Stand Up Straight and Sing! (34 page)

It is a fine idea to study past performances so that one can truly have a basis for reinterpreting a work of art. Take, for instance, George Balanchine’s renowned choreography for the New York City Ballet. I am told it is most instructive to be able to look at his notes and to see what he changed along the way and with whom he worked. Those times when he created choreography for a certain ballerina who could perhaps do more turns in one minute than most other dancers of the time. A choreographer today might have to adjust for that. But without knowledge of what Balanchine intended and the artists who were able to achieve that intention, we might not be able to give his work continued life and allow for its continued growth. Special gifts of past performers merge with other, equally special gifts of today’s performers. This, for me, is the true meaning of art itself: newness, rebirth, with each new interpretation grounded in the knowledge of its creation and development.

I believe one must be a student of life, that learning and searching should never stop, and that scholarship produces wonderful rewards. I enjoy this perpetual search for information and inspiration and find both everywhere. For example, an Ella Fitzgerald scat might trigger a new way for me to look at a John Cage composition. Or the proper pace of a song by Brahms might reveal itself in the quiet spaces of a staged performance of a Shakespeare soliloquy. Tell the story. Don’t rush. Perhaps the pace needs to be picked up here. It’s a long story—take your time. A wonderful song of Brahms comes to mind: “Von ewiger Liebe” (“Of Eternal Love”). Walking in the darkness, a lover questions the fidelity of the other. Pacing and time are essential.

I enjoy watching stage plays, as the words presented are neither confined nor supported by the tempo of music. An actor might take the text very fast one night and slower the next, taking time after the first paragraph because it is possible; she is not obliged to complete a sentence so that another actor may come in on time with the music. The work of really good actors demonstrates the importance of good phrasing, which can make even the most complex thoughts understood. The best actors listen to one another: collaboration at its best. It is wonderful to develop an intimate relationship with one’s text. This makes it possible for the audience to come closer and understand that this particular moment is the essence of the play—the essence of the evening’s presentation. To me, this is the most inspiring achievement of all: to truly communicate all that the words portray.

I never tire of preparation, and I think it is fine indeed if I form an opinion about the work at hand in the process. Remember that my parents taught my siblings and me at an early age that “I don’t know” was not a good answer and that opinions were not only welcomed, but required. At this point in life, I have neither fear nor doubt in expressing an opinion as regards my work.

Of course, tact is essential when imparting a performance idea, especially, I feel, with conductors, some of whom might find the spirit of collaboration difficult to master. There was the time, for instance, when an American orchestra invited me to sing the wonderful dramatic scene
The Death of Cleopatra
of Berlioz. I was not given the all-important piano rehearsal prior to the orchestral rehearsal and this proved difficult. Getting together with a piano and the conductor prior to the first orchestral rehearsal ought to be written in law. Many concerns can be worked out so easily between the two of you. No egos need to be challenged or injured. The Berlioz was new to this conductor and he gave the downbeat to the orchestra much slower than is written in the score. So in a good moment, I leaned forward—out of earshot of the concert master so as not to embarrass the conductor—and said, “I am very sorry, but the first few bars are normally at a tempo about three times as fast as you have done it.” The conductor leaned toward me and said, “I think the slower tempo is better.” I said, “But it was Berlioz’s idea to have it faster. What do you think we ought to do—your idea, or the allegro that is written in the score?” The conductor was not thrilled.

I recall another such instance at the opera house in Berlin as I was preparing to sing one of my first performances of
The Marriage of Figaro.
The beautiful aria in the second part of the opera where the Countess Almaviva sings “Dove sono i bei momenti” (“Where are the joys of yesterday?”)—a long phrase that upon its repeat takes considerable breath control. I was working with a conductor who was new to me and who stated that singers more experienced than I would take breaths in various places within the phrases. I replied that given how Mozart had written the score, and how the text was constructed, I thought breaths in the middle of the phrase to be inappropriate. Moreover, I had the breath control to sing the aria as it was written. I think he thought I was being a silly upstart, but I was not bothered by his attitude or suggestions, and performed the phrases as Mozart wrote them.

I still do!

OF COURSE, THERE
are several orchestral conductors who, if asked, would agree that the offstage relationship that we share is that of an abiding, respectful, warm friendship. This does not mean that when it comes to our artistic presentations we can never have a difference of opinion, one from the other. But as everyone surely knows, and this holds true for any profession, in any kind of relationship, if you are building on a foundation of mutual respect, comity, and the desire to produce the very best of which you are capable, any difficulty is but a problem waiting to be solved. We are colleagues, with the kind of long-standing interaction that is, in itself, comforting.

I have found great joy in working with several conductors who are true collaborators. James Levine, most certainly. Singers love him! Jim involves himself totally in the rehearsal process and we have gotten on like a house on fire from the very beginning of our work together. I acknowledge that I can bore a conductor to tears wishing to rehearse a phrase or a page more often than he (and even today, the conductor is still more often than not a “he”) feels necessary. Jim always gives space. He is interested in seeing how far a singer or instrumentalist wishes to take a phrase, a musical point, and then he’ll accompany us to that place, willingly. Making music with him is always a pleasure, and when it is a challenge, it is an incredibly rewarding challenge. Whether he is accompanying me at the piano or conducting a full orchestra, I never feel that it is a contest of wills: our only goal is to do our best for the music. It is a privilege to work with him, and I know I am not alone in saying this. He is so comfortable in himself as a musician and so thoroughly encouraging as a collaborator.

The same is true of the late Herbert von Karajan, with whom I had the privilege of working on both a performance and a recording of the “Liebestod” from Wagner’s
Tristan und Isolde
in the late 1980s, with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and then with the Berlin Philharmonic. I remember spending a lot of time sitting in his spacious office in Salzburg during the summer festival simply discussing the role of Isolde. And he had much to say—by that point he had conducted the opera forty-seven times! A photograph of him steering a magnificent-looking yacht was a prominent part of the collection on the walls of his workspace, and we spoke about that particular joy of his often, as well.

For the first rehearsal of the “Liebestod” in Salzburg, von Karajan asked me to come and listen to the orchestra play the entire aria without my singing at all. It took me a moment to understand what he was doing. He wanted me to really hear the orchestra, and I became aware that as a conductor he was going to be completely supportive of my singing, and that the orchestra would be equally so. Wagner’s orchestration was conceived with the special, covered orchestra pit of his opera house at Bayreuth in mind, and there was little danger of the instrumentation overpowering the human voice in such circumstances. But standing onstage with the full orchestra right behind me, I was confident that, through von Karajan’s efforts, the right balance would be achieved. It is such a pleasure to work with conductors who are so secure in their own work that collaboration is a given. They are happy to provide the thrilling support of all else that takes place. In fact, von Karajan and I spoke about this after our performance on New Year’s Eve in Berlin: the necessity of true collaboration. I do not know if he worked with other singers in this way, but it was an experience that helped to solidify my own thoughts about orchestral accompanying and how it is truly worth the time to achieve that elusive thing: proper and comfortable balance among performers. Everyone is happy to arrive at the point when we come jointly to conclusions about how to proceed—when we are so well rehearsed that we have the freedom onstage to offer something that has not been rehearsed at all, being at one with the music and with our fellow musicians. That is where the magic lies.

His Eye Is on the Sparrow
 • C
HARLES
H. G
ABRIEL

***

Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows fall?

Why should my heart be lonely? And long for Heaven and home.

When Jesus is my portion, my constant Friend is He

His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,

I sing because I’m free.

For His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled”

His tender words I hear

And resting on His goodness, I lost my doubts and fears

Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see,

His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise

When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,

I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free

His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.

10

And the Journey Continues

“HE’S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HAND”

He’s got the whole world in His hand,

He’s got the woods and water in His hand,

He’s got the sun and moon in His hand,

He’s got the birds and bees right in His hand,

He’s got the beasts of the field right in His hand,

He’s got the whole world in His hand.

The ride from the airport in Frankfurt, Germany, to Baden-Baden, little more than a hundred miles, is restful and lovely. Even with all those marvelous German-made cars whizzing by, it is a beautiful ride, as so much of the landscape is a picture postcard. Peaceful and joyful, if one takes the time for it, with the addition of splendid sunsets. Witnessing one of those sunsets in the summer of 2012, during a concert series that stretched from halls in Austria and Germany to London, it was as though the sun danced across the entire side of a hill, blue at the top and full of oranges and reds and corals and pinks at the bottom, the kind of weather that happens when part of the earth is warm and the sky is cool, with Mother Nature showing herself to be the best lighting designer ever. I could not resist having our driver pull to the side of the road just for a moment, so that we could enjoy that glorious display. “Let’s just take two minutes and look at this,” I said.

It was a dear friend of mine who spoke to me of the importance of taking the time to savor such moments, at a period in my life when I was perhaps too unsettled in adulthood to appreciate fully what she wished me to understand. Her father had been a general in World War I, originally from the region that would become Czechoslovakia. His duty was to lead the fight against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For his trouble, he was imprisoned. She spent many of her young years visiting her father in prison, which made her understand early on the value of both freedom and an appreciation of the simple things of life. A loaf of fresh bread pressed through the wire fence that divided her from him, a piece of fresh fruit. “Take time in your life,” she implored. “Enjoy your profession, but do not ever become too busy to laugh with your friends, your family; fulfill these needs of your spirit and your soul.” She went on to say, “You are not going to find yourself sitting somewhere at age eighty-five, thinking, ‘Oh, I wish I had sung a few more concerts.’ What you will more likely think is, ‘I wish I had actually gone to Kashmir with that group of friends. I could have taken that camping vacation with my sibling’s children. I should have spent more time with my friend when he fell ill.’ Those are the things that will come to mind; the simple things, the underpinnings of life itself.”

Of course, it took me a little while to understand the import of her words, to understand that time taken for myself was not time without a purpose. And I have none other than Albert Einstein to reinforce her words. He wrote once: “Creativity is the residue of wasted time.” Creativity. Life.

I take this wisdom to heart, as I know from experience now that growth and understanding can reveal themselves in those moments when thoughts are allowed to run freely. It was this state of mind that made me grab with both hands the sterling opportunity to curate the festival in 2009 under the auspices of Carnegie Hall,
Honor!

It is a fitting name. We are honored to pay homage, honored by the work, the tenacity, the determination, the courage of those who went before us, honored to be their progeny.

This festival responded to a need that first arose in me as early as my student days at Howard University, during a two-year music literature course with the grand title A History of Western Music. In the textbook for this course, thick with details, there was not one mention of an African American composer—not one.