Bend it like Holden

I am currently wearing my klutziness like a badge of honor in the form of an air cast on my ankle and a pair of crutches.  I was on my way back to work after a lesson.  Somehow, I thought that by walking closer to the crosswalk signal, I was willing it to change from that picture of the hand to the walking person, thus making me on time for my return to work.  It was at this moment stepping forward with my eyes on that signal, that I misjudged the steepness of the curb, twisted my ankle, and fell.  Did it hurt?  Yes, but only for a moment.  Once I started to pass out, it didn’t really bother me.

Let me help restore your faith in humanity Dear Reader, and say that as many as two people on the street approached me and offered me help.  I was pleased to find that the Kitty Genovese phenomenon does not always hold water and that I was not dismissed as a raving, homeless lunatic with her head between her legs in the middle of Copley Square.  With the help of some benevolent strangers I made it back to my office where I was well attended to.  Nothing scares an HR department more than a call from the front desk that someone is “...um, kind of fainting”.

When it proved to be just a sprain after x-rays, we decided not to change our plans to visit the Cape this weekend, and I will tell you why.  For one thing, why should the boyfriend miss out on his family summer fun plans?  Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, we don’t have a couch yet in our new place.  If we had stayed home, I would have been stuck keeping my leg elevated in bed all day.  So off to the Cape with its many couches we went and Brendan’s mother admitted to really enjoying watching him wait on me every evening.  I, for one was very grateful to his family.  If I can’t go to the beach, sitting in a cozy armchair and watching TCM is a close second.  We also had lunch in Provincetown one day, where one of the beautiful drag queens, (seriously, they all have better legs than I do), offered me a wheelchair and a front row seat at the show that night.  While public humiliation has a unique appeal, I decided to take a pedicab back to the parking lot instead...

There are a few ironies regarding this particular fall.  One is that I have lived at the very top of the very steep, and often very icy Mission Hill for years without major incident, and no sooner do I move than I am downtown and have a fall.  The ultimate irony of this injury though, is that I was already signed up to sing “I Could Have Danced All Night” at an evening of Broadway melodies.  The humor of my performance with a crutch was not lost on last night’s audience.  I also sang the duet from Porgy and Bess.  If you are familiar with the piece at all, you know that Porgy is supposed to be the cripple, not Bess.  (Perhaps more importantly, it's not supposed to be sung by white people, but let's not quibble).  

Well, if all goes well and my foot stops looking like Bilbo Baggins’, I will be off my remaining crutch in a day or two.  If not, at least we are getting a couch delivered tonight.

Seventy is the New Fifty

Three men I love turned 70 this year- Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, and my dad.  We had a big party for him at my parents’ house in Connecticut.  (Bob and Paul regretfully declined).  Amidst the calls from my mother regarding the guest count, (the week before we were up to 60 people; the week of, it was 86), I had been telling people my dad’s big birthday number and many could hardly believe it.  For one thing, I am only 28 years old and so that number seems high, but for another, he doesn’t look 70.  (He certainly is in a lot better shape than Dylan, not that that’s hard to accomplish).

My dad is not the rabid fan of the aforementioned musicians that I am, but I would not have the eclectic musical taste I believe I have if it weren’t for both my dad’s genes and the influence of his musical appreciation in our house.  Twice annual car rides down to North Carolina provided ample opportunity for him to impart his musical eclecticism as well, and in this case, (unlike several others), his lessons were actually heeded.  The passenger seat is still my unofficial spot in the car because, as my late grandmother pointed out on one roadtrip; “Nope, I’m going to sit in the backseat, because Katie will just be reaching up the whole time to talk about the music”  

          So let’s talk about the music. As a 70th birthday tribute, below are a few of my dad’s more obscure favorites: The first clip, performed by Joan Baez, (also 70 this year), is a classic example of Mexican honor.  Translated, the title is “Prisoner Number Nine”.  It is the tale of a man who goes to confession before being executed for the murder of his unfaithful wife and his best friend: “Father, I do not repent, and I don’t fear death… I will hunt them both down in the afterlife”.  We love the song both for its beautiful melody and its unusual poetic sentiment.  As an adult, I am grateful that there was very little prudish musical censorship in my household, (See also: the time my dad asked me as a child if I knew the meaning of “The House of the Rising Sun”).  

         
            http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOIRxKYYmDQ

          The second clip here is the same song in an earlier rendition.  This is purely to satisfy my dad’s complaint that mariachi singers in restaurants never know the complete song:

          http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sH9ULo9edOs

         

          The third clip is a rendition by Jimmy Rushing and the Count Basie orchestra- “Sent for you yesterday”.  This tune is in fact so obscure that I almost couldn’t find it on youtube.  My dad also asked me what I thought the lyrics of this song meant as a child and I allegedly didn’t know the answer to that either.  I do know that when I returned for the summer after a semester in Italy, my dad played this song on his old record player as an early morning wake up call.  He said “How do you like that Kate?  You know you’re home when you hear the songs you only hear at home”.

                
               http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsWVsp-P_UQ

There might be something to be said as well for my dad’s generation and the influences that helped shape his musical sophistication.  This article in the Times, (first sent to me in the mail by my mother), elucidates the possible cause of the many musical talents that share the age of 70 this year. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/24/opinion/24hajdu.html

Well, what we can say is that 1941: it was a very good year.

It's not "sitting Indian style" anymore...it's "criss cross applesauce"...

          This Fourth of July weekend I attended a fabulous wedding at the fabulous Liberty Hotel for my dear friend whom I have known since we were four.  It is lovely at this age, to be able to go to “the wedding of someone I actually love,” (as quote in Four Weddings and a Funeral).  And the Liberty Hotel having been converted from a former penitentiary, has a unique historical appeal.  I wore a new dress to this wedding: (cue amusing story about my mother).

          In the event that I buy a dress needing some minor alterations, my mother will step in.  We are descended from a long line of seamstresses, but sadly, I find myself at this age only able to sew a button and possibly, a hem.  My mom was en route to her 45th college class reunion outside Boston several weeks ago on a Friday and she offered to take me to lunch and to help do a small alteration on my dress.  The front of this wrap style dress just needed to be stitched so I wouldn’t flash the entire crowd at the wedding.  After enjoying a nearby sushi lunch, my mom came back to the office with me.  I showed her where the garment was hanging in the coat closet and told her I would go find a conference room for her to complete the task.  She tried to get me to try on the dress but I told her I didn’t think that would be necessary. 

My mother has some very democratic ideals.  She believes that all work is noble and that no work is beneath her. It did not matter, for example that she was the owner of her family’s restaurant, because no filthy task at the banquet hall was beneath her, (provided she could carry out her other tasks hygienically afterward).  While very admirable, the only problem with this particular value set is that, if she is able, she will often do things like spontaneously fold laundry at the home of friends, or serve her own coffee at diners.  It is probably for this same reason that when I returned to the front coat closet, she was sitting inside on the floor, already mid stitch. Suddenly, I envisioned our high-profile clients, meeting in conferences rooms just around the corner, stumbling upon this seamstress sitting cross-legged on the closet floor where they had stored their things.  When I insisted that she get up off the floor, she said: “Oh no, I’m fine here”.  And when I insisted further, she actually looked annoyed at my interrupting her work.  Well, I escorted her to a conference room and not a minute later, one of our company’s guests walked into the coat closet to retrieve a brief case.  I think I spared him quite the surprise.

Musical Nirvana (or its rough equivalent...)

 “His influence on me was never in inflection or in voice. What drew me to him was that hearing his voice, I could tell he was very lonesome, very alone and very lost in his time. That`s why I dug him.”  ~Bob Dylan (About Woody Guthrie)

          To say that I never think about quitting singing would be to lie. It pops into my head often. It pops into my head when I have to transfer funds from my savings account to pay for a lesson or coaching. It pops into my head when I go to routinely check my email and an audition rejection is waiting for me that I wasn’t prepared for mentally. It pops into my head when I am out with friends and can only have one drink because of that perennial reason: “I have to sing tomorrow”. Sometimes it just pops into my head when I am brushing my teeth in the morning and thinking about the grueling, overscheduled day ahead of me. It pops into my head when I realize how masochistic our field really is.

          Being a classical singer involves inviting people to scrutinize and criticize intensely personal aspects of one’s being on a regular basis and it means giving up a lot to do so. I am aware that I have made compromises in my life to make this goal of classical singing a priority and I don’t always take these compromises with the grace or gratitude that I should. After all, I do have a good day job, and I have made it through what we all hope to be the worst of these economic times. I have a wonderful support system of singers and non-singers alike.

          A combination of things seems to have me reflecting on my career and its path as of late. The foremost reason is probably that I performed in three fully staged operas back to back between October and April with quite a bit of extra gigging. When at New Year’s, I might have been reflecting on my life, like many others, I was simply not. So maybe it’s this late spring that has me thinking about rebirth, or maybe it’s simply the fact that summer is my absolute favorite season and I am looking forward to savoring it and want to be able to do so; you know, like the real people do. Fortunately I think I am able to. I have a wonderful opportunity to sing an alumni recital at my college in September. This means I get a full excuse to focus on my beloved art song instead of opera for a change and it’s all a program of my choosing with no parameters.

          I had one of these “…aaaah…” moments today in my voice lesson- one of those that reminded me of why I do what I do. Sometimes even having a voice lesson stressful, because I beat myself up if my week's practice isn't effective enough.  Sometimes, if I have a lot of rep to learn, I am anxious about making sure I make the most of the money I pay for lessons.  But this wonderful moment can happen in a lesson, as it did for me today. Often in performances I can get so caught up in the extraneous influences that seem to come upon me, that it is rare for me to recognize these moments when I am really in it. 

          I was singing Richard Strauss today- a song that I absolutely love. It's a song about romance and memories set amidst a celebration and is scented with all of that sensuality. Of course, because I haven’t sung it in a lesson in a while, I had my head up my ass worrying about the placement and size of the sound. My teacher, who does in fact do a lot of talking about placement and breathing, (as she should), stopped me and had me sing everything again. She asked me for something different. “It’s a personal song and only comes across if you bring yourself to it,” she said. This is certainly a neo-Romantic sentiment, but a true one. Well, I found the moment I was looking for at the end of the song. The things in the room changed for me. The objects of the room, the piano, the pianist, and me, melted away and became song. For me this means I felt the sound of it all in my body the way I hear it in my head. It was the way I believe the poet and composer intended it. Very little can be more gratifying, and the only thing that could make this moment better would be to share it with an audience. These are the moments that keep me coming back to music. More than the technical details, these are the moments I should strive for in performance. This is a hard lesson to learn and hold onto though. As my teacher told me: “That was you. We heard you come through there and that’s how you’ll remember how to sing this."

Wack Attack

          Last night there was a state of emergency declared in Massachusetts. After an entire spring season of rain leading to a week of welcome sunshine and extreme humidity, the humidity broke in a series of violent lightning storms. Many people enjoy the austere beauty of a thunderstorm from the inside of their safe homes. For me, this is generally not the case. As a 5 year old, I became so hysterical one morning during a thunderstorm that I refused to wait at the bus stop and my mother had to drive me to school. I remember running from the parking lot to the front door of school, screaming and clutching my umbrella.

          My fear of thunderstorms is only outweighed by my fear of tornadoes. As a child, (presumably after a recent viewing of The Wizard of Oz), I asked my parents if there were ever any tornadoes in Connecticut. They laughed at me and told me that Connecticut is too hilly for tornadoes to form- that tornadoes happen in flat Midwestern and Southern territories. My dad still periodically brings this up in my adulthood and has a good chuckle: “Remember when you were little and you were scared of tornadoes? Ha ha ha.” Oh yeah, Dad, and what happened a year ago in our very own Nutmeg state? http://www.ctpost.com/news/article/Tornado-confirmed-in-Bridgeport-536870.php. Just sayin’. Laugh all you want at my childhood fears…

          So, when at 5:30 last night, lightning actually struck the other side of my office building and there was no little commotion, I became pretty frightened. There was no damage and no one was hurt, thankfully. Things seemed to clear up for the commute home and dinner. I flipped to my new favorite sitcom last night (Modern Family, for anyone interested) only to find that the news had taken over with a special report about further tornado watches after one had hit Springfield, MA. I was now in downright panic mode. Then the lighting started at a ridiculously frenetic pace and Governor Deval Patrick held a press conference urging people to stay off the roads because the storm was moving from Western and Central Massachusetts to Boston. This only sent me into more of a wack attack because I knew that the boyfriend was out in Worcester for rehearsal.

          Since Brendan was not answering his phone, I sent him a long series of texts, which I am fairly certain, made no sense but to sum up, urged him to stay where he was. Ideally I envisioned him holed up safely under a blanket in a church basement somewhere. My panic did not stop me from calling nearly everyone I know to distract myself, including my parents, to whom I said: “See! All of my paranoid childhood fears are coming true!” My dad laughed and told me about the pleasantries of his day. When he found that he could not get me to talk about anything other than the weather, he passed the phone to my mother, whom he knew could be more sympathetic. In future situations of this nature, I would probably do well to put down the remote and stay away from the media's scare tactics.

          In the end, B called me several times from the road. By the time he was leaving Worcester things had calmed significantly, and it was merely drizzling. I don’t have to tell you which one of us was the more nervous of the two for his ride home, but he was very fortunate and made it safely and uneventfully.

          There is only one time and place that finds me at ease in thunderstorms. This is a certain kind of perfect thunderstorm in the summer on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where my family vacations. These storms are usually brief, lasting less than an hour and when they stop, the hot sun makes the steam rise off of the pavement and the world around you is filled with the most earthy and delicious smell. Maybe, it’s just that when I am there, I have no place I need to be and my worries melt away with the steam.


Footnote: The expression "Wack Attack" is not a Katrina original.  Credit must be given to my dear friend Rita Dwan for this extremely useful and particularly palatable turn of phrase.

Apparently pretty big in the 70's too...

          To add to my last post, I have been informed of another story involving my mother and hairspray that I had never heard before.  This story comes to us courtesy of my mom's dear friend and Maid of Honor, Susan.  Back in 1973, my parents had a lovely wedding.  Apparently though, my Grandma Sophie's hair had a slight tinge of green.  My mom grabbed the wrong spray can in the bathroom so instead of hairspray, the Mother of the Bride got a liberal dousing of Lysol disinfectant.  It must have gone quite nicely with her aqua satin dress.  I will have to go back to the wedding album to examine this further...

Blood, Sweat and Hairspray

          
          So as I mentally process the past weekend, a few things strike me. 

          One: I was involved in a wonderful production of Massenet's Cendrillon, with a great cast, of which I am very proud to have been a part.

          Two: Having the title role is exhausting. Never mind the memorization and rehearsal process, once Cinderella hits the stage, she really doesn't leave for more than 5 minutes- ever- and Act III is a marathon of epic proportions with approximately 1400 arias: (See also: long extended recitative in which she says goodbye to every piece of furniture in her home before she runs off into the woods). When she is not onstage, she is traipsing around backstage with one shoe on.

          Three: There is no more stark contrast than that of leaving one's house in complete disarray because of a fulltime job and tech rehearsals, and then having to go be a princess onstage that same evening. If Cinderella's house looked like mine before the ball, she would have been in a whole lot of trouble.

          And Four: "Hairspray must be much stronger than it used to be in the 80's".

          There is an explanation to that particular quotation. Our very talented hair and makeup designer could not be present at the show for our last performance, so she asked if I knew anyone who could style a French twist in my hair. Since my mother wore her hair in a French twist daily for nearly two decades, she was an obvious choice. She was coming to both performances anyway, (as with many performers, my parents are my biggest fans). So, at Sunday's matinee, my mom followed me into the dressing area with teasing comb and my hairspray in hand. After a number of people asked who my chic stylist was, my mother started getting at my hair. Once teased and situated to a sufficient height, she proceeded to spray the shit out of it. When I actually tasted some hairspray in my mouth, I thought it might have been a bit excessive, but my mother is nothing if not a bit in excess.

          It was several minutes later that the fire alarm sounded and we all had to evacuate the building. So, there we were; the entire cast outside, in full makeup, or at least partway there, waiting for the fire department to arrive. Fortunately we still had about 45 minutes before curtain. We thought that perhaps a curling iron had started smoking somewhere, but no. A few minutes later, it was announced that "too much hairspray" had tripped a detector. That's right Dana, if you are reading this; it was my mom. Try to remember how generous she has been with donations to MetroWest Opera in recent years. I offer an official apology, but must also admit that my mother and I got a good laugh out of it too.

          Even with all of the interesting snags, I am proud of the product. I think that with the help of everyone involved, and everyone who supported us, we successfully brought this story to life. Thank you.