I had not intended this to be a blog post. Nor anything more than a simple reply to an online question posted by a young singer. Yet, here it is.
I live in Portland, Oregon. When I am not otherwise on the road, I sing for senior retirement communities on Friday afternoons. Before anyone thinks, 'Ah, how sweet...' This is a strictly mercenary endeavor. I am a lazy singer and prefer to be paid to exercise. So, a few times a month, I sing through my concert (classical and pops) rep with backing tracks (Search iTunes karaoke Prague Symphony), and work through my new stage patter. For this, they pay me $150. It’s like getting paid to go to the gym. I get a vocal work-out and they get a show beyond the usual kumbaya fare they are accustomed to. AND I do not have to get on a f***ing airplane to sing. Win-Win.
After singing for a senior retirement community, I spend whatever time I have to talk with the audience members. Music kicks loose memories. And these people really need to talk about it. So, I listen. Last summer I met a retired engineer who attended the first performances at the Chicago Lyric in 1954. My mentor, Nicola Rossi-Lemeni was singing opposite Maria Callas. I asked the guy if he remembered my teacher. Nope. What about Callas?
He said, “I was only there by chance. I was an engineer in town on business and my friends took me. I knew nothing about opera. But it didn’t matter. I was enthralled by her. At the first intermission, I literally ran to the box office and bought tickets for every performance Callas was singing that week. During the second intermission, I walked outside to find a line at the box office, of audience members who had the same idea I’d had, that stretched down the block. She later sang a benefit gala. I can close my eyes even now and see her walking off stage, the train of her gown trailing behind her. Maria Callas. I’ve never since experienced anything like it.”
That’s your answer. It’s not in the recordings or the style of acting. It’s in the undefinable human magic that crosses the footlights and resonates within the bodies and imagination of the audience. It’s the aural equivalent of sand painting. Sure, recordings can capture some of it. But it would be like asking why the photocopy of the Mona Lisa just doesn’t do it for you. It’s all there, but it isn’t. Because YOU are not THERE. And sadly, you will never have that opportunity. I feel guilty for having had the chance to work with Rossi-Lemeni and the others I chased across Europe and America for lessons. It’s a generation long gone. Yet because of them, I am honor-bound to teach. It’s a visceral art based upon mentorships and the sharing of inspiration between master and apprentice and between artist and audience.
Here’s my advice for you: Open your ears and heart and imagination to every singer you hear. Listen not only to the CDs and LPs. But find a Victrola and experience the visceral essence of Caruso, Ruffo and Galli-Curci singing back at you. It’s possible you may never quite, ‘get it’. But then some cannot see in color no matter how eagerly they try.
After singing for a senior retirement community, I spend whatever time I have to talk with the audience members. Music kicks loose memories. And these people really need to talk about it. So, I listen. Last summer I met a retired engineer who attended the first performances at the Chicago Lyric in 1954. My mentor, Nicola Rossi-Lemeni was singing opposite Maria Callas. I asked the guy if he remembered my teacher. Nope. What about Callas?
He said, “I was only there by chance. I was an engineer in town on business and my friends took me. I knew nothing about opera. But it didn’t matter. I was enthralled by her. At the first intermission, I literally ran to the box office and bought tickets for every performance Callas was singing that week. During the second intermission, I walked outside to find a line at the box office, of audience members who had the same idea I’d had, that stretched down the block. She later sang a benefit gala. I can close my eyes even now and see her walking off stage, the train of her gown trailing behind her. Maria Callas. I’ve never since experienced anything like it.”
That’s your answer. It’s not in the recordings or the style of acting. It’s in the undefinable human magic that crosses the footlights and resonates within the bodies and imagination of the audience. It’s the aural equivalent of sand painting. Sure, recordings can capture some of it. But it would be like asking why the photocopy of the Mona Lisa just doesn’t do it for you. It’s all there, but it isn’t. Because YOU are not THERE. And sadly, you will never have that opportunity. I feel guilty for having had the chance to work with Rossi-Lemeni and the others I chased across Europe and America for lessons. It’s a generation long gone. Yet because of them, I am honor-bound to teach. It’s a visceral art based upon mentorships and the sharing of inspiration between master and apprentice and between artist and audience.
Here’s my advice for you: Open your ears and heart and imagination to every singer you hear. Listen not only to the CDs and LPs. But find a Victrola and experience the visceral essence of Caruso, Ruffo and Galli-Curci singing back at you. It’s possible you may never quite, ‘get it’. But then some cannot see in color no matter how eagerly they try.
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