Steven Crawford, Classical Singer’s 2007 Coach of the Year, is equally comfortable at the podium or at the piano. He recently completed eight years as a member of the Met’s conducting staff, and now serves as a conductor and coach for Martina Arroyo’s Prelude to Performance program for young opera singers. Before he relocated to New York City a little over a decade ago, he held positions as resident conductor of Florida Grand Opera and as music director of the Illinois Opera Theatre.
Crawford maintains a busy conducting schedule, but he continues to devote much of his time to coaching, for which his students are grateful.
“He’s a real gem in the opera world,” says one student. “I think he’s fabulous,” says another. The praise doesn’t stop there. Many singers say Crawford’s sense of humor and appealing, laid-back style make for enjoyable coachings.
Crawford attributes his successful career to many lucky breaks. Classical Singer sat down with him to find out the details.
When did you become interested in classical music?
It’s funny. I started off in vaudeville, since my grandparents were vaudevillians. At the age of 4, I learned to tap dance, and a year or two later, I joined their act. We lived in Oroville, Calif., about an hour north of Sacramento, and we toured all around northern California. My real classical training didn’t start until I was about 14, when I started studying with the main teacher in my life, Thomas Gentry, who was also my teacher at California State University in Sacramento.
When I was an undergraduate piano student, I did a lot of accompanying. I also conducted a lot of musicals, and I even dated a couple of opera singers (that’s another interview!), but by the time I finished college, I had only limited experience in opera. On a lark, I took a job as a rehearsal pianist with the Hidden Valley Opera Ensemble in Carmel Valley, Calif., where I had my first true operatic experience, doing “Bohème” with some extremely talented people. The director was Richard Perlman and the conductor was Randall Behr. To this day, Randall Behr’s “Bohème” has set the standard for me. So much of what I went on to do was inspired by this performance.
What happened next with your career?
It progressed in fits and starts. In Hidden Valley, I discovered not only opera, but also the Alexander Technique. I got so intrigued by it that I started planning to become certified as an Alexander teacher. But, in the interim, I became the assistant to Ted Puffer, the founder of the Nevada Opera and voice teacher of Dolora Zajick, among others. Incidentally, I’d known Ted since I was 14, when I played the French horn at a brass workshop in Reno. Ted had needed a second French horn player for his production of Die Fledermaus, so I actually got to play under him at that point, eight years before I became his assistant.
In 1979, I moved to Champaign Urbana [Illinois], where I had registered for a training course on the Alexander Technique. The course took three years, during which I supported myself through various free-lance jobs around the city. I was the music director for a dinner theater. I waited tables and I did recital work, was an actor and musician for Child’s Play Touring Theater, and even delivered pizzas. Basically, I lived on a shoestring and did whatever I could to make money.
Just as I was about to finish my certification, I was offered a quarter-time position with the opera program at the University of Illinois. I subsequently ended up the full-time head of music preparation for the program, working with David Lloyd. I did this for two years until the administration decided to make my position an actual tenure track professorship, and encouraged me to apply for it. I thought, “I shouldn’t be doing this! I don’t have the requisite experience or the education.” It’s not like I trained to do anything—not coaching, not conducting. That’s fine if you’ve had a lot of professional experience, but I hadn’t had a lot of that either. So I quit. I was married at the time and my wife was pregnant, and everyone thought I was crazy. But I didn’t belong there.
I ended up in Miami as a rehearsal pianist and music administrator at the Greater Miami Opera, which is now Florida Grand Opera. After about three years, I became the chorus master and then the resident conductor, conducting three operas per season.
What brought you to New York City?
In 1994, I decided that I owed it to myself to give myself one good shot at getting into the Met. So I moved to New York and I started coaching, playing auditions, and trying to get conducting work. Ironically, my first conducting job after my move was for Ted Puffer again, in Nevada. He offered me a show for the upcoming season. And then I was hired to be the head of the Young Artist Program in Cincinnati. This turned out to be my first lucky break, because I covered The Barber of Seville for the conductor, who hurt his back the day before the performance, and I went on [in his stead].
That performance received stellar reviews. A reporter from the Cincinnati Enquirer said that you, “conducted superbly, propelling the opera’s comic twists and turns expertly.” How did you use this experience to further your career in New York?
I managed to get a good recording of the performance and I sent it to the Met. This led to a cover for Tosca. The following season, I had three productions to cover, and for the first of the three, the conductor got sick and I went on. Fortunately, it was something I felt very comfortable with—Cav/Pag [Cavalleria rusticana and I pagliacci]. Meanwhile, throughout all of this time, I continued to coach.
What about the Alexander Technique? Did you ever teach it after obtaining your certification?
Yes, I taught it in Florida. I don’t teach it now, but I sometimes draw on my experience during coachings. For example, I find that lots of singers unconsciously tilt their heads stiffly to one side when they perform, and that creates a lot of tension. I try to make singers aware of these kinds of destructive muscular patterns.
You recently decided to leave the Met. Why?
I had wonderful experiences there, but I’m too headstrong a person to conduct other people’s versions of things. It’s not a matter of respect or disrespect (well, sometimes it is); I just have to do things my own way.
Many of your students have noted your skills with languages. Where did you receive your language training?
I picked up everything as I went along. I’m not an encyclopedic linguist. My focus is on the execution of enunciation without disturbing the line, which applies to any language. The goal is to approach language in a way so that the larynx doesn’t lift and disconnect from the breath.
What do you do if you notice vocal problems with the singers you coach?
It depends on the problem. Generally, I try to explain what I think is wrong in terms as clear as possible. In some cases, singers may need to work with a voice teacher to isolate and resolve problems through vocal exercises, which I don’t teach.
I believe that all singers have baggage to overcome. Music is notated as a bunch of dots, and it’s hard to look at it and not sing it in an angular, pianistic fashion. It also doesn’t help to sing with piano so much, because of its percussiveness. The trick is to execute details within the flow of energy. There should always be a sense of “drone” underlying singing, no matter how complex. Language comes alive with this constant flow.
You describe yourself as a proponent of contemporary music, which some people claim is composed with little thought as to the capabilities of the human voice. Do you agree with this view?
In some cases, yes. Certain composers get into their own heads and they don’t want to be bothered by vocal limitations. There’s a wonderful anecdote about Cesare Siepi, who was asked, “What do you have against contemporary composers?” He replied, “What do they have against me?” There are some contemporary operas, however, such as Wargo’s A Chekhov Trilogy, which are extremely lyrical and bring out the voice beautifully.
One of your students remarked that your conducting experience comes in handy when she is preparing to perform with an orchestra. What sort of advice do you give on this subject?
Actually, there’s not much generic advice I can give, because there are so many differences among orchestras and among conductors. Some conductors are very hard-nosed. Others are too accommodating. What singers should do is coach pieces carefully and with people who truly understand what’s expected. One of the finest singers I worked with in Miami, tenor Stephen O’Mara, never looked at me for a cue during performances, but always looked at me when he knew he had to be together with the orchestra. That’s preparation.
One of your students mentioned that you sometimes use Star Wars analogies in coachings. Are we talking lasers?
I’m a big movie fan and I quote movies all the time. Yoda in Star Wars happens to offer good advice for singers. He criticizes Luke Skywalker for always living in the past or the future, and not in the moment. Singers, too, have to be in the moment when they perform. But most people who work with me will tell you that I quote all sorts of movies, not just Star Wars.
Do you have any advice for singers who are trying to make it in the opera world?
The one thing that distinguishes the greats from everyone else is that they don’t wait for permission, they just do. I’m amazed at how many former conservatory students refuse to make decisions without approval from some sort of authority.
I also frequently encounter singers who could succeed but don’t, due to a misplaced loyalty to a certain approach. They don’t want to consider that they might be doing something wrong; they just want to make what they’re doing pay. We all have blind spots that can hamper progress. You have to make sure that when it’s time to move on, you move on.
How do you define artistry, and how do you help singers achieve it?
I don’t usually use high-flying terms like “artistry,” but I will say that I think most people want to be artists because craft bores them, but it’s craft that contains the artistry. Imagine that you’re a beekeeper who makes his own jars to hold the honey. Your bees might make delicious honey, but if your jars fall apart when you pour the honey in, you’ve wasted your time. The craft is the jar.
I consider what I do sort of like driving lessons. You can have a smoothly running engine that responds perfectly, but if you don’t engage the clutch, or keep tapping on the gas pedal then lifting your foot up, or start turning half a block before the intersection, not only will the passengers not enjoy themselves, but you will also knock the engine totally out of alignment. I help you get to where you want to go, smoothly, avoiding potholes, so that your passengers can look out the window and enjoy the ride.
