As a teenager in San Francisco, Linda Watson was a self-described “Wagner freak” who loved the myths and legends informing The Ring, Tristan und Isolde, Lohengrin, Parsifal, and Tannhäuser. She visited the Wagner festival in Bayreuth at 19, never dreaming she would return one day as a soprano; nor did she feel much affinity with Astrid Varnay, Birgit Nilsson, and Gwyneth Jones, the famed Wagnerian divas of her youth. Watson’s outlook changed dramatically, however, when she sang her first Wagner aria, and in recent years she’s become a renowned interpreter of Sieglinde, Brünnhilde, Isolde, Kundry, Ortrud, Elisabeth, and Venus, roles she frequently performs at Bayreuth, Los Angeles Opera, Vienna State Opera, La Scala, Deutsche Oper Berlin, Deutsche Opera am Rhein, and other leading houses across the globe.
When you watch Watson’s sensual Kundry wooing Parsifal in the video of her 1998 Bayreuth debut, or listen to her burnished, heartbreaking Isolde on her Scenes from Tristan und Isolde disc (Oehms Classics, 2005), it is easy to understand why Wagner heroines are her calling card. In the words of Lisa Hirsch of San Francisco Classical Voice, Watson’s voice is, “rich and full [with] considerable warmth throughout the range. It doesn’t thin at the top or ever become shrill. She sings with a consistently beautiful, well-rounded tone and a strong sense of line.” In addition, this versatile soprano has the acting chops to illuminate the hearts of women facing the full spectrum of human—as well as goddess, princess, and sorceress—experience.
Watson’s career has transported her from 1986 rehearsals with Leonard Bernstein, when she appeared in the composer’s A Quiet Place at Vienna State Opera, to recent performances with Deutsche Oper am Rhein in Dusseldorf, where she added Leonore in Fidelio and the title role in Ariadne auf Naxos to her growing repertoire. During 2006 she was “deeply honored” to be named Kammersangerin, a title given by the German government to singers who excel in the German repertoire.
This month Watson is again performing Tristan und Isolde at Amsterdam’s De Nederlandse Opera, following a successful winter engagement as Isolde at Los Angeles Opera. Last fall this extraordinary soprano also sang the role of the ill-fated Irish princess in Munich and Tokyo.
“You have to pace yourself with Isolde,” Watson explained, “and it’s the role I do most often. Some people would think that singing four productions in the same season was a nightmare, but to me it’s like sinking my teeth back into this role with four completely different directors and really exploring it again.”
I met the candid, witty, and philosophical Watson during her March 2007 engagement as Brünnhilde in Washington National Opera’s Die Walküre. Her flowing blonde hair framed her beautiful face and her eyes flashed intelligence as she described her journey from newly minted conservatory grad to international soprano, a process of trial and error in which she struggled to find the right direction for her voice—and her heart.
You sang as a child. Did you always dream of an opera career?
I started voice lessons in California when I was 15, having been in the church choir since I was 4. I had also studied piano from an early age. My background was musical, yet I didn’t think I would become a professional singer. During my junior year at the New England Conservatory, where I was a voice major, people convinced me to go into opera—but when I graduated, I quit singing!
Is that why you have a gap in your vocal resume?
A gap? You mean, like 15 years? [She laughs] Actually, I ended up becoming an investment advisor in Boston until I was 26, and then my grandfather applied for a Rotary scholarship so I could study in Vienna. I won it on an academic basis and decided to do that for eight months. I also won a Fulbright that allowed me to study at the Vienna Conservatory.
I ended up staying in Vienna for 10 years. That’s where I found the right voice teacher, Carol Mayo, an American who’s still my teacher. She built my instrument into what it is.
As a young singer in California I had a teacher who felt my voice would start developing when I was 36. She said I would have to wait until then, while working on my voice the whole time. Well, she was right! In my 20s I had a massive voice that was moving in the wrong direction because nothing fit—nothing! Octavian, the Countess in Figaro, Rosina—I sang all these roles in a summer program. I could do the coloratura in Rossini because I’d worked on flexibility.
Then, when I was 36, I got my first opera job, in Aachen, Germany—and the minute I started working on stage, my range went up. I started out with Jezibaba in Rusalka, a mezzo role, and the next one was Giulietta in The Tales of Hoffmann—I did the high aria in that—and then I sang Santuzza in Cavalleria rusticana.
You performed many soprano roles in Aachen, then you sang some mezzo roles in Leipzig as your voice matured. Tell us about your search for the ideal repertoire and the “aha!” moment that led to singing Wagner.
During my time in Aachen I was asked to sing Leonora in “Trovatore” and Amelia in “Ballo,” but I thought, “Just because I have high notes doesn’t mean I’m a Verdi soprano.” That’s what my opera director wanted me to do, so I quit. I wasn’t going to sit around collecting my paycheck and not moving on with my career, which means there was a year when I didn’t work at all because I didn’t want to sing the wrong roles.
I began a soul-searching period, and while I was visiting my hometown of San Francisco, a very good coach, Russell Norman, with whom I’d worked in Vienna, handed me Sieglinde’s aria, “Du bist der Lenz,” from “Walküre.”
“But I’m not even a soprano yet!” I told him. “I’m not anywhere near a soprano.”
Now, I had always loved Wagner, but nobody had ever suggested I sing Wagner, and I’d never even looked at that aria before. But the minute I sang it, I couldn’t believe my feelings. I could not believe how I suddenly felt about opera!
So working on Sieglinde’s aria transformed both your career and your fundamental feelings about singing?
Yes. My next audition was, by chance, for Jeffrey Tate, for the 1994 “Ring” in Paris. And I got that Paris “Ring,” as one of the valkyries. I was so excited, and at some point while I was singing, Gabriele Schnaut, who was our Brünnhilde, came over to me and said, “This is the last valkyrie you’re ever going to sing.” I was almost in tears because she was a big star, and I said, “What do you mean? I’ve never even sung one yet.” And she said, “I mean you need to move on to the bigger roles.” So that gave me a lot of motivation, and sure enough, the next audition I sang was for a brand new “Ring” for the Essen Opera in Germany. Wolf-Dieter Hauschild, the artistic director and conductor, really took a chance and hired me as his Sieglinde. I had not sung a soprano role on stage before, so this was huge. That was in 1995, so it’s been an amazing transition.
As I said before, and this is probably wrapped up in fate, I didn’t love singing early on. I didn’t like what I was asked to sing and told to sing. The music wasn’t fulfilling me at all, and though I could sense that my colleagues were loving my work, I didn’t love it, until I started singing Wagner, and then that was it! If I couldn’t sing Wagner and Strauss, I’d be working at Woolworth’s. [Laughs] But this is what I was meant to do, and to find what you’re meant to do, as any spiritual advisor will tell you, is the key.
In other areas of my life, anything I’ve tried I’ve been extremely successful at—but learning to sing is the hardest thing I have ever come across, the biggest challenge. Many people have a beautiful voice—big, small, whatever—but that is only one part of the package. Another is finding out what to do with it. Another part is learning how to apply it to all this beautiful music and bring out the style of the composer. Another part is learning to be an actress. Another part is getting a well-rounded education and having a background you can feed into these parts.
Do you think about your technique when you’re in the heat of the moment on stage?
You’re constantly aware of your body, but on stage there are so many other things to concentrate on. You’re always highly aware that you want this high pianissimo note to work out or whatever, and when singing Brünnhilde in “Walküre” especially, technique is key. You start with the “Hojotohos.” You have dramatic singing. You have a cappella sections. You have very tender moments and fine pianissimi. You have to watch your Ps and Qs with technique, but that work must be done ahead of time, because I can’t get to the essence of the drama unless I’m thinking past the technique. Yet it’s always a balancing act.
You clearly love to sing Brünnhilde. What’s so special about her?
Brünnhilde’s the only person in the “Ring” who goes through a huge arc of development. She changes from Wotan’s young, carefree daughter, to a daughter who suddenly has to care for her father because he’s going under, to a daughter who is almost physically and verbally abused by that same father—and she undergoes this transformation in about two hours.
I come from a large family and I have a strong father. You do draw on your own set of tools, but she’s a complicated woman. [Laughs] She was once immortal and now she’s human, and in “Walküre” she follows Wotan’s will instead of his words, so she’s part of Wotan, and you have to bring that out.
The character is fun, and I can always develop her more. In Gotterdämmerung, I do have problems with the immolation scene. I suppose it’s her sacrifice so that love can exist and the world can go on. The music is very beautiful, and, as always, I place my trust in Wagner.
Does it take special stamina to sing Wagner?
First of all, you have to be healthy and energetic, and very physically fit, meaning agile. I’m thrown on the floor all the time, and yanked up by my hair. You learn how to deal with men who have super-testosterone when they’re acting.
When a show’s over, the next morning you have a whole set of new challenges. Every week you must fine-tune and discern how your voice is handling a particular role. Once the music’s out of your mouth it’s gone, which is the exciting thing about singing.
Some colleagues no longer work on their voices, which I think is sad, because that’s what it’s all about. But the discipline is extreme in the dramatic Fach. I have colleagues who go out after the performance every night and have a fun old time, but I can’t do that. I go home and put on some sweats, and make something to eat, and plug in the computer, because the body needs to recuperate. I don’t drink when I’m singing, which is highly irritating because I’m a social animal, but drinking dries out your throat. But as soon as it’s over—I’m a Californian and I’m not allergic to a nice glass of wine.
What are some of the challenges of an international career?
They don’t tell you when you’re a young student what the lifestyle is like. I’m not sure young singers would go for it if they knew the sacrifices in advance, such as not being home. I have a beautiful apartment in Vienna, but I’m there four to five weeks out of the year, and those weeks aren’t together. I can’t remember what clothes I have at home, or where the light switches are. Also, you make very close friends—especially the Wagnerians, because you see the same people—but you say goodbye all the time, and then you don’t see them for one or two years. E-mail is great, but you’re always saying, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could live near each other and have coffee in the morning?”
Directors can also really knock it out of you. They open the score for the first time and say, “Go.” They expect the singers to improvise, so you need to know what you want to do with the role, down to where you want the furniture on stage, before you get to your first rehearsal. For my first Isolde, I had to do the whole first act on a square of cloth on the ground that was three feet by three feet. I could do anything I wanted on that white three-by-three square, but I had to work it out at home in my living room so I could make it interesting.
Plácido Domingo has hired you for Washington National Opera and Los Angeles Opera, where you will sing Brünnhilde in 2009 and 2010. Is Domingo a mentor?
I auditioned for Plácido Domingo on a whim when I was 29 years old. He was singing in Vienna, and I went up to him with that youthful sort of chutzpah and said, “Mr. Domingo, do you ever listen to young singers?” And he said yes, and I got a call at home saying he’d listen to me the next Sunday.
It was a very long audition. He talked to me for 45 minutes afterward, and he said, “I think you’re a dramatic soprano, and my advice to you would be: ‘Never sing small roles and never sing in small houses.’” I reminded him recently that I basically took his advice.
I’ve been singing in Europe for 13 or 14 years. I built my career there, and you don’t really start at small houses for the roles I do. I told my manager that if I sang in America, I didn’t want to cover. When the opportunity came up, I made my U.S. debut as Kundry at the Met, opposite Domingo in Parsifal, in 2003.
It’s always a great pleasure to sing with Plácido. He feeds you energy when you’re on stage, and you melt in his eyes or in his arms. I also think he must be some kind of angel. How else could he accomplish all his singing, conducting, mentoring of young singers, and charity work?
Your Met debut role, Kundry, was also your debut role at Bayreuth. Do you feel you must live up to the legend of every great Wagnerian when you’re there?
Yes, I do. It’s a very personal thing for me. I have an almost mystical feeling about Bayreuth. I almost feel as if I had been there before, which is an odd thing. I felt that I belonged the first time I auditioned there. It’s not an ego feeling. I meant I belong and I damn well better step up to the plate. You can feel the ghosts in the house, and it’s wonderful. And they have a very finely tuned audience, since those people have waited nine years to get tickets. So, basically, performing at Bayreuth is heaven!
Do you have any advice for singers just starting their careers?
Part of the package [of being an opera singer] these days is the need to be very flexible. What that means is you need to be able to get along with people. You need to be a diplomat, and sometimes this means keeping your mouth shut. Sometimes it means swallowing what you think and trying something new, and saying, “Yes I’ll try anything once.” You need to try it.
Many, many times I’ve had the experience of thinking, “I’m not going to stand on my head and sing this.” But if [a director] asks you, try it once. It’s not going to hurt you. You need to get over yourself, because you need to realize you’re part of a team. You don’t have to be the director’s best friend, but you need to put a little faith in that person and see if he or she has any ideas you could put into your character.
No one likes to work with a diva anymore. The opera business is very difficult, because of the external circumstances, and the hardest thing for each singer is to keep your wits about you and sing beautifully. So if you can make the actual work, the day-to-day rehearsals on stage, enjoyable, then you need to do that.
If you look at my age when I started singing opera, I haven’t had a quick rise. But my voice developed on its own and I didn’t blow out my voice on the wrong roles. When I give masterclasses or when voice-teacher friends of mine want to advise their students, I say the big word is “instinct.” A singer needs to ask, “Is my teacher looking toward my best interest?” You obviously have to trust your teacher to get what they’re trying to offer—and you also need to pause and think if you’ve been offered roles that you instinctively don’t like or that feel wrong. You may get an offer from a big opera house or a concert with a big conductor, but if you sing badly when you’re young, even once, people remember. Never forget that following your instinct takes you great places in your life, as well as your vocal career.
How important is stage experience for young singers?
In the United States we’re telling people, “Don’t perform until you know what you’re doing.” But I think it’s much more important to get on stage, because there’s a lot about being on stage that you have to figure out before you can really perform, meaning before you can make music. You need to feel what it’s like to sing with an orchestra and communicate with a conductor, and keep the conductor in your eye even though you’re acting and singing with false eyelashes on. (I hate them—the glue shrinks and it’s a nightmare.)
But getting used to these things as a young performer is the key to getting on with it. Why does someone need a doctorate in performance? I think that people who really want to perform should perform. It’s a process. I’m not saying to sing Lucia at age 21. I’m saying to get on stage and sing “The Third Tree From the Left” so you can think about what it’s like and how you can apply your own technique.
You’ve spent time thinking about the relevance of your vocation. Will you tell us some of your conclusions?
I fought singing for a long time, as I mentioned, and I constantly ask myself, “What are you doing?” In my own private spiritual ideas, I think that making a difference with your life—for others—is key. I struggle with this all the time. Everything’s falling apart in the world—there’s war, there’s hunger—and what am I doing? Singing in an outrageous costume on a rock.
But recently, two things happened that changed my thinking. I was singing in Taipei, where they were doing their first-ever “Ring,” and there was a young orchestra that worked their tails off, playing beautifully. I don’t speak Chinese so there was an artists’ service person, Alice Chang, who was in charge of me, and her daughter happened to be a cellist in the orchestra. After the first orchestra rehearsal Alice’s daughter went home and told her, “Mom, I had to stop playing today because I was crying so hard listening to Linda Watson sing. I never heard anything like that in my life.” Well, I was so taken aback I couldn’t believe it. You sing day in and out, and you know the audience is out there because they applaud, but you don’t know if you’re reaching anybody. I may be in a huge production of “Tristan” or Die Walküre, and certainly, the whole thing affects people, but you don’t know if what you’re doing is making a difference. And then I hear that Alice’s daughter had to stop playing her cello because she was crying, and I think, “Maybe I helped that person understand what this music is about.”
And then I sang a recital in Berkeley and a lady came up to me afterwards and said that her husband had passed away two days before. She came to the concert anyway, and the first encore I did, which was Strauss, was his favorite song—and it completely lifted her out of her mourning. Well, things like that make you think, “Yeah, that’s why I’m doing it, and why I keep trying to make it better.”
I was reading an article in a magazine about President Bill Clinton describing the things he’s doing in the world since he left office. At the end were one or two sentences that blew me away. He said 99 percent of the world work to live, but if you’re one of the 1 percent that lives to work, you are a highly privileged human being—and if you can make a difference with your passion, you have a moral obligation to do it.
That went through me like a knife. I couldn’t believe he’d said that. He had no idea that an opera singer might read that and apply his words to what I’m doing, but it was an unbelievable quote that answered my questions about the value of singing. The thing is, I absolutely love what I do, and I have a much deeper connection with what I sing than just singing “La, la, the glamorous life.”
For more information about Linda Watson, visit www.lindawatson.net. Her home page features her charming rendition of “My Funny Valentine.”
