that she had always wondered what it would have been like to sing a role on the stage. (In her youth she had known several aspiring opera singers, but had never pursued a professional singing career herself.) She attended the rounds of the competition in New York and in Philadelphia and was thrilled when, as I was singing Sempre Libera from La Traviata, Maestro Pavarotti himself sang along as the off-stage Alfredo.

After I emigrated to the United Kingdom, it obviously became more challenging for Mum to attend performances I was involved with. She did make the journey to New York and Pittsburgh when I came back across the pond to perform in some contemporary opera premieres, and the advent of social networking via the Internet allows me to share recorded performances and photos with her almost instantly.

And so technology helped us to share another musical experience, in real time, and a few hours later we were able to rehash the whole performance in person. We had a lovely time sharing comments from both sides of the stage, and by the time I headed back to New York she was well-armed with gossipy inside information to share with her opera-going friends and mahjong buddies.

From Amahl chorus to the Metropolitan Opera, my mother has been there with me in one way or another, as inspiration, teacher, fellow chorus member, biggest fan, patron and supporter. So, thank you Metropolitan Opera of New York, for your HD cinema broadcast series, and allowing my mother and me to share this part of our journey. And thank you Mum. For everything.

The Metropolitan Opera: a view from the inside...

In September of this year, I commenced my 'debut season' as a Metropolitan Opera singer. The Met is an amazing place, and one of the things that impressed me most was the way artists are treated with respect and professionalism. I worked there as a cover: someone who fully rehearses and prepares for an operatic role, and then waits in the wings in case another singer is unable to perform, but barring that event, doesn't otherwise perform the role in that house. Even so, I was repeatedly congratulated, officially and unofficially, on my 'debut' at the Met. My name and photo are on the official Met roster. I am a Metropolitan Opera singer. (Wow.)

These are a few notes I jotted down about my experiences there...

Week 1 of rehearsals for The Tempest, The Metropolitan Opera, New York, Monday:
I have a 10 a.m. call to do a 'flying' rehearsal, which consists of being fitted into a harness (borrowed from one of the Valkyries in the Ring, not mine, which is being custom made) and being hoisted into the air. I suddenly realise, because of a strong burning sensation, that all of my body weight is now being concentrated in my hips. And..then I am asked to sing. A Capella. Yes, I do need to find out what it feels like to sing in this position, but it would be nice to know if I am in the right key...not exactly what I had envisioned my first vocalizations as a principal singer at the Met would be like...

Released from this unusual experience (and I hasten to add that everyone is very apologetic, helpful and polite) I am directed to the wardrobe department where I am thoroughly measured (still in the harness, which has to be worn under the costume) and squeezed into the main cast Ariel's costume which consists of stretch Lycra. Photos are taken. Return to the rehearsal space and back to dangling on the end of a rope. The rope (or wire, as it is alarmingly called) is threaded through a chandelier, so my character will appear - with the full costume and theatrical effects, of course - to be a Harpy who has suddenly transmogrified from said lighting fixture. I have to release a giant set of wings as I begin my ascent, while a group of acrobats proceed to pull and release ropes which make the chandelier, and me, swing quite violently across the room. Again, I am asked to sing, only this time with the assistance of a recording of the scene's music.

Back in my street clothes, I find my way to the music rehearsal (feeling slightly embarrassed about sneaking in like a child late for her first day at school) just in time for the coffee break. I get to meet a couple of fellow cast members and covers, and listen to some of my role being rehearsed, before we all break up for lunch, and both myself and the main cast Ariel are released for the day. Welcome to the Met!

Tuesday:
After the excitement of my first day 'trial by fire,' the second day is positively sedate. All I need to do is listen to the main cast rehearse with the conductor (who is also, fabulously, the composer), take notes and generally look interested. However, today is also my younger son's 6th birthday, and I am an ocean away from him. I pass a note around the rehearsal room (again playing at naughty school child) which reads: 'My son is 6 today - will you help me sing Happy Birthday to him at the lunch break?' Several singers acknowledge my missive, and I figure that ought to make a sufficiently impressive sound. When the lunch break is called, myself and my fellow conspirators gather in the best spot for cell phone reception, and I ring home. As I am waiting for my husband to pick up the phone, several other singers ask what is going on and offer to join in. By the time we start in with Happy Birthday, both casts of The Tempest are gathered round, who sing with full operatic gusto, spontaneously breaking 4-part harmony, and I have to stop singing because I am welling up.

Wednesday:
More music rehearsals today, plus a little bit more acrobat training for me. In another scene, my character is hiding inside the chandelier, which is resting on its side on the floor. I learn a routine where I emerge from the chandelier, climb on top, stand, squat, lie down (verrrry comfortable!), and generally perch on this oddly shaped piece of set. I start to wish I worked out more. A lot more. I am videoed doing this oh-so-graceful routine so I can practice at home...

Thursday:
Today both the main cast Ariel and I have flying rehearsal. I watch her go through the routine (the one hanging from the chandelier) and then I get strapped into a harness and do the same. She has done this particular production before, so she knows it is possible to sing and fly at the same time, and therefore feels safe marking the part down an octave. I have no such experience to back me up, so when it is my turn I take advantage of having a live pianist and assistant conductor in the room, and give it to them with both barrels. Considering I haven't had any coaching yet and I am dangling from a wire, it goes pretty well. I hope music schools are incorporating acrobatics into the curriculum for aspiring opera singers...

Week 2, Tuesday:
This is more like the covering jobs I am used to. Sitting in a corner watching the main cast being put through their paces, and trying to take notes/remember what moves go where in the music/shadow perform what they're doing, and generally try to behave and not distract, or at least not to gossip too much with the other covers. Reassuring to know that in some respects, the Met is like any other opera house.

Wednesday:
Not called to rehearsal today, but it is payday, so I find my way to the payroll office, which is in a part of the building I have not visited before. On the way out, I get turned around, and end up on the wrong side of the house. A stage hand kindly directs me to the correct elevator bank, the route to which takes me into the front of house area, and I suddenly find myself with a view of Lincoln Center Plaza I didn't know existed. Those huge arched windows actually go up 6 floors, and it it quite breathtaking from the inside at that height. Looking down into the lobby area, I can see the famous crystal chandeliers and red carpeted staircases. I fish my phone out of my handbag and surreptitiously snap a few photos before wending my way out of the building.

Saturday:
An email comes through from the rehearsal department informing me of a change in today's schedule. Instead of observing both morning and afternoon sessions, the cover cast will be observing in the morning and rehearsing in the afternoon. OK, I know I need to be prepared for everything and anything, no problem. Then, on the subway platform waiting for the train to Lincoln Center, my cell phone rings. The rehearsal department, giving me a heads up that the lady I am covering is feeling unwell, and I (can't quite hear the rest, as a train rumbles by on the other track)...OK, I suppose they mean I'll sing it from the side while she goes through the motions? Whatever, at least I'll arrive in good time to warm up a bit and find out exactly what's going on.

Actually, she is not there at all. It's all me, acting, climbing on bits of set, and singing. For the main cast, the head producer, and the conductor. Who also just happens to be the composer. No pressure then.

Week 4, Monday:
Stage rehearsals in the main auditorium begin for our production. Now there's no mistaking where we are. This is a truly iconic opera house. In the afternoon session, the covers have a music call. This is the first opportunity we have really had to hear each other sing. Cue a bit of nerves all round and no excuses for marking! Still, it's good a) to get a chance to really sing out loud after days of listening and b) to get this little ritual of 'so what are this lot really like?' out of the way.

Tuesday:
Morning session only today, watching and taking notes. It is useful to see the machinery in place instead of having to imagine all the 'special effects'. I also get another harness fitting, this time with the head of the technical/design team, who impresses me greatly by lifting me off the floor (by the harness) with his bare hands. It fits. And it is far, far more comfortable than the previous, borrowed harness. This harness, and a complete duplicate costume has been built specifically for me, something that doesn't happen in every opera house. Even if I never get a chance to perform in this run, it feels a bit special that somewhere in the costume storage at the Met there will be pieces of clothing with little labels with my name on them...

Wednesday
Chandelier scene on stage. And, surprise, I am handed a rehearsal leotard and led to the principal dressing rooms to change so I can have a go too. The technicians strap me into my harness while the main cast Ariel is lifted and the crew practice their cues for the scene. When that has been done to everyone's satisfaction, I am fitted into the 'harpy' costume pieces (including some oversized bird-claws that make it nearly impossible to walk) and put through the routine. I'm shown how to shuffle on my bottom to the base of the chandelier, present my bottom to the acrobat who has the responsibility of attaching me to the wire, and make the necessary adjustments while the chandelier is raised and I am hoisted into the air along with it. I do my best to unfurl the wings at the right moment, move my bird-claws menacingly, and stare straight at the conductor/composer and sing the right notes in the right order. I am singing on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. Well, I am singing whilst hovering over the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. Close enough.

(I have to report that I never got to 'go on' in this production. The main cast Ariel was far too healthy for that. I did, however, sing in a couple of promotional events at outside venues, and was duly billed as a 'Metropolitan Opera singer' for these appearances. And I must admit: that felt very nice indeed.)
________________________________________________________
The Metropolitan Opera performance of The Tempest, by British composer Thomas Ades, will be broadcast on the Met's Saturday Matinee radio series at 1:00 p.m. ET and on BBC Radio 3 at 6:00 p.m. GMT on Saturday, 29 December 2012

How I survived Sandy, or, there is more to New York City than Times Square

I had planned to round off my series on 'Time Travelling via the Opera Tour' with memories old and new of New York. (I am currently there, in my debut season on the roster of the Metropolitan Opera, covering Ariel in Thomas Ades' The Tempest.) The planned blog was full of charming anecdotes about my life in New York prior to emigrating to the UK, introducing my eldest son to my favourite city, and the anticipation of introducing my younger son to the delights of the Big Apple when they came to visit me during their half term holiday.

Then came Sandy.

Now, in many, many ways we were very lucky: my family's flight arrived safely, on time, the day before the city started shutting down in preparation for the storm, we never lost power during the worst of the bad weather, had plenty of food and supplies in, and their flight back to the UK happened on schedule. We were unhurt, warm, safe and dry. However, my vision of gamboling in Central Park, showing the boys around the Metropolitan Opera House, visiting the Museum of Natural History, etc, etc, had to be revised slightly.

Our digs were in a vacation rental apartment in Brooklyn. Fine and dandy if the subway system is running, but a world away from the 'famous' bits of New York if not. I was contractually obligated to be within 20 minutes of the opera house during Wednesday's performance of The Tempest, which involved taking a bus to downtown Brooklyn, walking across a bridge to lower Manhattan, which was still without power, wandering through Chinatown and SoHo until finally flagging down a cab, which then crawled through the gridlocked streets up to Lincoln Center. Not a journey I fancied with kids in tow. (Eerily, the last performance at the Met before the hurricane was The Tempest, and the first after two nights of cancellations was also The Tempest. Made the storm scene quite prescient...)

It quickly became apparent that the public transport system was not going to be restored before the family returned to the UK, so we found ways to experience the city from our side of the East River: real American trick-or-treating (it is a competitive sport to see who has the scariest decorations on their house in Brooklyn), authentic New York pizza from Tony's Pizzeria, a day at the local shopping mall with enormous cheeseburgers for lunch, plus a rummage through the Salvation Army store to see what charity shops look like in the USA, and a visit to the zoo in Prospect Park. My family returned home with plenty of good memories and souvenirs of their time with me in New York. And, let us not forget, we survived an actual hurricane. What I did on my school holidays, indeed.

Time traveling via the opera tour...keeping it in the family, part 3: Perth

When he was in his early twenties, my late husband (the father of my eldest son) worked for a time in forestry on the Duke of Atholl's estate in Perthshire, Scotland. He often cited those days as being some of the happiest of his life: he was young and healthy, he was working outdoors in the fresh air, and he felt in harmony with the world around him. One day while up in the hills clearing bracken and planting pine saplings, he took a break to eat his packed lunch. All at once he realized that he was not alone on the hillside. The hot breath that he felt on the back of his neck was a roe deer, who had curiously approached him from behind. At first he daren't move, for fear of frightening the animal away, but then he decided to offer it part of his sandwich. As he sat there sharing his lunch with a beautiful wild creature, he wondered if there could be a better way to earn a living.

The opera tour's northern-most venue was Perth Theatre. I sang there both times, with and without my young son.  Both times, I/we travelled by train, enjoying the stunning scenery to and from Scotland. The second time, I struggled to picture myself and my son managing a push chair around the cobbled streets, filled with tourists and outdoor tables in front of restaurants. I vaguely recollected searching for the childminder's house, barely finding it in time to get to the theatre, then back again after the show was finished, checking us both into our hotel, and getting up bright and early to catch the train back the next morning. On this occasion, I was able to take more time to enjoy the town, spending time (and a little too much money) in a craft and bead shop, eating in one of the fancier restaurants, taking photographs of the architecture, and learning about the history of the city.  I bought some postcards to send home to my sons, and wrote a reminder on the back to my eldest about the time we spent there together, and how Perthshire was one of his father's favourite places. The card was, of course, an aerial photo of the Atholl Estates. '...your dad probably planted some of those trees.'

Time-Travelling via the Opera Tour...Keeping it in the Family, Part 2: Exeter

 When I first performed in Exeter, toddler in tow, luck was on my side. The people running the digs we stayed in were not only lovely and welcoming, but have become true friends. Both professional artists, she a painter and he a sculptor, they have a wonderful open-minded outlook on life. The house was full of art, as you would expect, and the garden full of sculpture. My son had a lovely time discovering the different (life-sized!) animals – sheep, dogs – and people dotted around inside and out. We were advised to visit the Exeter Royal Albert Memorial Museum, with its famous collection of stuffed animals dating back to Victorian times. Local hero Gerald the Giraffe, part of the taxidermied menagerie, greeted us as we entered the impressively ornate museum building. My then two-year-old son took great delight in using his new vocabulary in the museum: ‘giraffe’ (his favourite animal at the time), ‘statue’ and –embarrassingly- ‘that statue is a man, because it has a willy!’ Well, it was a replica of a Greek statue, after all.

On my return visit, I stayed at the same digs, as I had stayed in touch with our hosts. As it turned out, I was one of the last lodgers to stay with them: they had sold the big, rambling Victorian house, and were completing their dream house on a parcel of land at the bottom of their (former) garden. Complete with floor-to-ceiling windows along one side, and a two-story artists’ studio outbuilding, it was something right out of ‘Grand Designs.’ We had a lovely time catching up on all the news, mine and theirs, with their grown children getting married/producing grandchildren, and my remarriage and expanded family. I made an attempt to visit the RAMM, but it was closed for renovations. I spent the time instead window shopping at the delightful boutiques and independent shops in the area around the museum, and raiding all the local charity shops and relieving them of their wool supplies.

More recently, while performing at another theatre in Devon, I made a detour to Exeter to visit my artist friends, who were having a joint exhibit in a trendy gallery in Topsham. Again, we had a lovely catch-up session, and it was wonderfully surreal to see so many sculptures and paintings - that I had originally seen in the artists’ house and garden - in the formal setting of a gallery. I felt privileged in comparison to the other patrons who were visiting the exhibition, and it was strange – when noticing the many ‘sold’ notices – to imagine these pieces gracing someone else’s home. I was also reminded of why this couple had always remained in my thoughts: here were two lives intertwined with art, creativity, and love. They had met as students at art school and built parallel careers as practitioners and teachers, while raising a family and creating a beautiful home. An inspiration to artists of every discipline, and one of the many unexpected positives I discovered while touring en famille.

The artwork of Margaret and Roger Dean can be viewed at: http://www.theartroomtopsham.co.uk/port_Deans.html

Time-travelling via the opera tour…keeping it in the family.

Several years ago, I took my toddler son on tour with me. With an opera company. That may sound completely bonkers, and I don’t recommend it for the faint-of-heart, but we did it. I was a widowed mother, wanted to work for practical reasons, and needed to continue as a singer for other, not as easy to quantify, reasons…so my little man had to come along for the ride. Taking a small person with you on tour is interesting. It exaggerates the usual challenges of combining a performing career with motherhood (the irregular hours and sporadic income which make arranging childcare a creative patchwork of heroic proportions, for example) as well as intensifying the positive aspects and intangible benefits of raising a family whilst pursuing a career in the theatre.

I managed, with great difficulty, to book digs and local baby-sitters and child-minders for all the venues of the tour (with the invaluable advice from a married couple in the orchestra who also had occasion to tour with their progeny.) Somehow, my son and I both lived to tell the tale. And met a lot of interesting people along the way. And visited every museum, zoo, park, castle and charity shop in Britain. He had a separate collection of ‘tour toys’ (acquired at aforementioned places) that lived in my car and thus didn’t have to be packed and unpacked every time we left home. My son developed an unnatural liking for museums and stately homes (all the suits of armour, probably) (come to think of it, he REALLY likes ‘Horrible History’ books now), learned sooner than most little ones how to sit still during meals, use real cutlery (can’t always depend on finding child-friendly restaurants on the road) and today could probably sing the entire score of The Magic Flute (if he were so inclined…he prefers to play the guitar).

Several years later, remarried, with my son now in school, and with a baby brother (and three step-siblings) to keep him company, I had the opportunity to tour with the same opera company, and retrace some of our journeys. It brought back strong memories of our little travelling family circus. Several of the same cities and venues were on the agenda, so I revisited the same museums and attractions, and even stayed in some of the same digs. It allowed me a unique window of perspective of my life as it is now compared to then, and to examine my memories of the time I travelled to these places with a toddler in tow. First things first: it was a lot easier. A lot. I spent the first week away from home, child-free, in a kind of stupor, not knowing what to do with myself. Don’t get me wrong, I had prepared: brought lots of books to read, my knitting…but mostly I retraced my steps, no push-chair in front of me this time.  Specific memories, insights, and visits with old friends will be shared in future essays. For now, here are my top tips on touring, with or without children:

1.      Charity shops are GREAT. You can get books to read in your digs or hotel room, wool to knit or crochet, gifts for the folks back home, clothes (pack lightly!) They are also endlessly entertaining. And cheap.

2.      Many museums and art galleries are free, and also good for your process as an artist…look for inspiration. Public libraries are also good. Yes, you can’t check anything out as you’re not local, but you can read newspapers and periodicals for free (Opera magazine, anyone?), do some quiet study (sometimes digs can feel a bit claustrophobic), and they often sell off ‘redundant’ books VERY cheaply. 10p each. Not an exaggeration!

3.      Parks, footpaths, walks, natural attractions…yes, you have a show to sing that evening, so take it easy (or save it for a day off), but don’t miss out on these aspects of your ‘working holiday.' Healthy, inspiring, and a definite fringe benefit of being on the road. Again, FREE! And the photos look great in your Facebook/Twitter timeline…

4.      If a venue is in a big city or obvious tourist town, the iconic views are easy to find. But if the venue is a little more obscure, you might be surprised at a city’s ‘claim to fame.’ Check out the local history. Also, if your performance is part of a festival, go to other performances if time allows…lectures, workshops, lunchtime concerts and ‘fringe’ events are often free or very low cost.

5.      Travelling with children brings the need for keeping costs down into sharp focus…however, even child-free singers need to bear in mind that spending all your free time on tour visiting the local high street shops and restaurants is a really nice way of coming home…with no fee! There is something irresistible about shopping while away from home. Call it the hunter-gatherer instinct, or the feeling of being on holiday, whatever: channel this urge into cheaper alternatives.

6.      If your children stay safely at home while you tour, it can be tempting to buy expensive souvenirs and gifts out of guilt. Again, there are more thrifty, and thoughtful, alternatives: text/email photos or short videos of the sights, or better yet, of yourself: in your digs/in the theatre/in costume…be creative. Seeing where mummy/daddy is staying, what the show looks like, etc is very comforting. Some souvenirs cost nothing: a pretty pinecone, pebble, leaf, or freebies from the hotel/airline etc. (for the younger ones...the older ones see through this, unless they're working on a cool collection of air-sick bags!)

Something interesting Mum saw on the road...

Bon voyage!

I Turned Down La Scala (…hope they’ve forgiven me by now…)

Sometimes, the best stories aren’t about what happened, but what didn’t. I recently put together a CD of opera arias, and one piece in particular is prompting some comment: a little-known showpiece of wild coloratura from Salieri’s opera Europa riconosciuta, Semele’s aria ‘Quando più irato freme.’ Mainly known these days as the jealous rival of Mozart, as depicted in the stage play and film ‘Amadeus,’ in his lifetime Antonio Salieri was a highly respected opera composer. So much so that he was commissioned to write Europa riconosciuta for the inaugural production of the new La Scala opera house in Milan in 1778. And it is because of this bit of opera trivia that I came to add this aria to my repertoire.

In 2004 I was working at Welsh National Opera. This was the year the renovated La Scala opera house was celebrating its re-opening, and the very first opera performed in the house was being revived for the occasion. A staff member of La Scala was involved in the same production at WNO, and after returning to Italy, he recommended me to La Scala’s artistic director.  I was asked to come to Milan to audition, and specifically to prepare Quando più irato freme.

Now, auditions vary greatly in style and substance: everything from ‘cattle-calls’ in rented, drafty rehearsal spaces on the wrong side of town, to glam on-the-main-stage affairs with my own dressing room and a rehearsal with a top-notch accompanist beforehand. Singers have to be ready for anything. Similarly, audition feedback can vary greatly: never hearing anything, getting a rejection letter eventually, being hired a few days, weeks, or months later…being offered the job on the spot is almost unheard of. Almost. In Milan, in November 2004, for a production opening the 7^th December 2004, this is what happened:

Several sopranos auditioned for the role of Semele in Europa Riconosciuta. A couple of hours later, four of us were asked to sing again, this time on the stage of the theatre. After singing that round, we waited in the foyer, and were called in one at a time. When it was my turn, they offered me the engagement. They informed me I would need to start rehearsals the following day. Considering I was booked on a flight home that afternoon, and was at the time a widowed mother of a 5-year-old, I said that really wasn’t possible, and could we see about giving me a little time to arrange accommodation, childcare, ummm, pack a suitcase with a few more clothes, etc.

It was agreed that I had until the end of the week to sort myself out, and I phoned my agent in a daze to tell her what had happened. She immediately set about helping me sort out the two problems facing me: 1) finding some local childcare during the rehearsal period, and 2) clearing things with Welsh National Opera, where I was still under contract. Several days and several frantic phone calls later, it became clear that finding childcare was going to be the easier of the two tasks. While WNO bent over backwards to make it possible for me to go to Milan while still fulfilling my obligations to them, La Scala could not release me to WNO on a crucial date clash. So….rather than break a promise, and ruin my reputation as a reliable, ethical, and honest soprano (oh yes, we do exist), I said ‘no.’ To La Scala. To the oldest, most historically saturated, famous opera house in the world. But, hey, what makes better dinner-party conversation: ‘I once sang at La Scala,’ or ‘I once turned down La Scala’? And I’ve got a unique audition piece up my sleeve.

p.s. If anyone from Milan is reading this…I would love to be able to say ‘Yes!’ Call me. L x

‘Quando piu irate freme’ from Europa Riconosciuta by Antoio Salieri is included on the recently released CD, ‘Virgins & Queens’ available for purchase at www.lauremeloy.co.uk

Exquisite Decadence

La lune blanche luit dans les bois.
De chaque branche part une voix
sous la ramée…
O bien aimée.

L’étang reflète, profond miroir,
la silhouette du saule noir
où le vent pleure…
Rêvons, c’est l’heure.

Un vaste et tendre apaisement
semble descendre du firmament
que l’astre irise.
C’est l’heure exquise.

- Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

When a friend and colleague suggested we program a song recital together based not on a particular composer or period, but on a particular poet, I was intrigued. We chose Paul Verlaine, not only because there is a lot of song repertoire to choose from, but because his poems are particularly beautiful as well.
 In 1870, he married 17-year-old Mathilde Mauté de Fleurville in the hope that her purity and innocent love would cure both his alcoholism and his attraction to other men…

While researching his life, I came to realise that there is a dichotomy in the life of many (if not all) great artists in that exquisite beauty can often be created in an environment of extreme ugliness, moral and physical. Paul Verlaine is a case in point.

…Unfortunately, Mathilde’s love did not have the desired effect. Barely a year into his marriage, Verlaine encountered the then 16-year-old poet Arthur Rimbaud. Verlaine abandoned his wife and baby, both of whom had suffered from his violent rages, and he and Rimbaud began a highly volatile relationship that destroyed Verlaine’s marriage, estranged him from his family (Verlaine's brother-in-law described Rimbaud as "a vile, vicious, disgusting, smutty little schoolboy", but Verlaine found him an "exquisite creature"), and hastened his descent into poverty, alcoholism and addiction…

How many beginning voice students, genteel ladies at Thursday Musicales, and dignified Song Recital audiences realise what kind of man really wrote those ‘pretty’ poems? Verlaine was variously a: wife-beater, drug user, alcoholic, child abuser, and above all, a truly tortured soul.

…Their heavy drinking, however, took its toll on their relationship: one day as Verlaine came home with a fish and a bottle of oil, Rimbaud ridiculed him. Furious, Verlaine slapped him with the fish, then ran back to Brussels and threatened suicide. Rimbaud followed him and, in a Brussels hotel, they had their final row. With the gun he'd planned to use to kill himself, Verlaine shot Rimbaud in the arm, and was jailed for two years. ‘Romances sans paroles,’ which looks back nostalgically on his relationships with both his wife and his lover, was published while he was serving his sentence …

He spent time in prison, lived with prostitutes, left his wife for a teenage boy, and died prematurely of various ailments brought on by prolonged drug and alcohol abuse. His lover, Rimbaud, has become more famous in popular culture, but Verlaine’s poems predominate in the world of classical art song.

…He taught English for a while, fell in love with a pupil, Lucien Létinois, who later died of typhus, made two dismal attempts at life as a gentleman farmer, and finally settled in Paris, where he survived by living alternately with two female prostitutes, who would charge visitors a modest fee for an audience with the great poet. Although the last ten years of his life were spent suffering from multiple health problems, not least alcoholism and drug addiction, his fame and popularity were growing. In 1894 he was elected ‘Prince of Poets’ by his peers, who had once shunned him and prevented some of his ‘obscene’ poetry from being published. He never forgot Rimbaud, and is quoted as saying ‘For me, Rimbaud is an ever-living reality, a sun that burns inside me that does not want to be put out.’ Verlaine died at the age of 52, on January 8, 1896. His funeral was a public event, and thousands of Parisians followed his casket to the Batignolles cemetery.

Our goal is to perform these songs with vocal and musical beauty, while at the same time making our audience (and ourselves) aware of the raw, messy, destructive passions that helped to create them. Above are some extracts from the programme notes, arranged the way they are in the programme, in between the translations of the poems, so that the audience will be more likely to read them, and imagine the life and struggles of the poet while they listen to his poems.

Verlaine is dead. The last shred of that ruined soul which has for years been rotting away in chance Parisian brasseries, has loosened its hold upon life and slipped into the unknown; but the poetry he has left behind him, with its sighs and bitter sobbings, and its few gleams of beauty and of joy, contains the essence of his strange nature. Half faun, half satyr, his nature was allied to baseness and brutal animalism, but possessed a strange and childish naïveté which remained with him to the last, and a spirit remotely intact in the chaos of his wayward senses, whence issued songs of matchless purity and inimitable music.

- Verlaine: A Feminine Appreciation, by Mrs. Reginald de Koven (1896)

We are performing Fauré’s La Bonne Chanson and Debussy’s Ariettes Oubliées, among individual Verlaine settings by six other composers, including a total of four settings of ‘L’Heure Exquise.’ Interspersed with the music, we are reading extracts of essays and article written by Verlaine enthusiasts of his own time, and translations of letters between Verlaine and Rimbaud.

At the end of his life hardly anything but the naïveté was left, and the poems become mere outcries and gestures. There is no part of his work which is not the expression of some form of love, human or divine, grotesque or heroic, but always insatiable.

- Some Unpublished Letters of Verlaine, by Arthur Symons

Myself, Philip Eve, and Christopher Gould perform Exquisite Decadence, Verlaine’s Absinthe-Tinted Songs, at the Canterbury Festival on 15 October at 7:30 p.m. www.canterburyfestival.co.uk

Suprise!!! You're on...a text message diary of a sudden debut

10:13 Voicemail: You have 1 new voicemail

Exiting the shower, in preparation for a routine day’s teaching, I find a new text message on my mobile. Lovely husband has taken the kids away to the cinema and lunch (this is in the half-term school holidays) so I can have a bit of peace, quiet and practice time before my first student arrives for her lesson. The voicemail message is from my agent, asking me to ring back urgently…Covent Garden needs a Königen der Nacht in Die Zauberflöte for tomorrow night. I ring her. Oops, make that TONIGHT. She will ring back to confirm what is going on.

10:30 Me (to my Husband): Please ring asap

Dear husband steps out of the cinema and rings me. No problem, he will entertain the kids as planned and on into the evening if necessary. Don’t worry, go up to London if you have to. Hurriedly get dressed, dry hair, etc. Several phone calls - and some mad scrambling for my Zauberflöte score - later, I’m heading out the door.

12:03 Me (to my Students): Sorry about being so last minute, but I have to cancel today’s lesson. I will see you next week as per usual.

12:04 Me (to my Husband): On a train to London. Well, this should cover the overdraft in any case...

Hope the other passengers in the train carriage aren’t getting too weirded out by the mad woman whispering German to herself. And scribbling. Hoping they don’t actually understand German, either, what with all the talk of knives and killing…

12:37 (from fellow cast member and old friend): Hear you’re on!!! FantAstic!! See you later…xx

12:46 ROH Asst Company Mgr: Hi Laure. Thank you so much for agreeing to jump in this evening. I think you will arrive around 2:00. Please ask for me when you are at stage door. You will then first have a costume fitting, followed by a production rehearsal. Could you please let me know if you need any tickets for the show? You can get 2 comps. Thanks. Cu later. X

Forward this one on to my husband.

13:40 Me (to my Husband): Think I left candle burning in shower room!

Perhaps I am a little nervous. Having visions of the house burning down. Arrive at stage door in good time, whisked off to promised fitting and rehearsal.

14:08 Husband: Back home. No Fire. X

After rehearsal, a little time to relax (yeah right) and gather my thoughts. Tell myself I only need to hold it together for Act I aria, after which I will have a bit of time to prepare for the rest. Take it one scene at a time, Queenie. Try to remember what I normally do to prepare for a Flute performance: Eat a light supper – tick; Warm up – tick; Relax, and lay out knitting and crossword for later – uh...but this is NOT a normal situation. No time for knitting tonight…

16:49 Husband: Cant west? X

16:50 Me (to my Husband): Yes!

Pleased that hubby will be in audience. Worked out that teenage daughter can babysit younger ones while tweenage daughter comes to see the opera with him…clever man.

17:01 Family friend: Break a leg (in German)! Xx

17:36 Husband: Ashford intl. Due charing x just before 7. Wolf mouth thing. Enjoy it, you deserve to be there. Love x

I’ve explained to him ‘in boca al lupo’ but he resolutely refuses to remember it. Never mind. Wig and make-up person arrives in my dressing room to begin transforming me into evil incarnate, which I’m told will take at least an hour. It involves a lot of glitter, which confirms many of my suspicions (about glitter that is)…Conductor pops in to check tempos with me. Director checks to see I’m OK with the blocking.

19:08 Husband: We’re here! (Tweenage daughter)’s impressed…

Wig on. Dressers come in to lace me into several layers of sparkly black taffeta and escort me to the stage. Get into position behind wall that is about to fly out, listening to Tamino sing his aria...so far, so normal...except for my heart thudding so loud I worry I won’t be able to hear the orchestra. Tell myself just to focus on blocking, words, oh and not letting giant crescent moon hit me on the head as I cross downstage...

20:42 Husband: Fabulous, darling. X

Aria #1 done and dusted. Time now to rehearse dialogue and review text for Aria #2. Pamina comes into my dressing room to go over dialogue (my version is severely cut down from what she is used to, but she is cool about it). I try not to let the fact that she is a major international name freak me out too much. She’s even more gorgeous close up.

21:43 ROH Repetiteur and Coach: Well done, Laure. You did fabulously. Your voice carried full and true. X

Done with Act 2 aria and no one has come back stage to shoot me yet. Must be doing OK. Haven’t even tripped over the dress. Only Finale Quintet left to survive. Lucky there are a few minutes (!) to rehearse it in dressing room. Friendly 3^rd Lady comes to stomp through it with me. (This is usually my knitting time.)

22:33 Husband: Superb! Back stage? X

Finished! Did it! Can’t get the glitter off fast enough…curtain calls were fun, even if my applause was probably just for showing up at all…

22:47 to my Husband: Stage door asap

22:47 Husband: Here now

We catch the milk train home. I’m still covered in glitter, wig glue, and sweat. So that’s what ‘einspringen’ means. Can’t quite get my head around it yet, but I do believe I have just made my debut in a Major International House…completely and utterly by surprise.

In My Own Shoes

Not having to ‘fill another woman's shoes’ transformed my interpretation of a very familiar role.


This season I performed the role of Queen of Night for Welsh National Opera's production of The Magic Flute. It was the second time I appeared in that production (and I've lost track of how many other productions I've done of this particular opera…), but this time it was different. It felt like I made this role my own in a way I hadn't previously, and I largely attribute that transformation to one thing: I got to wear my own shoes. Of course, I must give credit to the marvellously empowering direction of Benjamin Davis, and the inevitable effect of my own increased maturity and experience (ahem). Still, there was something particularly freeing about the shoes. Not just because they were more comfortable than the costume shoes (they were) and enabled me to move more naturally, but also, as I only realised after the production was finished and the shoes were returned to me for everyday use, because of the symbolism. I wasn't being asked to fill another woman's shoes: these are my shoes. This is my role.

You see, in this production, I was originally the understudy, and then offered the role in my own right when the production was revived in 2008, and again this season. So the imprint of being a replacement for someone else remained, along with the costumes, sets, choreography, and shoes. And one day in rehearsal, our lovely director Ben said: 'Laure, why are you walking like that? Are those shoes uncomfortable? Can we get her some different shoes? …What about the ones you usually wear?'

And so I got to be in my own shoes. And I felt more able to sing this role the way I wanted to. And I wondered why I hadn't done this sooner. Perhaps I was still ‘filling someone else's shoes’...and I didn't feel I had the right to complain, or change anything? Ouch.

All this because of some shoes? Well, symbols and metaphors are powerful. And this was the Magic Flute, by they way. Symbolism abounds. Yes, it’s a metaphor, but an important one. One that I will carry with me into my future work and that I recommend to all, whatever your profession or position: be in your own shoes, and comfortable in your own role. Don’t try to be someone else: their shoes won’t fit quite so well.

Women who Inspire (March 2010)

In the past six months, I have: 

-sung the soprano solos in a piece written by a female composer for the Canterbury Festival; 

-taught singing lessons to a female composition student; 

-attended a concert in New York of music written and performed by women; 

-met with a woman composer (whose music I have sung and promoted on both sides of the Atlantic) and discussed commissioning a piece from her; 

-attended the debut recital of a wonderfully warm and gifted young mezzo soprano at Alice Tully Hall (NYC); 

-prepared a role in an opera which will have a female production director; 

-spent time with an old friend from University who has started her own musical theatre concert series... 

All these recent experiences energised me as a performer, a teacher, and a producer/promoter, but most of all it reminds me that women, as writers, performers and facilitators of music making, have always been (and always will be) incredibly creative, resilient and inspiring.
(This essay was previously published in Women In Music newsletter 07/03/2010)

The Challenges of singing the Queen of the Night (January 2008)

Most people focus solely on the extremity of the high f’s that the Queen has to sing, but another major challenge of this role is its brevity…there’s no chance to “warm up” through the performance:  Your first appearance on stage is singing an aria. Then you don’t appear again until the second act, not only singing another challenging aria, but the really, really well-known one that 90% of the audience could hum along to… 

A Queen of the Night needs the ability to display short bursts of high energy, with long breaks between, and not let focus, concentration, or energy drop too much during the wait…It may sound strange that less stage time actually makes it more difficult, but what you’re doing (or attempting to do) is putting in the same amount of effort as a much longer role, but not being able to spread that evenly over the length of the performance. It’s all got to erupt in three scenes; no wonder she’s in such a bad mood!

(This quote previously published in Friends of WNO Magazine 2008)

Some Thoughts on Women in Music (1998)

When I was an undergraduate, I remember being told what a hard time women were given if they chose to be anything other than instrumentalists or singers. Female conductors, except choral conductors, were a rarity and female composers in the minority. Our (female) choir director brought in a composer friend (also female)to speak to us about her new work, which we would be premiering that term. She told us a depressing tale of discrimination, from not being able to find a composition teacher who would accept a female student, to having trouble getting her works performed or published. Inspired by her struggle, I toyed with the idea of changing from a performance degree to composition. But as the 'muse' had not visited me, I realised that composition required more than political zeal, and resigned myself to being a 're-creative' artist. 


At about the same time, I joined Delta Omicron (professional music fraternity) and embraced the ideal of promoting the music of American and especially women composers. Our chapter sponsored an annual Women Composer Concert, and my final year I chaired the committee. If I couldn't be a composer, I would do everything in my power to help women who did have that gift. I also made it a point to be involved in contemporary music in my academic and professional career. My Master's recital included a set of songs by Scottish composer Thea Musgrave. After graduation I performed songs by a woman doctoral candidate in composition, auditioned for every contemporary opera I could find, and sought out composers whenever and wherever I could. I sang in premieres and workshops for male and female composers across the country. At the same time, I pursued work in 'traditional' repertoire, and I have sung my share of Mozart, Verdi and Donizetti. 


In 1998 I sang in the world premiere of a new opera called 'Patience and Sarah.' The composer, librettist, designer, author of the book the libretto is based on, and the leading singers are all women (only three roles of eight in the opera are male). The premiere took place at the Lincoln Center Festival in New York, fully staged, and cast with top-notch professionals. For a pre-premiere concert performance the conductor was also a woman, and I was struck by a moment in the final rehearsal when I saw how many women were in positions of power. The conductor consulted with the composer and the librettist while the only male authority figure, the stage director, sat quietly taking notes. I'm sure, as in all fields, that we have a long way to go, but I'm also sure that young women beginning at conservatories and universities today won't have such a hard time.

(a version of this article appeared in the Delta Omicron newsletter, 1998)