Old friends, a choreographed orgy, panic, and skin-tight jeans

I saw that a few weeks ago I wrote a post entitled "Meeting new friends." Well, today I write a short note about meeting old ones.... and about people making stuff up.

I hadn't seen Kate in over four years, and to be honest, we hadn't known each other that well when we were together at Chicago Opera Theater back in 2006 (by the way I started that sentence thinking it was only three... then did the math, and realized that we met even longer ago than that!) She was a mezzo at the time, as was I, but made the switch to soprano soon after. It was absolutely fabulous to see her again and reaffirmed my belief in the fact that singers are truly a one-of-a-kind breed: We TRUST each other almost implicitly, almost from the word "go" and no matter how long we've been apart" We have to, really. And considering my first-ever professional gig involved a choreographed orgy, I certainly had to learn fast!

We met at the phenomenal restaurant Kashkaval on 9th Avenue between 55th and 56th street and gorged ourselves on hummus, red pepper dip, grape leaves, artichoke dip, and tzatziki while sharing stories of fach-changes, Met performances we'd seen (and loved or hated), mutual friends, and the like. A couple things kept coming up: age, real quality in singers, the difficulty of the business, and the fear of getting to a certain age and never having sung that first Tosca (for her), or that first Mimi (for me... she's done a few of those already!)

This business is one of panic:

I'm not singing enough.
I'm singing too much.
I don't have the right rep.
I have too much of the same rep.
I don't have an agent.
I do have an agent but s/he doesn't do anything for me.
I don't sing Handel.
I only sing Handel.
I'm too old.
I'm not old enough.

We are programmed from the time of grad school (I can't speak to undergrad since I did not begin studying voice in a regimented fashion until I reached grad school at age 24 but I assume even from undergrad onwards), to "play by the rules" or that's it. That means: have five contrasting arias in four (or five) different languages and styles, dress conservatively and elegantly for your auditions, always have your materials ready, etc.

Fair enough. All this is true and having five contrasting arias is not a bad idea of course. But if your voice REALLY does do one thing better than another, why try to fake it by making it do something it's not naturally born to do? Of course we need to be flexible, but at what cost? We spend so much time trying to make ourselves be as universally appealing as possible that we oftentimes forget the real meat of the matter. Why can't a soprano sing Charlotte if she has a great low range? Or Cherubino? Or Musetta? Oh wait, no, that's now acceptable. Who makes these rules? Who decided a few years ago that if you brought in "Quando m'en vo" as a mezzo you weren't completely off your rocker? When I was in grad school just five years ago, this was not considered acceptable. Now it is. It's a bit like skin-tight jeans. Who decided that was ok?

Excuse the rant but going back to another point made above, about the quality of singer, she, like I, had had several experiences sitting at the Met - the pre-eminent opera house arguably in the whole world - that left her cringing and writhing inside. I have left several operas at intermission there because the singing was so bad or because I actually got to that point where I had to agree with the masses who say "opera's just so boring." How do we expect to keep the art form alive when we so often settle for mediocrity and genericness?

I've decided to sing on my terms. Like it or not (and more often that not, I don't), I'm 31 now, and I'm done with pandering to people who want to put me in a box and label me. I sing Liu... and I sing Stephano. I sing Louise (almost!)... and Cherubino. And that's ok, folks. If you can do it, do it. Let us make our own paths, speak our own natural language, forge ahead in those areas in which we truly excel, and let's try to keep originality and fire onto the stage.