"Another opening, another show..." or is it?

Yesterday the Royal Opera House put up the final general rehearsal of Il Barbiere di Siviglia. Tomorrow night is the opening.

It is a TERRIBLY foolish thing to rave about a show before the opening, and certainly what happens in the dress rehearsal is not necessarily an indicator of how the opening night will go, much less the run, so I must choose my words carefully. Perhaps I shall just talk about the rehearsal process? Yes, that seems prudent.

(Alessandro Corbelli rehearses the start of act 2)

I have enjoyed my 3 weeks of rehearsals here in London more than I can say. I don't know that it's possible to work at a much higher level than this - although anything, naturally, is possible. I've spoken here about how much I relish the rehearsal process, because for me it contains the possibility of real discovery and an undeniable period of growth as an artist. Sadly, that doesn't always happen, and I often walk home from the theater thinking we are somehow selling the opera short by not digging as deeply as we could, and by not holding ourselves to a higher standard.

Well in this particular, miraculous case, the standards are as high as they come. We have Maestro Tony Pappano in the orchestra pit bringing to life this masterpiece for the first time in his career. I've never sung an opera with him before (only concerts) and I am sure he is as animated as this every time he raises the baton, however, I do sense a particular spark in his eye as he realizes how absurdly fun it is to play this piece. He finds the musical jokes in the piece, revels in the vocal acrobats happening around him, and takes every single, solitary note of this score seriously. It doesn't get better than that.

(Moshe Leiser takes us through our dramatic paces)

We have a production team that is unsurpassed. They are the ones who beg us to serve both "gods of opera: the god of theater and the god of music", and to accomplish that they actually KNOW the music and USE the music and KNOW the play and USE the play. Not one false note is allowed from anyone, and as a result we are playing this for all it is worth. Minute degrees of detail are insisted upon ("Joyce, you're thinking too much about Bartolo in this moment so it's coming across too angry, and we need to see the corner of your mouth lift up so we know you're thinking about Lindoro here.") It doesn't get much better than that.


I could write for 10 pages about my costume, alone, and the amazing designs of Agostino Cavalca (above). He sat in the rehearsals (during the first run of the show a few seasons ago) to observe how I moved, and literally built a costume around my movements so that the costume illuminated a part of the character. Not to mention the brilliant fit and cut and COLORS, and the use of roses in practically every stitch (the petticoats resemble an actual rose when gathered up!)- it DEFINITELY doesn't get much better than that!

What am I missing? There is something else about this show.... Oh. Right. The cast.

THE CAST.

(Alessandro Corbelli as Don Bartolo and Ferruccio Furlanetto as Don Basilio in a moment that surely will go down in the history of the Royal Opera House as one of the ALL TIME GREATEST MOMENTS on the opera stage.)

I have to say that from day one of my career, I have always felt incredibly privileged to be in the presence of greatness and to not just see the finished product of that greatness, but to actually see the PROCESS. I'm a firm believer that greatness is achieved in the process, in the journey - not just in the ovation. (My first example of that was in my first season in the Houston Grand Opera Studio - my first production was "Salome" with the astonishing Hildegard Behrens pouring her way through the score as if it was her first time. What an example to start with!)

(Pietro Spagnoli relaxes between staging rehearsals as Figaro)

I have had the immense pleasure of watching these four veteran players all work to shed previous accounts of these roles, to ask questions of the situations they had not asked before, and to forge a real "company" to give the impression that we are actually inside the Beaumarchais play, not inside "an opera". Rest assured, to say the singing is first rate is the understatement of the year, but the singing SERVES the drama and the drama REQUIRES the singing to happen. Ah, it's bliss, I tell you - sheer bliss!!!

My philosophy along the way has always been that, in essence, I don't want people to be aware that I'm singing. I want it to seem like the most organic, natural act that simply HAS to happen because the emotion dictates it. I don't want the singing to interfere with the drama, and I don't want the drama to interfere with the singing. I want it all to be seamless and absolutely united. I've often wondered if it REALLY was possible, and I can say that in my experience in these rehearsals, it absolutely IS possible. And God, when it works, it feels SO good. Yeah, it definitely doesn't get much better than that!

(Juan Diego Florez speaks with our director, Moshe Leiser, about the finer points of the drunken soldier)

So wish us luck for the opening that we can continue the journey and bring a splendid Barber to Londontown. (And for those of you in UK - watch your local listings on July 15, as we'll be beamed direct to parks and squares across the UK - the biggest one being at Trafalgar Square!)

Here's to a "dolce nodo" for all!

For the aspiring ones...

This is a special post to those of you who might be pursuing a wild dream to become a professional musician, to those of you who fancy yourselves supporters of the arts, to those of you who might feel weary and wonder sometimes if it's all worth it or not.



Please take a listen to the commencement speech of Robert Levine, the acclaimed concert pianist and scholar, given to the graduating class at the Curtis Institute of Music this past year. It's an urgent charge to champion this thing called classical music that we are all so passionate about and in my most humble opinion, very worth a listen.

New Favorite Quotes

It takes a keen eye and ear to find the freshness in a score that "everyone knows". Or thinks they know. You have to be willing to look at it with fresh eyes, forgetting what you KNOW about it, read it anew, and stand ready to listen as if for the first time.



Tony Pappano (the Maestro) and Moshe Leiser/Patrice Courier (the directing team) are the new ears and eyes for this Barbiere.

After a long session on Saturday, the cast of singers and directors were sitting around discussing how to "play" this comedy served up by Beaumarchais and Rossini. Moshe's belief is that the characters have no idea they are "in" a comedy - they're only in these panicked situations. So the conversation turned to how we use the voices to convey the drama - and with his most passionate, dedicated philosophy, honed from years of blood, sweat and tears in the theater, Moshe said,

"Our job is to serve both gods of opera: the god of theater, and the god of music."

The second quote came during our sitzprobe on Friday. This is our first time to meet the orchestra, and we rehearse with no movement - simply singing. I've often mentioned that this rehearsal is my favorite - after weeks of sweating it out in the rehearsal room, running and diving and being tossed around, we get to come back to JUST the music and create a chamber environment with the orchestra. It's heaven.

But this sitzprobe blew all others out of the water. I marveled at the colors that were emerging and the air of suspense in the beginning scenes, and the cacophony that inevitably arrived. Oh it was good. And there was one quote that hit me square between my eyes, and is one that I shall never forget: in the opening strains of "Ecco ridente in cielo" (not the most sophisticated orchestration on earth, granted), he turned to the lowly violas who are usually reduced to only playing "Fa, Fa, Do" - and simply pleaded,

"Guys, every chord change has to be a miracle."

Somebody pinch me.

The magic

I know that I am sometimes prone to exaggeration. I'm the first one to gasp out of excitement with a high voltage "OH MY GOD" at the sight of something perhaps just better than average - I'll admit it, I like to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. But then there are times where the hyperbole is merited. Tonight is such a time: Is there ANYTHING that Maestro Tony Pappano cannot do?

In this particular period at the Royal Opera House, he has conducted a hugely acclaimed musical reading of Lulu, rehearsed and opened a star-studded Traviata, is currently rehearsing his first ever Barbiere with a (dare I say it?) not-so-slouchy cast, has played a gala benefit of all Tchaikovsky excerpts from Ballet and Symphony and Opera, and tonight literally threw together an improvised piano recital on the stage of the Opera House, after the 2nd planned program was cancelled. I'm exhausted just writing this, and yet he has been living it out moment to moment these past few weeks with unbelievable gusto and brilliance, to say the VERY least.

I'm DELIGHTING in discovering new facets of the language and the musical jokes found in this score of Barber, thanks to him - he is infusing such verve and brio into the score - a real hot-blooded, Italianate account with subtle, but perfectly perfect surprises. The prelude to the opening of his Traviata on Monday night had me in tears with the mastery and heartache in the wrenching opening strings appearing out of nowhere, not to mention the pulsing textures and colors he elicited all evening from the wonderful orchestra, breaking hearts at each bend.

But tonight I stood on stage with him at the piano and made music. I don't believe he had ever played the Willow Song from Rossini's Otello before, but I swear the piano had swallowed a harp as he made the long introduction weep with the delicacy of that stringed instrument. It was a pure honor to sing with him. BUT. BUT - B U T then he took me completely by surprise, although I should have known better. I suggested we do a few American Songs, and the JAZZ licks that he pulled out of nowhere? I was blown away. There wasn't one single note that was taken for granted - as with his conducting, EVERY SOLITARY NOTE MEANS SOMETHING. It is all important. And so he invited me into the moment, listening, playing, bending, and crafting the music as we went along. It was heavenly.

I'm terribly sorry for the circumstances of the two cancellations that the Royal Opera House public had to endure - it's a tough season here in London, to be sure - but I'm grateful beyond words that I had this little window of music making with such a great Maestro, not to mention with my two colleagues who were outstanding in their wonderful choices of repertoire as well. It was just one of those nights!!

Ah, yes - it was a good moment!

Thoughts on the moment

I love it when Nature nudges me along! My first free day in over two weeks, and out came the sun dancing with the curious clouds in the blue sky, laundry was checked off the "to-do" list and a walk along the River Thames was most DEFINITELY in order! And it was good.

The timing couldn't have been better, for today was Father's Day, and I felt the pull of the tears of sorrow and the nagging melancholy of loss tugging at every corner of my heart - and it was a place I didn't want to stay. One of the numerous gifts my Father gave to me was his infectious, rebellious desire to stay young at heart. That desire, along with the help of the beautiful sunshine, won me over today, as I just couldn't imagine losing the moment of my free day, the inviting sunshine, and this astonishing town that is London. So I took my tears and my melancholy and set out to enjoy the freedom.

Of course a million thoughts were my companion, and the pervasive one today was of my Dad's final days in the hospital. (I believe my premonition was 100% accurate when I declared soon after his death that it would take me a lifetime to digest all that happened in his last few weeks in the hospital.) But today it was one particular moment that crashed back into my mind, and it happened as I found myself at the foot of Sir Big Ben.



The end was near - we all knew it - and the hardest task of the day for me was to actually leave the hospital room at the end of the night, knowing that with the drive home, the sleepless hours lying in bed, and the return drive in the morning, precious hours were being lost. I knew there wasn't anything "to be done" at his bedside, but still, the sense that time was urgently running away from me like a high speed train made me feel desperate. I didn't want to lose one single moment.

How many moments with my Father had I had up to that point in my life? (How many minutes are there in 37 years?) It was actually an absurd amount of time, I suppose. I know that. And yet, at the end, the commodity of those moments took on precious, indescribable value - and no matter what I did, I couldn't find enough of them. And yet, I vividly recall one evening, that as I sat at his bedside in the late hours of night, I turned to face the huge, sanitary, relentless clock that hung over the wash basin in my Dad's room and stared. As I looked back at my Father suffering there in his bed that would violently shake every 30 minutes to break up the fluid in his lungs, my heart pounded as I realized the time couldn't pass quickly enough. All of a sudden I needed it to race ahead to immediately alleviate his pain. And yet, at the very same time, I begged it to stop dead in it's tracks so that I wouldn't have to face the future in his absence.

And though, as we all know, it couldn't do either. It kept its own stubborn pace, ticking away without mercy, without sympathy, and without favor. It didn't chose a side - it remained neutral and simply did it's job.

So why is an opera singer writing about this on her blog? (Maybe it's because she should take more than one day off every 2 weeks and then she'll have a bit more presence of mind?!?!) No, I jest - it's because that "event" at my Dad's bedside was a gift. An enormous, beautiful, surprising gift. (Yet another thing he gave to me!)



Of course a trip to Westminster Abbey was in order: evensong at 6:30. A chance to sit with the memories and the lessons learned. The gift that came from that wretchedly beautiful evening in the hospital, was the brash reality that the only moment we ever actually HAVE, is now. I know it sounds a bit "self-helpy", but it really is the realization that I walked away with. At that moment by his bedside, the past didn't exist, (because I couldn't go back and "be there'). And certainly the future didn't exist, (because we couldn't find a way to get there, try as we may). Instead, I took the moment, held my Dad's hand, told him it would be ok, and we were together - there, in that very moment. It was the only moment of repose I found in all of those weeks - when I simply let the moment in. No past, no future - simply NOW. I sat and listened to the Vespers tonight and realized MUSIC is the embodiment of this. Music is only ever alive in the moment - with the breath of the musicians and the eager listening of the audience, it is alive in that moment. The second the curtain comes down, the life on the stage has gone. Yes, it can remain in our memory, but it lives in the NOW.

I think we continually turn to music to bring us into the moment. And consequently, it enables us, it invites us, to sit with things - and to simply experience where we are in that moment. It has the power to unlock things inside of us that beg to be unlocked, which we so rarely dare to face. It gives us the key (if we're willing to accept it) to actually FEEL things that perhaps we stopped allowing ourselves to feel. And it happens in the NOW. It invites us to be alive now.

As a performer, I'm doomed if I occupy myself with the passage that just finished: if I spend my limited brain cells on analyzing if it was good or bad, I'm not present to actually take care of singing well the phrase I'm actually singing! If I'm singing a phrase, and my mind starts to wander forward to the finale of the aria with the high note, I don't have the capacity to FULLY deliver the line I'm currently involved with!! I know it's a delicate balance, as we have to find the pacing, etc, of a scene - and even the entire show - but I'm talking about the inner dialogue that most musicians have of "That was bad - you always sing that flat..." (which impairs your confidence level) or "Here comes the hard part - I always crack on this note..." (which tightens you from head to toe out of fear) OR, maybe even more dangerously, "Here comes the part I always nail!!!" Often, with that last option, you think you're home free, thinking of how great it's going to be, how the audience will roar with approval, and you stop preparing the phrase you're currently singing in the right way - which means, SPLAT, the next phrase will die! That's a very literal example of staying in the moment, but the more I do this opera thing, the more convinced I am of the necessity to approach things this way.

The bonus of course, is that it works even better in life. Living too much in the past or too much in the future tends to breed that monster called fear, I think - and I decided a little while ago that I don't like fear. I much prefer not to entertain that particular poison, as much as I can possibly avoid it. It's not particularly easy, as it requires a lot of retraining, or rewiring of the old muscles, but I have to say, it is the best option I've found to weather the storm.

I can easily slip into the thinking of how terrible it is that my Dad isn't here to share in my life anymore. And it is true - it saddens me deeply on so many levels. (Last Friday in Rome, as the chorus started their glorious entrance, tears came as I thought, "God, I wish Dad could have heard this!") But if I stay in that place, I stop living my life. I stop sharing with others. I'm tangled up and prisoner of the past. I prefer to miss him, think of him, and get out into the sunshine, get out into the moment, under the hands of this irrepressible Big Ben, hear it's thunderous announcement that a new hour has struck, and carry on with the business of life.

That having been said, to all you Fathers out there - Happy Father's Day! Your daughters love you!! Of course I had "the best Dad in the world" - but I also think I'm not the only one to claim that title...


Time to head back to "Seville" in the morning. Not to be too much of a tease, but I fear we are brewing up a rather sensational show here in London....but I wouldn't want to predict the future! I'll stay here in the moment, do my work with my AMAZING cast, (truly - um, amazing!) - and hope that the results bear the fruit of our labors! Tick Tock!!

Beatrice and Benedict on the Radio Today!

I'm afraid the notice is a bit on the late side, but I just found out that "NPR WORLD Of OPERA" will be broadcasting our live performance of "Beatrice et Benedict" recorded last February in Paris! CLICK HERE for more information!


It brings back such wonderful memories of the SUBLIME Sir Colin Davis, and his effortless, gossamer interpretation of this wonderful work.

ENJOY!

Finito!

I have not one more iota of energy, so this will be short - but so very sweet! These past five days have been some of the most satisfying, glorious and electrifying musical experiences of my life. A million grazie's to the incredible Orchestra of Santa Cecilia, to the fabulous Santa Cecilia Chorus, to their banda, to all the technicians, to the lovely people of Virgin Classics for putting together such a fabulous team, and to the indefatigable Maestro Edoardo Muller. Wow.


I will truly never, ever forget this week.

Bliss....

....is what today was. Pure, wonderful, magical, musical, challenging BLISS.