Читать книгу Adventures In the Scream Trade: Scenes from an Operatic Life - Charles Long - Страница 6

I vaguely remember singing in a boys’ choir at a Methodist church in Butler, Pennsylvania. I can scarcely recall this experience, except that we wore little white robes. Costumes and a sense of theatrics appealed to me from an early age.

My next recollection of singing was in junior high. The music teacher paired students, requiring each duo to sing a Christmas carol while she accompanied. She matched me with a guy whose droning monotone was so overwhelming that I couldn’t stay on pitch. I earned a D in music that semester. Incomprehensible! That comedy of errors effectively ended any further desire to sing for the next four years.

It’s funny how minor traumas endure in your memory and build phobias that require a cathartic experience to overcome. Why are life’s terrible events the ones that stay with us in such excruciating detail? Scientists say that adrenaline, along with repeated obsessive thoughts, are the fiends that burn trauma into your memory.

Restoring the gift of song was a monumental event. It also served as the impetus that would initiate one of the toughest decisions of my early life—my first crossroad. I had assumed I would follow the steps of my mentors: go to university, become a working musician, land a symphony gig, and leverage that into a college instructor position, maybe even a professorship. Not a bad life. If I were first-rate, I’d make a few recordings and go on tour occasionally. At least I’d be making music and thriving among my own kind.

But singing brought me attention, and I soon realized there were other options—very enticing options. There was the life of a musician, and there was a life in show business—on stage, the focus of attention, a key player, not just a pawn. I could be one of many in an orchestra, part of a privileged few indeed. Or, I could become one of the elite—a paragon.

It wasn’t until I saw the operas Cavalleria Rusticana and I Pagliacci at Pittsburgh Opera that my aspirations finally took shape, funneling my efforts into the first phase of my career.

The tenor, James McCracken, was especially dynamic as Canio in Pagliacci. In the days leading up to opening night, local newspapers were filled with articles about him, and I read them all with great interest. I vividly remember an interview where the writer mentioned Mr. McCracken’s yacht.

Yacht? Oh, my! This opera stuff is worth some serious investigation.

On opening night, I perched with my mother in the peanut gallery, where I sat mesmerized for two hours. At the end of the opera, McCracken stepped out for his curtain call, and the audience went berserk. I turned to my mother and said, “I’m going to be an opera singer.”

Instead of having me measured for a straitjacket, she smiled that polite smile you give people when you want to humor their lunacy. But as the years passed, I’m sure she wished she’d called 911 and had me committed.

Twenty years after that performance, shortly before his death, I had the opportunity to sing twice with James McCracken, first in Samson and Delilah and then, ironically, I Pagliacci. He was one of the most delightful and gracious colleagues I’ve ever encountered.

One day after rehearsal, the cast went out to eat. When we finished our meal the waiter brought the bill and placed it in the center of the table. McCracken and I went for it simultaneously, each insisting that we be allowed to pick up the tab. Hoping to impress him with my financial success, I pulled out my American Express Gold Card and set it on the check. He smiled that beautiful Irish smile of his and trumped his Platinum card over mine. I let him pick up the bill.

The baritone singing Tonio in that same Pagliacci of my childhood was Sherrill Milnes, who shortly thereafter made a quick ascent to the throne, becoming the ruling American baritone of his era. Many years later, I had the rare opportunity to work with Milnes as well. I say rare, because singers of the same voice category infrequently get to know one another. This is partly because of competition, but practically, when singers perform the same parts their paths never cross, except in repertory companies where the operas are double-cast. Even then, you might pass in the hallway or otherwise know of each other, but you rarely associate.

More about Milnes later. Let’s get back to the 1960s.

School was always a trial for me. I hated getting up in the morning, sitting in class repeating the same material year after year. Worst of all, I despised being forced to listen to some blow-hard teacher pontificate on a subject that, even in my intellectual infancy, I knew I would never use again.

Curiosity is the key to learning. In my years in public school, I recall only two teachers who ever piqued mine. One taught literature and read Edgar Alan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” aloud in class, followed by Shakespeare’s Macbeth. I was hooked.

My second Muse of this period was Margaret Zook, a perky, attractive woman, recently graduated from music school, hired to teach high school chorus. By this point I had experimented with singing in my church choir and possessed a newly developed bass voice, courtesy of a blast of testosterone from Mother Nature. Even while consciously holding back, I could boom over the others in the chorus. This caught Margaret’s attention, and she asked me to stay after class.

“You have quite a voice. Were you aware of that?” she queried.

Humble as ever, I replied, “Yes, I guess so. I’ve been singing a bit here and there…”

Did I mention that Margaret was very attractive and not too far from my age? And built? Needless to say, I jumped at any excuse to share her company.

She told me she was planning to mount the musical South Pacific and wanted me to play the lead, Emile De Beque. I was flabbergasted and delighted. My mother had a recording of the soundtrack of the movie and another featuring the original Broadway cast. I listened to them incessantly, filling my mind’s ear with the resonant tones of Giorgio Tozzi and Ezio Pinza.

During free class periods I worked on Emile’s songs in the music room. Previously, I would have used these times to practice the oboe. But as I said, singing brought new temptations, and my mind was wandering farther away from my instrumental responsibilities. Anyway, there I was, seventeen years old, singing “Some Enchanted Evening,” practicing a French dialect, and learning stagecraft—actions that would redirect my potential.

My success in South Pacific inalterably changed my life. My popularity soared. Cliques and social circles from which I’d been ostracized now sought my attention. I’d been blessed with a healthy ego, but now a unique self-confidence bourgeoned and with it a sense that I could use my newfound gifts to supersede the class valedictorian, achieving accolades and a future standard of living far beyond past expectations. It was intoxicating. I could thumb my nose at the authority figures who had chided me.

Ditch-digger, indeed!

Damned be their excoriating pleas for scholastic achievement. Some other voice was crying out to me with a greater passion. I didn’t know if it was an inner state of grace, a trace genetic memory, or a psychotic episode. Whatever it was, it told me to be aware of my intuition, trust my gut-level instincts, and be my own judge. To exhaust all the clichés, I resolved to march to my own drummer, be the master of my fate, and the captain of my soul. The expectations of others were simply that—and that alone. It was my will and determination that mattered; nothing else.

That year I also sang King Melchior in a concert version of Amahl and the Night Visitors. My first opera. I didn’t know much about the composer at the time or the fact that he was still active. Nor could I have imagined this composer would play a part in one of the most wonderful and disastrous events of my yet-to-be career.

More about that later, too.

I was faced with a dilemma. I had spent years in endless hours of practice, honing my instrumental skills with the hope of becoming an oboist. But now my instincts were telling me this might not be the right move. I wrestled with all the possibilities. I thought of Steve Romanelli, who had engineered an oboe audition for me at Duquesne University. I had passed muster and been accepted.

My voice teacher at the time, though not as inspirational in her support, arranged a vocal audition for me at Carnegie Institute of Technology (now Carnegie Mellon University) with which she was affiliated. CIT, most notably a school for engineer types, also had a fine drama school. The music department was not far behind. I auditioned and was accepted, despite my less-than-stellar academic record.

I approached Steve and told him of my difficult dilemma. He stood silent for a moment and then said something that would help me make many decisions thereafter:

“Always follow your heart.”

He put his hand on my shoulder, nodded, and that was it. Short, but profound. Inarguable.

Then my decision-making angst suddenly became irrelevant. An auto accident a few days before my eighteenth birthday sent me through the windshield, taking three of my front teeth with it. After months of dental work my permanent crowns were in place, but by that time my embouchure was gone. I faced the choice of excruciating months of practicing to get my chops back or pursuing a career as a singer.

Margaret Zook visited me on my birthday. I still lay in a hospital bed, looking like a war casualty. She gave me her score of Mozart’s Don Giovanni as a gift. In it she inscribed:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth,

Then took the other, just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken, Mountain Interval

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

So, with good conscience, I chose the path less traveled. I still have that score and sometimes turn to those handwritten lines and contemplate what my life might have been, had I chosen the other road.