The past 3 days have been like the audition that would not end. On Friday, after a brief wander amongst the lovely buildings of the Yale campus and dinner at what can only be described as the uncivilized hour of 5.30, we split into groups to run the song we would sing in the first phase of boot camp. Each of us was to pick something that best typified our work thus far, something with which we were entirely comfortable. The faculty (all 15 of them) and the students (38 in total) would observe and comment - the students in writing and the faculty vocally.
What to sing? If I were to follow the instructions, my choice might be an Ave Verum, an Ave Maria, a fraction anthem...or, maybe, something a bit more modern - Hopson's The Gift of Love? I don't think so. Something from one of my favorite composers (NDR?). No. I picked something from my slim repertoire of 5 previously performed non-sacred pieces and, after running it twice with my gifted accompanist and incorporating a key change and the helpful comments of the six fellow-students who form my ''performance technique group', I called it a night. I was not entirely sure I'd made the best choice, but I was sure it was something I could do even in my sleep...and I did...all night long.
Day 2 kicked off at 9. Each singer had 10 minutes to run patter and sing their song, hear the comments of the faculty, and run a second time as much of their number as the remaining time permitted. As the hours sped by, I heard some great music, beautiful voices and hysterical patter. I also heard some wonderful instructions and helpful advice. I sang last, just around 5.30. It had been a long day. Was it my proudest musical moment? No, that would still have to be the time I was chosen to play last in Mrs. Meyer's piano recital. But...the floor didn't open up and swallow me up. I didn't forget my lines or sing the wrong notes. I didn't go off-pitch or close my eyes. I got through it (even without the previously agreed key change). And, as a church singer more used to a little black sack than a little black dress, more used to intoning than writing the patter, and far more used to doing it from behind than face to face, I was glad to have taken another step forward, rather than giving in to the urge to run out the door as my name was called.
Saturday night, we were treated to performances by the legendary Julie Wilson...God give me another 35 years of chops and the unrelenting desire to use them!...and the incomparable Tovah Feldshuh. Sunday, the remaining 1/3 of the students ran the gauntlet and the sense of relief was palpable. We'd all made it. There had been tears and great laughter, lost lines and mangled lines, but we were all in line, for it was lunch time, and the show would continue its run.
The afternoon included a session with the amazing Carol Hall and a lengthy discussion on ''the business''. In the evening, we again enjoyed the gifted faculty's many talents, both inspiring and studded with stress's biggest enemy - laughter.
Today the work begins. In addition to a panel discussions with the music directors, and a couple of lectures, we meet in our small groups with three faculty members for two three-hour master classes. Today, I'm with Julie Wilson, Erv Raible, & Michael Joviala and this evening with Shelly Markahm, Jason Graae and Sally Mayes. The day starts at 9 and ends at 10.30. This is definitely not an exercise for the faint of heart. xxoo
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Dazzling Dozen
11.49 PM. I’ve about 26 hours until I leave on a jet plane (and, no, that’s not one of the songs). I’ve just finished checking transpositions, ensuring lyrics are gender and decade appropriate (the world’s, not mine!) and generally having a final run on troubling notes and text. As I’ve been repeatedly asked, "whacha singin’???”, now, as I’ve reached the point of fewer than 6 remaining non-glare page protectors, would seem to be the moment of final, final, and, yes, maybe I mean final, decisions on the dozen songs I’ll take to the conference. In no particular order, other than alphabetical by title:
1. Alice Is at It Again, Noel Coward
2. Being Alive*, Stephen Sondheim
3. Come on Strong, Sammy Cahn and James Van Heusen
4. Come Rain or Come Shine, Harold Arlen
5. Could I Leave You?, Stephen Sondheim
6. Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, Bob Russell and Duke Ellington
7. Embraceable You, Ira and George Gershwin
8. I Only Have Eyes for You*, Al Dubin and Harry Warren
9. I Want to Be Bad, DeSylva, Brown and Henderson
10. Keep Young & Beautiful, Al Dubin and Harry Warren
11. My Baby Just Cares for Me, Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson
12. Sentimental Journey, Homer, Brown & Green
13. Stars and the Moon*, Jason Robert Brown
14. Taylor the Latte Boy (a cougarlicious adaptation), Marcy Heisler and Zina Goldrich
15. Too Darn Hot, Cole Porter
16. You’d Be Surprised, Irving Berlin
*These are simply there to provide stress relief. I can sing them in my sleep and, if provoked, can produce them on a second’s notice.
I know. I’ve left out Rodgers and Hart. I’ve omitted Hymn a L’Amour. And, while cresting the wave through the 60’s, I’ve ignored Carole King, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and Burt Bacharach. I’ve also left out some fab songs recommended by dear friends (Mambo Italiano and Peel Me a Grape spring to mind) and songs I’d love to have included but which other members of my group at the conference (we’re split into 3 groups to produce a show) have marked as their own – At Last, I’m Gonna Live Until I Die, They All Laughed. Oh well, a line had to be drawn somewhere. Thankfully, it’s a line in the sand, as this is only the beginning of a repertoire and not a program in itself. It’s designed to show the faculty where I need help & what I can do well. More importantly, it’s designed to show me, with their help, where I need help & what I can do well.
I had the pleasure of observing a master class on Saturday, led by Andrea Marcovicci with Shelly Markham. Shelly will be on the Conference Faculty. He noted that, when he is working with a singer who is new to him, he always tries first to establish where their wit is. I don’t think mine will be hard to discern. I’ve never found that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…just sayin’…
And BTW…to all of you, thank you from the bottom of my bum…it’s so much bigger than my heart! xxxx Thank you for caring. If I could ask just one last thing of you before I go, please – if you could just hum the verse of I Only Have Eyes for You a bit more loudly, I’d be ever so grateful.
11.49 PM. I’ve about 26 hours until I leave on a jet plane (and, no, that’s not one of the songs). I’ve just finished checking transpositions, ensuring lyrics are gender and decade appropriate (the world’s, not mine!) and generally having a final run on troubling notes and text. As I’ve been repeatedly asked, "whacha singin’???”, now, as I’ve reached the point of fewer than 6 remaining non-glare page protectors, would seem to be the moment of final, final, and, yes, maybe I mean final, decisions on the dozen songs I’ll take to the conference. In no particular order, other than alphabetical by title:
1. Alice Is at It Again, Noel Coward
2. Being Alive*, Stephen Sondheim
3. Come on Strong, Sammy Cahn and James Van Heusen
4. Come Rain or Come Shine, Harold Arlen
5. Could I Leave You?, Stephen Sondheim
6. Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, Bob Russell and Duke Ellington
7. Embraceable You, Ira and George Gershwin
8. I Only Have Eyes for You*, Al Dubin and Harry Warren
9. I Want to Be Bad, DeSylva, Brown and Henderson
10. Keep Young & Beautiful, Al Dubin and Harry Warren
11. My Baby Just Cares for Me, Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson
12. Sentimental Journey, Homer, Brown & Green
13. Stars and the Moon*, Jason Robert Brown
14. Taylor the Latte Boy (a cougarlicious adaptation), Marcy Heisler and Zina Goldrich
15. Too Darn Hot, Cole Porter
16. You’d Be Surprised, Irving Berlin
*These are simply there to provide stress relief. I can sing them in my sleep and, if provoked, can produce them on a second’s notice.
I know. I’ve left out Rodgers and Hart. I’ve omitted Hymn a L’Amour. And, while cresting the wave through the 60’s, I’ve ignored Carole King, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and Burt Bacharach. I’ve also left out some fab songs recommended by dear friends (Mambo Italiano and Peel Me a Grape spring to mind) and songs I’d love to have included but which other members of my group at the conference (we’re split into 3 groups to produce a show) have marked as their own – At Last, I’m Gonna Live Until I Die, They All Laughed. Oh well, a line had to be drawn somewhere. Thankfully, it’s a line in the sand, as this is only the beginning of a repertoire and not a program in itself. It’s designed to show the faculty where I need help & what I can do well. More importantly, it’s designed to show me, with their help, where I need help & what I can do well.
I had the pleasure of observing a master class on Saturday, led by Andrea Marcovicci with Shelly Markham. Shelly will be on the Conference Faculty. He noted that, when he is working with a singer who is new to him, he always tries first to establish where their wit is. I don’t think mine will be hard to discern. I’ve never found that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…just sayin’…
And BTW…to all of you, thank you from the bottom of my bum…it’s so much bigger than my heart! xxxx Thank you for caring. If I could ask just one last thing of you before I go, please – if you could just hum the verse of I Only Have Eyes for You a bit more loudly, I’d be ever so grateful.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
I have begun to feel a sense of sympathy for Imelda Marcos. No, not because her singing career never really had a chance, competing, as it did, with her rather tawdry image as a gold digger and the distractions of a ‘’pay-dirt’’ existence. Nor because that and other unseemly elements of her life story have recently been laid bare in an 89-minute mix of disco and schmaltz. No, it’s because I have started to come to terms with the shoes. Not hers. Mine. 24 pairs of them.
With 2 days to go and Southwest’s generous 2-bag’s free policy, it was time to get down to the difficult task of dressing The Diva. You see, we have been instructed to:
A. Dress comfortably for the daytime
In some of the images on the website, people are lying on the floor. Will we be trained to revive despondent members of the audience? Are we to be taught how to “Breathe, darling, breathe!” when the reviews are less than upliftingly accurate? Perhaps we’ll observe the Cabaret Boot Camp equivalent of ‘’nap time”? One can only imagine.
The instructions continue:
B. Dress appropriately for the evening cabaret series
There are four performances in the series. Presumably one does not wish to upstage the performer. Given the caliber of performer, however, I expect this is scarcely possible. Still, one should exercise caution and have at least one (or perhaps as many as four?) discreetly tasteful combination in one’s closet. A shared closet, that is. You see, we are being housed two to a room; 4 to a suite. Which means we’ll be sharing three closets. I know math may not be my thing…but that’s one per bedroom and the, err, water closet. Oh joy of joys.
Finally, we’ve been instructed to:
C. Bring at least two costumes to choose from for our own debut at the Iseman Theater
And here it gets even more daunting. The selections will be reviewed by an ‘’Image Consultant”, who will also review our promotional materials (website, posters, business cards, headshots, show programs – is this where “Oh dear. The airline lost my bag!” comes in?)
Thus, at a minimum we will need four pairs of shoes – A + B + 2*C = 4. So, why the extra 20 pairs?
Well, grapevines being what they are, large beakers of doubt-provoking drivel are being generously passed around, with the general consensus being that we will not only be evaluated based on our choice of performance gear, but on how well we embody the domain of the diva (and divo) throughout the week. Lord, Help me…torn jeans and a t-shirt with a pair of comfy flip-flops simply will not do.
So, it’s now one each of black, white & brown for A and for B, 2 for C, plus a pair of thigh-highs in black suede just in case the Cougarlicious springs forth. That’s 9. Then it’s necessary to have a range of heel heights – flats, 1 inch & 2 inch for A & B and…okay…the ankle-breaker for on-stage. That takes us to 9 for A and 9 for B, with 4 for C. Some flip-flops for the 3 minute break before bedtime and a pair of running shoes lest I totter off the 4-inchers and end up hobbling around on crutches, and we’re cresting 24 pairs of shoes without even breaking a sweat.
Many years ago, a man sitting in a hotel lobby in Khartoum studied my face for a moment and said authoritatively, “You would be beautiful if you didn’t have such a big nose.” I’d like to think that, as Shariah had been recently slapped rapidly into place and the army had the day before removed all the alcohol from the hotel in the crackdown, he was suffering from some sort of withdrawal affecting his vision.
Nonetheless, years later, I remain more than a bit leery about letting a stranger assess my image. When my minutes come with the ”Image Consultant”, what will he see? I haven’t got Michelle Obama’s arms or J-lo’s bum. I haven’t got the d-cup cleavage or the nip-tuck waistline. But, I’ve got the shoes. And, whatever he says about my thigh-highs….he’d better not complain about the shoes!
With 2 days to go and Southwest’s generous 2-bag’s free policy, it was time to get down to the difficult task of dressing The Diva. You see, we have been instructed to:
A. Dress comfortably for the daytime
In some of the images on the website, people are lying on the floor. Will we be trained to revive despondent members of the audience? Are we to be taught how to “Breathe, darling, breathe!” when the reviews are less than upliftingly accurate? Perhaps we’ll observe the Cabaret Boot Camp equivalent of ‘’nap time”? One can only imagine.
The instructions continue:
B. Dress appropriately for the evening cabaret series
There are four performances in the series. Presumably one does not wish to upstage the performer. Given the caliber of performer, however, I expect this is scarcely possible. Still, one should exercise caution and have at least one (or perhaps as many as four?) discreetly tasteful combination in one’s closet. A shared closet, that is. You see, we are being housed two to a room; 4 to a suite. Which means we’ll be sharing three closets. I know math may not be my thing…but that’s one per bedroom and the, err, water closet. Oh joy of joys.
Finally, we’ve been instructed to:
C. Bring at least two costumes to choose from for our own debut at the Iseman Theater
And here it gets even more daunting. The selections will be reviewed by an ‘’Image Consultant”, who will also review our promotional materials (website, posters, business cards, headshots, show programs – is this where “Oh dear. The airline lost my bag!” comes in?)
Thus, at a minimum we will need four pairs of shoes – A + B + 2*C = 4. So, why the extra 20 pairs?
Well, grapevines being what they are, large beakers of doubt-provoking drivel are being generously passed around, with the general consensus being that we will not only be evaluated based on our choice of performance gear, but on how well we embody the domain of the diva (and divo) throughout the week. Lord, Help me…torn jeans and a t-shirt with a pair of comfy flip-flops simply will not do.
So, it’s now one each of black, white & brown for A and for B, 2 for C, plus a pair of thigh-highs in black suede just in case the Cougarlicious springs forth. That’s 9. Then it’s necessary to have a range of heel heights – flats, 1 inch & 2 inch for A & B and…okay…the ankle-breaker for on-stage. That takes us to 9 for A and 9 for B, with 4 for C. Some flip-flops for the 3 minute break before bedtime and a pair of running shoes lest I totter off the 4-inchers and end up hobbling around on crutches, and we’re cresting 24 pairs of shoes without even breaking a sweat.
Many years ago, a man sitting in a hotel lobby in Khartoum studied my face for a moment and said authoritatively, “You would be beautiful if you didn’t have such a big nose.” I’d like to think that, as Shariah had been recently slapped rapidly into place and the army had the day before removed all the alcohol from the hotel in the crackdown, he was suffering from some sort of withdrawal affecting his vision.
Nonetheless, years later, I remain more than a bit leery about letting a stranger assess my image. When my minutes come with the ”Image Consultant”, what will he see? I haven’t got Michelle Obama’s arms or J-lo’s bum. I haven’t got the d-cup cleavage or the nip-tuck waistline. But, I’ve got the shoes. And, whatever he says about my thigh-highs….he’d better not complain about the shoes!
Monday, July 12, 2010
I’m sitting here in my little downstairs room – the one where I hide all those dreams and take them out every once in a while just to make sure they still have a pulse. I’m watching the video of yet another accomplished participant in the upcoming International Cabaret Conference at Yale (such a long name, but, I suppose, better than the acronym ICCY).
Yes, we’re close now. Those heady days of March and acceptance letters are a distant memory. We’re all strutting our stuff now, and the YouTube videos and FaceBook fan pages and website links innocently attached to the emails that fly back and forth as we share ideas and advice keep streaming in.
Fool that I am, I can’t bear not to watch them…to torture myself as yet another perfect voice marries a perfect patter and produces beautiful cabaret kids, born not only with a silver spoon in their mouth but with a platinum set of pipes to back them up.
And I keep wondering, did they type in the wrong email address when they sent me the acceptance letter?
I mean, the tagline for the final show of our conference, Stars of Tomorrow, hardly seems to be the right moniker for most of the folks whose work I’ve seen. Tomorrow is far too distant for the now in which they travel…maybe Stars of Just after Breakfast or Stars of Elevenses but definitely not so far away as tomorrow.
An email comes to ask me for my headshot…someone on the faculty wants to see what we all look like…will they realize now the mistake they’ve made?
Would they laugh if they knew I'd only finished picking my 12 songs yesterday? It was so hard to turn away from my favorites: the over-performed ones on which I grew up - the chirpy show tunes, all those Gershwin ballads, Sinatra, Ella & Etta, Polly Bergen. Anything too well worn? Well, it bit the dust. Those left with only minor signs of use slipped gracefully to the B-list, as sparkling, unfamiliar choices burst brightly onto the A-list. I recoil from the glare of their newness. 10 days to own them, to tear them apart and string them back together. Enough time? It will have to do; it’s all there is.
I try to find a font for this page so I can post it to my blog…the one I will write, not so other people will tell me I can, but so that I will tell me I can. I try out the Helsinki font and an immediate and doubly ironic result splashes across the page. Ironic, in the first instance because I’ve always mistakenly referred to Stockholm Syndrome (the idea that captives develop a bond with their captors) as Helsinki Syndrome…don’t know why I do it, but it’s just one of those things in my brain that misfires…much the way I confuse ORANGE with YELLOW in English but never in French or Italian. Yes, I am both my own captive and captor, and if those two polar opposites could just learn to love one another, what a wonderful world this would be.
It’s also ironic because, as I try out the Helsinki font, the entire page turns to musical notation. Who would have thought to name a font based on musical notation “Helsinki”…Sibelius?
Whatever the reason, seeing that font kicks me back into action and away from the writing where I indulge my fears. I take the self-doubt and put it where the dreams used to recline. I’m sure it will bang loudly on the box in the still of the night, but, for now, the dreams are singing….
Yes, we’re close now. Those heady days of March and acceptance letters are a distant memory. We’re all strutting our stuff now, and the YouTube videos and FaceBook fan pages and website links innocently attached to the emails that fly back and forth as we share ideas and advice keep streaming in.
Fool that I am, I can’t bear not to watch them…to torture myself as yet another perfect voice marries a perfect patter and produces beautiful cabaret kids, born not only with a silver spoon in their mouth but with a platinum set of pipes to back them up.
And I keep wondering, did they type in the wrong email address when they sent me the acceptance letter?
I mean, the tagline for the final show of our conference, Stars of Tomorrow, hardly seems to be the right moniker for most of the folks whose work I’ve seen. Tomorrow is far too distant for the now in which they travel…maybe Stars of Just after Breakfast or Stars of Elevenses but definitely not so far away as tomorrow.
An email comes to ask me for my headshot…someone on the faculty wants to see what we all look like…will they realize now the mistake they’ve made?
Would they laugh if they knew I'd only finished picking my 12 songs yesterday? It was so hard to turn away from my favorites: the over-performed ones on which I grew up - the chirpy show tunes, all those Gershwin ballads, Sinatra, Ella & Etta, Polly Bergen. Anything too well worn? Well, it bit the dust. Those left with only minor signs of use slipped gracefully to the B-list, as sparkling, unfamiliar choices burst brightly onto the A-list. I recoil from the glare of their newness. 10 days to own them, to tear them apart and string them back together. Enough time? It will have to do; it’s all there is.
I try to find a font for this page so I can post it to my blog…the one I will write, not so other people will tell me I can, but so that I will tell me I can. I try out the Helsinki font and an immediate and doubly ironic result splashes across the page. Ironic, in the first instance because I’ve always mistakenly referred to Stockholm Syndrome (the idea that captives develop a bond with their captors) as Helsinki Syndrome…don’t know why I do it, but it’s just one of those things in my brain that misfires…much the way I confuse ORANGE with YELLOW in English but never in French or Italian. Yes, I am both my own captive and captor, and if those two polar opposites could just learn to love one another, what a wonderful world this would be.
It’s also ironic because, as I try out the Helsinki font, the entire page turns to musical notation. Who would have thought to name a font based on musical notation “Helsinki”…Sibelius?
Whatever the reason, seeing that font kicks me back into action and away from the writing where I indulge my fears. I take the self-doubt and put it where the dreams used to recline. I’m sure it will bang loudly on the box in the still of the night, but, for now, the dreams are singing….
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