Stand Up Straight and Sing! (19 page)

ON MY VERY
first visit to Germany for the Bayerischer Rundfunk Internationaler Musikwettbewerb competition, two years before I moved there, I’d found it illuminating to meet so many other young musicians at about the same stage of preparation and study as I. The competition was not limited to singing; many other disciplines were included, such as piano, wind instruments, string ensembles, and solo orchestral instruments. It was such a delight to meet a singer from the Netherlands named Marco, who was already a television star in his native country, with his own Saturday-evening variety show, in addition to the members of the then newly formed Tokyo String Quartet, and the American clarinetist Richard Stoltzman.

After my disturbing exchanges with the judges in the first two rounds of the competition, I’d found the third round by far the most challenging in every way. All of the finalists performed with orchestra and all of us required rehearsal time. The conductor was charged with preparing a good deal of music within a rather short time period. Hercules Hall was full that evening; the sense of anticipation and excitement was palpable. It was all I could do to maintain concentration. After all the finalists had presented the required two or three compositions, we could do nothing but wait for the adjudicators’ decision. We were taken to a room backstage; the audience waited in the hall. Trying to relax in such a situation is fruitless; I sat with a book, pretending to read.

For hours the jury deliberated. One of the things that made these hours almost bearable to me was the knowledge that the following day would be my twenty-third birthday. Only my friend Julius knew this—not another contestant, and surely no one waiting in the hall for the announcement of the winners.

Sometime late in the evening the door to our backstage quarters opened. Hermann Reuter, the designated head of the jury, entered the room with various papers in hand. I sat up in my chair and, as did everyone else in the room, waited for his remarks. He began by thanking us all for being a part of the vocal competition, and wishing us success in our professional lives. We waited. Eventually, Mr. Reuter read the names of the singers who were to receive honorable mention prizes. Then, as is customary, he announced the fourth prize and upward. The first prize for the men’s section of the vocal competition was read: Michael Schoepper took that honor. Mr. Reuter seemed quite emotional in reading this name, as a German singer had won first prize on his native ground. Finally, the first prize for the women’s vocal competition was announced.

I do not recall my own reaction to hearing my name, but I do remember the kindness of every one of my fellow contestants as they rushed over to congratulate me and give me a hug. Soon we were all on the stage of the hall again, with the patient remaining audience members in their seats, and the announcement of the prizes was offered in precisely the same manner as had been done backstage. The audience erupted when my name was read. I was overwhelmed by the response. It was after midnight. Only then did I say to one of the other contestants that it was my birthday. I was too shy to allow her to make a general announcement, so we kept that bit of news to ourselves.

I had no way of making phone calls that evening, as my youth hostel had no private telephone and the concierge was by then long asleep, making any plea to use his phone impossible. The next day, however, I had two calls to make: the first, to the United States Information Agency to announce my news and ask, “What now?” Most of the contestants who had been sent to Europe by the USIA had been entered in more than one competition. We had all been advised that should we be recognized in the first contest, awarded an honorable mention or whatever, rather than continuing on to the next competition we should instead take advantage of a Eurail pass and travel to a European city of our choice for our further education and a round of sightseeing, before returning to the States waving whatever level of recognition we had received in the first competition. However, there had been no instruction as to what the protocol was if one happened to
win
the first competition. My second competition was to take place in Geneva, and all my plans for traveling there were set.

Having had to wait until a reasonable hour to make the call to USIA that day, given the six-hour time difference, I had had a moment to absorb the events of the previous night. It was with no small amount of cheekiness that I spoke with the appropriate person at USIA, first with the news of my win, which he insisted I repeat, thinking he had perhaps misheard me, and then to ask, “Well, what about Geneva now?” We both relaxed and laughed as it became clear that I would not be continuing on to Switzerland for the next competition. I was overjoyed, over the moon.

The next phone call was of course to my parents. In my mother’s absence my youngest brother, George, then about nine years old, answered the phone. He was happy to find me on the other end of the line and insisted on having a conversation. I asked where Mother was, and he informed me that she was in the backyard. My entreaties to him to go and get her fell on ears not hearing a word. George had begun piano lessons a few months prior to this time, and he took tremendous joy in his progress. Rather than go find my mother, George insisted that he now play something for me. It happened that in our house the piano and the telephone were in the same room. As I stood in the post office at the train station in Munich, the pile of coins that I’d brought with me for the pay phone became smaller and smaller as I listened to my brother’s piano solo. After his performance, George returned to the phone to tell me that not only was the piece, “The Little Red Hen,” new, but that he had just played it with both hands! I did not wish to seem unenthusiastic, but I am sure a bit of desperation must have begun to creep into my voice. Finally, my mother came to the phone and I was able to tell her my news. She said she could not wait to call my father and everybody else. Then, with a tone in her voice that identified her as a mother, she asked, “But you are still coming home for Thanksgiving, yes?”

“Of course,” I responded.

We talked until the coins ran out completely, with her last words ringing in my ears: “Happy birthday, honey.”

I learned two important lessons then and there: Coming in first in an international competition would be significant from a professional point of view. But only with my family, the supporting characters in my life, my mentors, my teachers, my friends, was it possible to “win” anything.

In Munich there were several promoters and agents who traveled to the big international competitions, on the lookout for emerging talent. I was lucky to be offered some engagements that were to begin in a matter of months. I would have to take a deep breath and plan the next steps with advice, clarity of mind, and the full knowledge that I was only twenty-three years old. I was, for all intents and purposes, still in my “babyhood” for a singer, with a voice that could not be characterized as “coloratura” or “light lyric soprano,” or one that, over the course of time, would most likely remain in the same repertoire. I understood that my voice was changing, and I was willing to allow that to happen and simply looking forward to the experience. Yet in singing, as in so much in life, people are more comfortable in their interactions with you if they are able to place you in a category that is supposed to reveal to them all that you are able to do, the music that “suits your voice,” the roles that you will sing onstage, and indeed the roles that you will play in life.

Soon after winning the Munich competition, I had the dubious distinction of being the subject of a print interview where the journalist, perplexed at the few performance notices I had by then received, in which my selections had ranged from music typically performed by altos, mezzo-sopranos, and “young dramatic sopranos,” did not hide his frustration at deciding where I “fit” in all of this, stating something like, “Well, what kind of soprano are you, anyway?”

My response, which I credit as being the only really clever thing I had said to date, arose out of my twenty-three-year-old consciousness: “Excuse me, but I think that pigeonholes are only comfortable for pigeons.” The journalist was not greatly amused by this statement.

I returned to the States after Munich and joined Elizabeth Mannion, with whom I had been studying at the University of Michigan. She had now taken a position in the voice department at Indiana University, in Bloomington. I had no means of support, so being invited to stay with Mrs. M.’s family and enjoy the extremely good cooking presented daily by her mother was simply magnificent. One does not forget such kindness—such openness of hearts and hearth. Her daughters, Grace and Elizabeth, became close pals of mine. As for Mrs. M., I am so grateful that our work together continued over the years. She has always been there to say something like “No, you are not giving yourself time for the preparation of that very low note; the vocal chords need a moment. They must articulate very slowly indeed, to give you a sound at such a low pitch. After all, yours is a female voice. Take your time.” She has absolute passion for maintaining agility in the voice, no matter the type of voice. The aria “Una voce poco fa,” from Rossini’s opera
The Barber of Seville,
is one of her favorites for this task. I must say I have been met with amusement from time to time when, in preparing to sing the music of Berlioz, Strauss, or Wagner, for example, and I am warming up my voice with this particular aria, some of my colleagues have come to my dressing room door to say something like “You’re surely full of surprises.” I find this very endearing. Most people do not normally associate fioritura/coloratura singing with all types of voices. Nor do we always understand that the ability to maintain agility in the voice is as necessary to long-term singing goals as learning to breathe properly.

One of the reasons a runner is able to manage a marathon is because of having mastered the shorter distances—having learned at what point, if the body is not allowed to relax into the best position for such a long run, it will tire. Pacing is learned in the shorter distances, making it possible to understand the adjustments that need to be made in the change from a thousand meters to eighteen kilometers. Marathon running and lengthy operatic roles have a great deal in common in the manner in which pacing and breath control contribute to the best result. The physical support that is given by the breath is very much the same.

I RETURNED TO GERMANY
in late January of 1969. Due to my good fortune in Munich and my association with the United States Information Agency, recitals were arranged for me in what were then called Amerika Häuser. These centers were established directly after World War II as places for the general public to gather for artistic evenings, lectures, and so forth, to learn about all things American. At these gatherings, even American food was served. I have to say that some of the best hamburgers I have eaten, in the days when I still ate meat, were served at these wonderful receptions following the recitals. I would offer programs of European music except for the last group on the program. Encores were always songs from America, and mostly Spirituals. During this time I visited Munich, Frankfurt, Berlin, Cologne, and Hamburg. I would remain in Germany for about three weeks.

Because I look at my life as something that happens “while I’ve been making other plans,” it transpired that in May of that year, an American industrialist from Cincinnati, Ohio, J. Walter Corbett, arranged for directors from some twenty different opera houses in Europe to spend about two weeks in New York at his invitation, to listen to American singers. Mrs. Corbett, I understood, had herself wished to pursue a singing career, and had endured the rigors of traveling from opera house to opera house in Europe for auditions. Several people involved in classical music in the States agreed with Mrs. Corbett that there had to be a more reasonable way for opera directors from Europe to hear American singers. Her very willing husband possessed the means to make this happen. Avid philanthropists, they were supporters of the arts and a number of cultural institutions in Cincinnati, and were prepared to take on this challenge. And they did.

Opera house general managers mostly from Germany, Switzerland, and Austria came to New York to be feted by the Corbetts and to listen for several days to singer after singer. They were there to offer advice, surely, but also to evaluate the singers, all of whom arrived in New York at different stages in their performance lives, for employment opportunities afforded by more than fifty opera houses with full seasons.

Through some miracle, I was among the singers chosen to travel to New York and perform before this august group of opera house managers. Arriving in the city, I was accommodated in a hotel on West Fifty-Seventh Street. The day of my audition was rainy. I was not prepared for inclement weather, the hotel did not offer umbrellas, and it was difficult to find a taxi. A bit damp and my hair and makeup now somewhat the worse for wear, I finally hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Town Hall. “Where?” he asked. I restated the name of the venue. He claimed not to know where it was. Eventually I arrived at the hall, where the directors were just about to take a break for lunch. Talk about luck. I would have time to dry off, retouch my makeup, and even warm up quietly. I had begun my preparations, of course, in my hotel room, but by now, that felt like it had happened in another century. I was able to calm myself, to find the pianist, with whom I would have no rehearsal, and to offer copies of the two arias that I would perform: from the opera
Samson et Dalila
by Saint-Saëns, the aria “Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix,” and the composition that was by then my standard audition piece, Elisabeth’s second aria from Wagner’s
Tannhäuser.

I offered my performance and returned to the holding area backstage, where by now a few other singers had gathered. We exchanged pleasantries and I began gathering my things to leave. I was not certain what to do, since no one had greeted us backstage or given us any information as to what we should expect once our performance was completed. As I was about to take my leave, a very tall gentleman with a distinct German accent called out to me in perfect English and introduced himself as Professor Egon Seefehlner, the general director of the largest opera house in Germany, the Deutsche Oper Berlin, in West Berlin. He complimented me on my audition and asked almost nonchalantly if I happened to know the rest of the opera—
Tannhäuser.
Too quickly, and full of excitement, I said, “No I do not, but I could learn it in about a week.” And I meant it. He gave a wry smile and stated just as quickly, “No, it need not be quite so fast, but I do have an evening in December when I would be able to offer you your debut in my opera house in the role of Elisabeth in
Tannhäuser.
” I must have taken a breath or something to gain a modicum of composure before saying something along the lines of “Thank you. I’ll start working now.”