It is very easy for singers — especially if they live in or have a lot of dealings in New York City — to forget about “the gift”. I refer, of course, to the gift of our voices. At some time in the distant past we started to sing and at one crucial point in our lives someone told us that we had a beautiful voice — a gift — and that we should cultivate it.
And so we did.
Often, however, during the arduous journey between vocal studios, coaches, auditions and jobs, we lose sight of why we decided to pursue such a path. And that was because we enjoyed the act of singing (and, lets be honest, the attention it brought to us). And, on those good days, the sense of emotional and spiritual satisfaction that it gave to us. But it is easy to forget all this while in the midst of career struggles.
This is not the best of times for the classical artist, and yet New York City has become inundated with singers. Funding is at an all time low, quality jobs are often few and far between and working conditions and colleagues are often less than exemplary. Back in the early 1980s it was possible to support oneself comfortably with professional choral jobs which included church, temple, TV and recording work and long runs of NY Philharmonic performances, Musica Sacra, special Carnegie Hall productions, New York summer festivals, Ballet performances that required a chorus and all sorts of other jobs. But that was only for a period of about 2 years, and then the work slowly started to dry up.
The artistic climate changed due to alterations in governmental funding and at least New York singers realized that they had to develop talents completely outside their training in order to survive and practice their art. And that is what they did. A friend once bemoaned the fact that he was working in an office all day instead of singing. I told him that there was another way to look at the situation. Not only would he always have his talent (and the ability to use it — no matter what the venue) but he had also managed to learn an entirely new set of skills which in reality only added to the wealth of experience that he could draw upon for his art. If anything, he should be proud of his diverse accomplishments.
But it always returns to “the gift”.
What many of us forget is that the gift brings with it a tremendous number of responsibilities.
These responsibilities often include unpleasant tasks — like singing at funerals. But here we come to the crux of the matter, the real nature of “the gift.” As a musician, it is our job to provide not only pleasure to listeners but also comfort.
Sometimes we approach such occasions slightly off-center. Used to the self- absorption so often necessary in this particular art, we forget that although we were asked to “contribute,” it is not about us. It is, however, about what our talent can provide. It is at this time that in accepting the responsibility of our gift that we become submissive to a higher order and a vessel for spiritual gifts.
My wife, Gale, has sung a number of funerals, and unfortunately some have been for colleagues who died before their time. When I asked her how she handled such stressful situations, she said:
“Even though a number of people have asked me if I would sing at their funerals, you never think that you will lose them so soon, especially those that have been important to you not only personally but also professionally. When the time came and their families asked me to fulfill those requests, I knew that I would need to put myself into another place other than my own grief. I took many deep breaths to calm myself and told myself that this was my opportunity to give something in return for all that they as friends and colleagues had given me. I thought about all the wonderful aspects of them and when I stood to sing, I tried to escape into those thoughts. It is at such times that you have to rely on your technique and on all the training and art that you have gathered during your years of study. Only then can you let go of your ego and emotions and do the job you have to do. And that is to honor not only the person who has gone but also give comfort and courage to those left behind.”
To me, this is the highest gift we as singers can offer. After all, when you really get down to the bottom line our lives are not measured by what operas we can sing, how loud or high (or low) our voice is or what concert halls we have performed in. It is whether we communicate something of substance. And whether we touch another person or provide comfort at those times when it is needed. Those are the things that really matter. If we manage to accomplish this then we have honored not only ourselves but the gift as well.
But it is so easy to forget that in New York where almost every conversation between singers meeting is prefaced by “So, what have you been doing?” (Which translates as “So how successful are you — and just wait till you hear what I have been doing!”) You can sing at the Met or you can sing at the local nursing home. In reality, and in the great scheme of things, it is all the same.
There have been a few times while in the midst of a performance — usually a solo — when just for a second or two I felt that I had somehow managed to transcend technique and the very act of singing itself. I had become spiritually one with the music I was attempting to interpret. It is a moment of grace. It is in the hope of being able to experience such rare moments as this that we sing. It is because of them that we try to serve the composer as best we can and in turn offer back a portion of our gift to God, the ether, or whatever you believe is responsible.
I was once asked what one should sing for funerals and my response was typical of me. Depending, of course, on what the family or the deceased wished, I feel that anything is appropriate. If you truly identify with what you are doing, this integrity will be transmitted to the listeners. I have been to services where the most moving thing was a simple, a cappella hymn that soothed and calmed. But I have also been uplifted by those grand, rousing pieces that reminded one that all music has its own glory. What does it matter if you sing the Bach-Gounod “Ave Maria” or “And God shall Wipe Away All Tears” by Arthur Sullivan from that infamous book of 52 Sacred Songs You Like To Sing, or Dido’s Lament from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. If you accept the responsibility that comes with your “gift” and do your job the result will be the same.
So at my own funeral, what would I want? Well, my fondness for the high soprano voice is hardly a secret and I have already let it be known that at my memorial service (or whatever) I want the “Bell Song” from Lakme. That would make me very happy. Oh, and I will be listening, and smiling. I can assure you.
