Meeting Sherrill Milnes was a bit like coming face-to-face with an icon. Not quite as tall in person as his imposing stage presence would suggest, he nevertheless presented an intimidating figure on a sunny fall afternoon at Herbert Barrett Management.
But once he started talking, the man’s intelligence and charisma shone through, and two hours after I first shook his hand in the reception area, I felt that I had had a rare opportunity to see inside a real artist’s mind.
We’d arranged the interview to coincide with a Manhattan book signing. Milnes’ autobiography, American Aria, was released in October. I wanted to know more than just how the book was written; I wanted to know why he’d done it. Books are no small venture, and he’d done nearly all the work himself, depending on only a single researcher, Dennis McGovern, for fact-checking. Why on earth do such an immense project? What was it that had fired his resolve, bringing a collection of life experiences to paper? Ambition? Wanting to set the record straight? Caring about passing along what he could to others?
As it happens, it was perhaps a combination of all those things.
“I started writing scenarios from my life–early farm times.” Milnes gestured effusively as he spoke, throughout the interview. A man of many expressions, his distinctive features ran the gamut, from thoughtful to effusive, intense and then laughing wryly. “I wrote about the early years with Bing, with Goldovsky and Tanglewood and the tours with the Met. The idea of a book was of course in my mind, but I didn’t have a contract. I didn’t even know how to go about finding a publisher. So for a few years I was just writing, and one section would lead to another. I’d think, ‘Oh, I remember when Mr. Bing said so-and-so,’ and gradually I’d go back and lengthen the story.”
Finding a publisher didn’t turn out to be such a problem after all. During a stint doing master classes at Yale, Milnes met a fan on a street corner who turned out to be a book agent. The rest, as they say, is history. The book concept was trotted out to a variety of publishers, and soon Milnes found himself with a contract from Schirmer–for 80,000 words.
“The publisher probably thought I was very naive. But I had no context for 80,000 words. It intimidated me.” After a few tense conversations, that figure began translating into real terms: roughly 200 pages, along with glossary and other kinds of addenda, and what had been nerve-wracking became manageable.
“I signed the contract, very unsure about 80,000 words. But as I worked, memory seemed to beget memory. Or I’d be doing a performance somewhere, and that would trigger something. I didn’t want the book to say, ‘And then I sang this role, and then I sang in that opera house.’ I tried to stay away from first-person singular, as much as is possible in an autobiography. I wanted to give real advice to singers, such as what to do in a performance when things go wrong. You should never stop, but try to keep going, even if you’re only mumbling words. Of course the better you know the language, the better you can do that. And hopefully there is helpful information for singers in the book.”
Milnes speaks at length about important figures in his career–his mentors. Boris Goldovsky is one; Tito Capobianco most definitely another. There are other influences: Rudolf Bing, Leonard Warren, even actor Tony Randall. But one thing that became clear immediately was that operatic and show-biz luminaries were not the only people Milnes held dear.
“I’ve never had a problem acknowledging and thanking people in my past. For instance, my first piano teacher in Downers Grove, Marion Lower. She’s long dead, but there are people out there who will read her name, and the names of others, and those memories will put smiles on their faces. I’m very pleased to do that, and I feel it’s an obligation.”
Pressed for a little more information, Milnes became reflective. “My father was willing to see me in music, even just as an amateur singer. He didn’t know the mechanics of music, but nevertheless, if he loved the sound of your voice he would get teary-eyed. I studied with Andrew White at Drake; even when he was at Baylor, I used to drive down to Waco when the Met was in Dallas, for lessons.” He shrugged, another complicated expression crossing his face. “I write about Mr. Bing, and certainly he treated me very well. He was an influence in terms of my Met career, but the others were the people who formed and inspired my musical outlook–and vocal ideals, as well.”
And not all of those positive influences were purely musical. “I always thought theater was important. In the 1950s, when I started out, no one had ever heard about ‘context.’ You memorized the words, and then you went onstage. Curtis Page was an English teacher at Drake, the head of the department, and an amateur actor. I knew him as a teacher, but he also performed quite a bit in the community playhouse. I don’t know how we first became acquainted, but I studied theater with him. He was the first to use the word ‘context’ with me. It’s become common now, but it wasn’t at all common at that time. As a result of that work, even in, say, a scene from Aïda–the Triumphal scene–I learned to use my own range of experience to bring an emotion or feeling onstage. For example, in that Aïda scene, I’d try to work myself up to some kind of appropriate anger at the characters around me. They were just my classmates, and we were in these funny costumes, in a no-budget opera workshop–but Curtis taught me to work with whatever I could use to build the proper frame of reference. And I’ve always done that.”
Through coaching and master class work at Yale and other institutions, Milnes has proven his determination to perpetuate the field of opera. The idea of giving back isn’t a new concept; it’s at the heart of the mentoring process. With a flurry of hands Milnes said, “I think it’s any performer’s obligation to pass on that which can be passed on. We performers vary in our ability to do that,” he added quickly, “but I enjoy it. I find words, and if I see that something doesn’t work, I can find four other phrases that are related, until I resonate, ring a bell. I’m good at that.
“Of course I work technically with singers, to make them better singers. But loving and having passion about the art form is a big part of it. I have always liked teaching. Possibly because my mother was a teacher, I’m not sure. ‘Love music.’ That probably sank in without my even knowing it at the time. During master classes, I will often say, ‘Most of you will not have careers. But not necessarily because you aren’t any good!’” He began ticking off points. “There isn’t room. You’re not willing to pay the personal cost. I’m not talking about money; I’m talking about life priorities, family, husband, wife. There are big costs–being on the road, the enormous amount of music you have to learn, and the ability to learn relatively quickly. Language skills–even if you don’t speak the language, you have to sing it as if you do.
“All of this, and you may say, ‘Well, then why am I studying?’ You’re studying to become as good as you can. You study to have more passion for music and all the arts. You can sing all your life. There are church choirs, synagogue choirs, community choirs, barbershop. There are all kinds of opportunities for singers. You will sing on some level all of your life, and you will give enjoyment to others. Even if you sing no more than that in your life, it’s a worthy endeavor, and you are studying right now to do that. At the very least, you are studying in order to do that, better.
“More than once those groups of singers have thought I was speaking to their talent. But I’m really saying, ‘In your mind, know that it’s unlikely that you’ll all have careers. Be aware of that. But nevertheless, your lives will be enriched, and everyone you sing for will be, as well. So that’s not a small goal.’ Everyone is trying for the big career, and that’s great. They should.
“When I do a master class, I don’t think it’s right to discourage someone who’s up there singing. Even if you hear that this singer is not perhaps the best, I don’t think it’s the clinician’s right to say, ‘Why don’t you forget it, because you don’t have what it takes.’ The singers have a right to find out how good they can become. We don’t always know what our DNA says–what the limits of our talents are. I don’t think that the sound someone makes at a certain moment is necessarily indicative of their talent. If they already make fine sounds, wonderful. But if it isn’t as good, it could be technical trouble, or something to do with their series of teachers. There could be a fix, or there might not be a fix. We don’t know. So I never say that.”
With 40 years of performing under his belt, and memories both good and bad of his time spent as one of the world’s leading baritones, it was hardly surprising Milnes had a lot to say, both about the book and of his career. But when asked about what lies ahead for opera and singers, he seemed both vague and surprisingly adamant. Murmuring about how he had known that question would come up, he answer tartly, “I don’t have a crystal ball.” He softened a little, though, on reflection. “Supertitles were an idea whose time had arrived, definitely. That has made opera more accessible, certainly. There’s still something of an elitism about opera, but that has been somewhat defeated.”
Is that a good idea? “Absolutely. I think Americans still suffer from a bit of a cultural inferiority complex, regarding opera. The ‘popularizing’ of opera, as seen in events such as the Three Tenors concerts, is, I think, very positive. Lots of articles have been written saying the opposite: that popular events bastardize the arts. Nonsense. I don’t agree. I’ve heard it said that this doesn’t guarantee those audiences will attend real operas. But the chances of that are elevated hugely. Hugely!”
Soon after the interview was completed, Milnes was off to a press party for the book, and a book signing the following evening. About performing, he was very candid. “There’s not a whole lot,” he said. “I’m doing a lot less, partly for reasons described in the book. One also gets older. I can say this now: I was always tap-dancing in the past. Levels of deceit, I suppose. I knew that when I decided to be that emotionally honest in the book, I was opening up a can of worms.” The emotional issues–the surgeries on the broken capillaries in his vocal cords, the ending of two marriages, deaths of those close to him–were still painful. But the book gave him a chance to put things in his own words. And that, clearly, is a great gift to both singers and audiences.
Before he left, he added something else he hoped might help younger singers. “Enjoy your performing.” He grinned. “It’s good for the soul.”
